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sonderrow · 1 year ago

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LINK TO QUINN LINK TO JAEL LINK TO ARCHER

PREESTABLISHED REFERENCE FOR ROY.

I entirely get the urge of wanting to roleplay, expand our muses together, and this is my personal starting pack for Archer! If you’re hooked to one category but don’t think your muse can fit still HMU about it and I’ll see how we can work that out! REMINDER I HAVE A LOT OF THREADS. Like often a lot. Roleplaying is something that effortlessly really relaxes me, but I am still one human. I like to see all my threads through no matter how long the wait is and do my best ! Thus we might not be threading right off the bat depending on how much stuff I have, but everything established can get into asks, dash shenanigans, etc. What matters is that it shapes our characters. 🙏

FRIENDS. Ha. Good joke. Roy has no one he’d consider a friend.

ENEMIES. Despite having part of his power stolen by his past disciples, Roy is still a man of incredible talent and martial prowess, being able to take down groups that are even made of supernatural beings through millenniums of trained strategy, paired with a perfect knowledge of his own body and abilities. He uses those abilities to fight corruption in the world, and anyone who does wrong is a target. However, he is still only one man, with time against him. Despite not making your character’s life entirely crumble, he is definitely someone who eradicates any operation he decides will end, even if it is a hydra who will regain its end shortly afterwards.

RIVALS. Even with his idealistic virtues and actions, Roy is still a strong realist, who realizes the limits of what he can do. This means mingling with people of questionable morals to attain a greater goal. Your character is one of those people. An informant or maybe a lawyer, who probably judge his way of being, but as long as he pays you back (be it with money or something else)…

EXES. Due to social pressure, Roy has had at time to date the occasional girl who fancied him. It, however, always tended to only last a few months and not even be a consummated relationship, as Roy’s partner would, past his dazzling qualities of “marriage material”, figure he never liked them, despite not having done anything wrong during their relationship. This profile fits any presenting female muses who are the upstanding citizens type and would be willing to give Roy a shot at love !

PROFESSIONAL PEERS. Roy studies and work in environmental research, with an emphasis on mammals protection. The field is one where he socializes with many people, from other researches, interns, staff on the field or out of the field, professors or even people involved in politics to get projects funded and approved. It is a notable environment, because it is a field that is truly, deeply important to him, and both his straightforwardness and passion for duty shine the most there… even if his personal life is entirely walled off from this one. Quite self explanatory !

SUPERNATURAL PEER. Roy is not the only one who has lived longer than what is now nowadays’ humans life length expectation. Even if none are from his time or went through the same thing as him, they can always relate to a brand of pain and obstacles which no others can imagine. This profile fit supernatural beings who wouldn’t fit in other categories, beings which are more defined by their nature than mimicking a mortal lifestyle. They’d usually be relatively neutral people who’d be willing to approach Roy to give him some form of company. Even if it is in the most silent, mundane way, those relationships are of significance. They can have seen the end of mankind once and its rebirth, or they can also be a few centuries old in this era.

COLLEAGUES AND REGULARS. Roy is a masseur at a hotel spa. Despite being seemingly a mundane position, those are people who still get to socialize with him on a regular basis… which basically never happens in his personal life. Witness his peculiar character different moods, and maybe want to get involved with it, or comment on it.

DISCIPLES. In one of his most significant lifetime, Roy had four disciples in a temple set in East Asia. As he grew himself immensely powerful to the point he’d been labeled a deity for the generations to come, so did the students he took under his wing. Tales even imply that those disciples might have come from other time and worlds, as the concentration of lifeflow in the temple affected reality itself. Despite their betrayal, it would be no wonder if such powerful beings, having taken away a piece of power from their master, would be reborn. This profile fits muses with a strong sense of virtue and justice who’d be willing to dip their muse into my canon ! I’d be more than happy to tell you what I set as a reason for Roy’s disciples to turn on him, but if you find an even better idea I am all for it; I am, after all, roleplaying here and not just writing on my own, it can be OUR story too ! The idea here is for Roy’s disciples to have taken as much lifeflow from him as they could for themselves out of his remains, giving them the ability to be reborn with their abilities and appearance, albeit at a much, much slower pace than Roy can do, and without their concrete memory or very little of it (unlike Roy who slowly recalls them at all time).

PAST LIFETIME. Not everyone who supported (or not) Roy was a chosen one, or even a martial artist. In his past lives, Roy had numerous bonds, like them or not. Usually from local villages as he preferred much more tranquil and calm areas to settle, atop of borrowing the local blacksmiths’ workshop at times for his own work. This profile fits muses coming from ancient type of settings as their main asset and would like to interact through Roy’s past lifetimes, who’d, in his own way, potentially carry their own legacy in the next one.

ANOTHER LIFETIME. Roy’s idea of being the last of his civilization is set in stone. However, he has lived many lifetimes, some which were entirely lost and there is no real telling how much he’s been through as he, himself, lost touch with the world and time. The life cycle goes on, even if it is not the same. And people are reborn from the essence of others, maybe to meet again in another lifetime. This profile can truly fit anyone, mortals or not, who’d be willing to have Roy and their muse having met in another life, with the mental memories gone, but the physical ones staying. Energies will naturally bring them close to one another, like they know each others but they actually don’t, not in this lifetime yet.

THE HIGH PRIESTESS (?). The High Priestess’ lifeflow fused with Roy when she decided to give him her gift to be eternal. Although she remains inside him alongside their civilization, life works in mysterious ways. And there is no telling that, somehow, her, but not her power, her as a person, can someday find him again. This profile is not something I’m actively looking for, but definitely an option for someone who wants to go KNEES DEEP in this with me hahaha. It is most likely to fit muses who already has a backstory of being reborn from power, and have a very close persona than Roy’s biography describe. The High Priestess DOESN’T have to be limited to only female muses, they can be of any gender, both in the past and present, or have been a woman in another lifetime and be reborn another gender, etc. since the Firsts’ mentality were in deeper levels than individualistic labels. The matter was of no real importance to them, and the appellation Priestess, as in feminine, was chosen out of a tone that whoever held this title was to be motherly. Despite their strong bond, the Priestess is not the same as she was anymore, and so is Roy. They will never be the same again. Despite this plot running deep, it doesn’t guarantee any form of relationship with Roy, and will develop on chemistry through interactions.

MISC.I’ll add more when I think of them! DO THROW ME YOUR IDEAS LET’S GO.

Like with any interaction, relationships are officially in the singleverse timeline if it is roleplayed to a minimum extensively. Looking forwards to write with you !

#preest #.saved

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alastors-radioshow · 1 year ago

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Oh? Now, this was interesting. He wasn't used to meeting people who knew anything about Vodou. About the Lwa. Let alone knowing what to actually call a practitioner.

Alright, Terzo. You get a few points for that. Color him impressed~

The overlord couldn't hide the fact that his interest had been peaked, his head tilting to the side as he regarded the Emeritus.

"Quite right you are~ The Lwa are.. Hmm.. Neutral spirits. As most majik, Vodou is neutral. It is neither white, nor black. It depends of what one uses it for, that defines its color. The Lwa are as complex as the majik they wield. They hold both the light side and the dark side. They will assist you and guide you, but if you cross them, they can make your life a living Hell. They will chase you down for years, if it takes their fancy~" He'd explain.

"Ah, I see. I did not get the chance to renounce it. Then again, I grew up in the wake of the Victorian era. Met my demise in 1933. The situation in regards to religion was very different back then." He mused, before shifting his attention to the mention of Meliora.

Ah, yes. Music was always something he could discuss.

"I understand why. It is not typically what I gravitate towards, but I must admit, I quite enjoy that record~ You have a gift for writing music, Terzo."

He rarely dished out compliments. But he did in this case.

Yes, he had listened to the album. He always did his research, and seeing as he frequented the Abbey these days, it would be foolish to not look into The Ghost Project, non?

"The blessed baptism fucks over even the most devout pagans," he admits with a disdainful tone.

"I have had little occasion to speak with Vodouisants, but my elder brother is more familiar with the practice. The Lwa are the admirable sort as long you don't cross them as I understand, si?"

"I was raised in the Satanic Church. My mother was a Sister at one of the Abbeys in Italy and so this is the only religion I have known. These days at least, it is much easier to renounce a baptism if you no longer... vibe with the religion that led to it."

He pauses, because that is a novel sort of knowledge to have, knowing someone who has actually seen Lucifer, even if he hasn't conversed with the Dark Lord.

He hopes Lucifer is pleased, otherwise, what have they done all this for? Who have they done this for if no one below cared?

Questions he might dare ask the Chancellor who occasionally visits on business with the Clergy.

"One can hope then that he truly is pleased, then. Our numbers have surged since I released Meliora."

#iomadachd #alastors-radioshow #::On With The Show:: - RP

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moontrinemars · 2 years ago

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ORPHEUS [3361] AND EURYDIKE [75] NOTES

This will go into natal and synastry positions, aspects, and overlays. I've been researching this pair for my own purposes, but it's worth sharing, I think. Disclaimer is in my blog bio.

💀 ORPHEUS [3361] and EURYDIKE [75] are both underutilized in chart readings, imo, especially as a pair (though I am extremely biased). The meaning and the mythology is strong, and prominence in the chart can be impactful to great effect, in any type of chart, but especially synastry.

💀 Remember, asteroids are never as powerful as planets or system angles, but prominent asteroids should be considered, especially if they do resonate with the native.

💀 Uses in chart: art, life/death/rebirth, love, stories, fame and reputation, beauty, nature, tragedy, destiny, loss.

💀 You'll find a summary of one of the most common iterations of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydike here and if you prefer referring to an original text, there's a translation of Ovid's version here - small details vary but this is the general gist if you need context.

Eurydike in the Chart

💀 Eurydike is the ‘tragic muse’ figure (in contrast to Galatea’s and Aphrodite’s ‘fortunate muse’).

💀 As an object, she generally correlates to disappearances, being out of reach, being abandoned, absences, misplaced trust, and an early departure.

💀 An individual with prominent Eurydike usually feels as though they are always being left behind, though they often are the first to create some distance, not always through fault of their own.

💀 Eurydike ASC aspects make the native appear elusive - and they often are. Others have a hard time pinning them down. They have a detachment to them that makes it feel wrong or improper to approach and interrupt them, as if just by talking to them you're treading in territory you're not supposed to be in.

💀 Eurydike MC will give the native a tragic reputation - they may be known for a near death experience. Or it may manifest in an individual who is constantly moving away, leaving behind friends and family. They may be spoken of more after they've already left, as someone that is missed, rather than when they're actually there.

💀 Eurydike MCs may also be well known for their relationships to artists, especially as muses and sources of inspiration, or if the relationship is malefic in some way.

💀 Eurydike ASCs, on the other hand, may not be known for it, but will enchant a great many people through even brief interactions. They often have a trail of creators in their wake who still call upon their memory for artistic inspiration.

Orpheus in the Chart

💀 Orpheus, in his own right, is the ‘tragic artist’ figure (in contrast to Apollo’s or Pygmalion’s ‘fortunate artist’).

💀 He correlates to grief, obviously, but also to devotion, fidelity, obsession, fear, doubt, an inability to let go of the past that hurts, an unwillingness to let go.

💀 An individual with prominent Orpheus feels like they are always undergoing a trial for the sake of love. Love is everything to them but it feels like the world is against them and their love, or that their love is fighting them. They can get stuck in unhappy relationships because of their tendency to just pour effort forth.

💀 Orpheus aspecting the ASC makes the native very comfortable in the realm of performance - it comes second nature. Orpheus aspecting the MC is capable of pulling out heartwrenching performances, and is known for such, but it isn't effortless.

💀 Orpheus ASC also know how to charm their way into places they aren't supposed to be, and are comfortable doing so at the drop of a hat. Orpheus MC carefully selects when to trespass, making moments memorable enough to define their image.

Orpheus and Eurydike in Tandem

💀 If Orpheus and Eurydike aspect one another in the natal chart, you may naturally be drawn to doomed relationships, or you may self sabotage in your doubt. There’s also a chance of romanticizing tragedy overmuch.

💀 You know how Eurydike is elusive and Orpheus transcends? This is why Orpheus placements are such a good match for them. Orpheus transcends in the name of love and creativity, which makes them the perfect candidate to recognize and reach out to Eurydike.

💀 Eurydike likewise is charmed and inspired by Orpheus, both for their transgressions and devotion. For an Orpheus native, who is prone to being taken advantage and/or runs the risk of intimidating others with their intensity, Eurydike's validation is a relief.

💀 However, this is why it's so devastating if something goes wrong. Eurydike disappears as a coping mechanism, Orpheus never lets go. It's a recipe for a painful cycle.

💀 Even if one or the other or both choose to make the break, Orpheus will be haunted by Eurydike, and what they could've done to fix the situation. Eurydike's life will lose color without Orpheus - the isolation can be stifling and overwhelming.

The Dark Side of Orpheus and Eurydike

💀 Eurydike invites fear, paranoia, deception, melodrama, flightiness, misunderstandings, and sabotage, especially self-sabotage.

💀 Eurydike is prone to disappearing without warning. This may be by choice, but it also may be due to reasons beyond their control.

💀 Orpheus invites grief, depression, wallowing, artistic obsession, and being "torn apart" by fans as Orpheus both incites the obsession of others and instills obsession in the native.

💀 The obsession of others over the native will be a more parasocial one - obsession with their work, reputation, artistry, their creative mind.

💀 The native's obsessions will be personal, intimate, likely romantic.

💀 Orpheus-Eurydike aspects in natal and sybaatry invite obsession, jealousy, paranoia, stalking, death, short marriages, separations, and any of the typical potential harm that comes of a muse-artist relationship.

Other Objects to Check Out

💀 It’s worth checking placements and aspects for Pluto, Hades, both Proserpina(s), Persephone, and Melpomene if Orpheus and Eurydike play big roles in your synastry chart.

💀 Also, if you have one or both asteroids prominent, lmk about these other objects - I have Proserpina [h57] loosely conjunct Lilith, Persephone [399] conjunct my moon, and Proserpina [7292] exactly conjunct my Pars Fortunae.

💀 If you're interested in the interpretation of a specific position for Orpheus or Eurydike, but want some help parsing it, drop me an ask with the parriculars and I'll take a look!

#astrology #asteroids #orpheus #eurydice #mythology #ascendant #medium coeli #asc #rising #mc #asteroid astrology #mine

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yostresswritinggirl · 4 years ago

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Researching...

ZETA

You need to see this first then this

The alchemist had been trying all remedies to shake off the stress and fatigue in his system and they all seemed to fail, no amount of sketching or discoveries can pull him away from it. So when you offered a solution he hasn’t heard, he’d jump at it immediately. “You know, some people say having intercourse with someone is a good stress-reliever.” “Intercourse? If it’s true, then please, I wish to have intercourse with you.” “Wha- wait Albedo, do you not know what that is? It’s only done between lovers!” “Convenient, I love you, anything else?”

Pairing -> Albedo x Female Reader

Word Count -> 2944

Themes -> Smut, PwP, PwF, Woohoo, the "thing", the "do"

Series -> #Bonafide Specials (100 followers event)

Warnings -> NSFW CONTENT, DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE UNDERAGED! (this is awkward because you two have no experience, jsyk)

(Z,E)-9,12-tetradecadienyl acetate (TDA, also known as ZETA) are usually emitted by females to attract males for mating. Sex pheromones are defined as odors, produced by either males or females that stimulate one or more behavioral reactions in the opposite sex, bringing the males and females together for the purpose of mating.

The foldered papers at the mahogany desk met with a soft plop at its weight, and you noticed the Alchemist suddenly straighten his back from his spaced out daze on the noise, whipping his head towards where you stand. Albedo's teal eyes were wide from the sudden intrusion, but his eyelids drooped over them once again upon the realization that it was just you who entered as it loses its light once more. This worried you.

The Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius has been in a dilemma recently. And all of Mond knows of this.

Albedo naturally holds himself in a regal and composed aura that draws people to him in admiration and trance. But this Albedo lacks such gait, with shoulders tense and eyebrows furrowed, steps heavy and head hanging low.

He has hit a wall in his never-ending research. And the effect was obvious on him.

Days he'd be cooped up in his laboratory staring at nothing, glaring at his setup. Days he'd be gone beyond the walls with his easel and sketchbook, only to return with unfinished artworks meant to be forgotten. Sucrose had tried placing experiments that are easy to handle and give him at least a sense of self-confidence for solving, but even that cannot pull his mind away from his obstacle.

"You know," leaning on the table with arms crossed, you watched the Kreideprinz drag his foot to where you were, aiming to check on the folder that you just submitted, "Some people say having intercourse with someone is a good stress-reliever." Such words smoothly flowed out of your mouth despite the masked embarrassment you expertly hid through a haughty smirk.

That someone was Kaeya, and that Kaeya threw out that same comment next to you when you two saw Albedo walk through the headquarter's halls like a zombie a few days ago.

The sudden pound of fists on the table at either side of you startled you, expertly caging you in as you looked up. Albedo loomed over you with eyes brightly catching the sun, giving it the luminosity that carried the same curious look he had when faced with the unknown. "Intercourse? If it's true, then please," oh no, "I wish to have intercourse with you."

Excuse me? "Wha-" suddenly, you were hyper-aware of just how close you are to one another. You slightly hiked yourself up against the table, as to preserve what little distance you have. "Wait Albedo, do you not know what that is? It’s only done between lovers!”

And without skipping a beat, he mused, "Convenient, I love you, anything else?" That familiar smirk displayed on his face.

Contrary to his face tho, you greatly contest to Diluc's hair. Really a normal reaction- to this guy suddenly confessing! Your head is already whirling around in confusion and your eyes couldn't set itself straight at him, still mindful of the distance of which reminded you why you were in this predicament in the first place.

Albedo attentively watched your eyes stray to the side as he stands there in silence, seeing it land at the entrance to his laboratory. Ah of course, he thought he'd made a discovery, as he leans away from you to make his way towards the door.

And shut it with a click.

"Wait, wait, why did you lock the door?!" You finally mustered up the courage to speak (breaking away from the shock of his confession) as he finds himself where he stood over you, eyes filled with confusion.

"You were quiet after my confession. I know such moments of romance are intimate and with your eyes, I only wanted to give us privacy," his brows furrowed with confusion before his shoulders dropped, a sharp sigh escaping. "Normally people would express their reciprocation by now," he breathed as he starts pulling back and away, "but voicing your rejection would have been appre-"

Quickly with a yelp, you reached out for his departing form, pulling him back by the grip on his shirt. Albedo's eyes only widened a little as he was quick to grip the table's edge to stabilize himself, one arm wrapped around your waist to ground you. "No! I do- do love you too!" You finally squeezed out the embarrassing confession, "You were just so sudden, it surprised me so much!"

And suddenly he was laughing openly, full of relief and humor, as his shoulders slackened at the validation. The heavy weight on his shoulders eased as if a physical matter left it, the bout of removed tension making him slump on you.

You cradled the tired Albedo in your arms as you let him place his chin on your shoulder. This man is your lover now, you thought as the fact finally dawned on you. The brilliant and most loved in Mond now tied down to you.

Basking in the presence of a person now his, Albedo found himself breathing in. There was a scent to you that always soothes him which now feels emphasized at the closeness. His pupils dilated as his face buries itself closer to the junction where your neck and shoulder meets.

Ah, what was this? Was this the pheromones you once talked about in your research on zoology that attracts those to them? He mused in his mind as those teal eyed fluttered shut, nose brushing at your neck for another whiff.

While Albedo indulged himself with the natural scent of you, you stood there with weak legs, trembling and red from the notions. Oh gods, you whimpered at the feeling of his lips brushing at your skin, you're whipped for this man.

"I'm waiting," you had to hold the shiver when his words vibrated against your neck, "for your answer on my offer, I think it would be good to try." Ah the 'intercourse'. You placed your hands flat on his back as he leans away to stare in attention, and then you finally explained to him what you meant, what you'd do, and what it entails to.

Albedo nods in understanding at your every clause and explanation. And his bright mind understood far too easily how it would help. "We are lovers now," his eyes twinkled at the cute scrunch of your nose upon the embarrassment of the fact, "sooner or later we'd end up doing it anyways. When shouldn't be a matter."

Albedo always make a good point.

With your consent, Albedo slowly lays you on the surface of the table as his other hand makes quick work to swipe away the items that would be in the way, thankfully the carpeted floor prevented anything from breaking. His lips found yours almost naturally as you urged him to take off his coat and you worked on your own, the thoughts spiraling in your head for every clothing that is shed:

Albedo has little to none idea on how sex works between humans, and you had your base knowledge from the things you learned from academics; in short, you're both inexperienced and you are his anchor.

How funny how the master role quickly switched, you thought with an inward laugh before it died in your throat at the sight— he stands there with his undershirt unbuttoned, belt and shorts caught by his knee, and his apparent bulge outlined by his boxers. Your thighs instinctively closed, you don't know what's considered average in size for such things, but you know for a fact there's gonna be some difficulty.

"Is something wrong?" His raw and calloused hands (gloves long gone) softly landed at your squirming thighs, the contact sending a shiver all over. "Am I doing something wrong?"

No, you breathed as you urged him to step closer and settle between your legs at the edge of the table, his form forcing you to spread your limbs apart.

The intoxicating scent that Albedo indulged in earlier was stronger now, drowning him and clouding his thoughts. The waft plunged through his senses so forcefully that he stumbled a bit on you, hips hitting as he grips your sides to keep him steady.

Next came the warmth that touched his sensitive length as it laid between you, the contact had forced out a cute squeak from you and an airy groan from him. His hips buckled to catch the sensation as he finds himself rutting between your folds with ragged breathing.

So good, it felt so good. Albedo finds himself struggling to keep his eyes open from what he now identified to be pleasure, and as he looks up to check on you, you were struggling just the same. Your chest rises and falls in quick successions as you covered your eyes with an arm, whimpers coming out of your slightly parted lips.

Fuck. If only he wasn't so engrossed, he wanted to capture this image through painting. "Am I-," he cleared his throat of the hoarse voice, "Am I hurting you?"

You gasped at the cold and wet feeling swipe from your chin to the corner of your lips, licking the trail of drool you didn't even notice when you opened your eyes to see Albedo's up close. With a shake of your head, you gripped the ponytail of his braid to pull his head for a sudden kiss.

Staggering over your form as your legs hiked up to hook around his waist, you guided the tip of his length to your entrance as he ravaged your mouth without restraint. Lips bruising each other, tongue tracing the underside of yours gingerly before it licks at the roof of your mouth— all the sensations had fogged up your consciousness so badly that you didn't feel an ounce of pain when he finally entered into you, guided by a shy gentleness to his ministrations.

It is only when his tip finally touched the opening of your cervix did you whimper; the way you're being stretched and the fullness of his length in you making you writhe under and around him, the friction only making rousing him more.

Albedo produced a low growl against your lips as he bit down on the bottom one, his trimmed nails digging to your soft-skinned hips as he pins it down. "Stop- nghh- stop moving around so much," a sudden warmth pooled into your stomach as you tightened around him.

Mistake number one: You didn't expect for his gentleness to be gone.

Spurred on by your tightening grip and the pleasure shooting up him everytime his tip came in contact with your edge, Albedo went into a relentless pace, pounding straight into you to hit that spot. Your pants turned into breathless chokes everytime he comes in contact, forcing your raw moans out of you. There's a dull pain by your entrance everytime he grinds against your walls, and he whimpers your name in pure ecstacy every stroke.

Your back arcs as he smacks into you, pulling back halfway through before burying deep into your hole once again. His brutal pace gets sloppy at times, before his strength comes back again to pull you closer. Halfway through Albedo produces a feral growl as he grips one of your legs behind the knee, pushing it closer to your body and slightly angled to the side.

And the moment he thrusts in with the new position, you cried out his name. The tip of his length reached far deeper with this new angle, and had plunged the top right into your cervix— your hips trembled as Albedo's whole body shivers at the new sensation, fingernails digging into your thigh as his other hand intertwines with yours, pinning it down on the table as leverage.

"Ahn," he whispered your name tiredly with tears pricking at the edge of his eyes, for the first time staring at your eyes after he had started, "How are you? Is it okay? Is it..."

Good, you mumbled with a tired smile at his consideration, bumping your hips to emphasize on it- which drew a sharp gasp from the both of you, he was already in so deep, your hips bruised and touching.

He rolled his hips to test out, his thickness rubbing at the walls as he stirs your insides. The sweet moan you produced spurred him on, and he was once again staggering into you, his hips slightly elevated in an angle meant to pierce through you.

The sound of flesh smacking against each other overpowers even your loudest moan as Albedo pleasured himself inside you desperately, the smell of sex filling your sense of smell. He chases the way your hole drips and wafts with the scent, drawing in a huge breathe whenever your mixed cum spills past his tightly locked dick in you.

And soon his pace became more desperate and short, as he makes quick work at hitting you in your most sensitive part to barely give you time to gasp for air. Your walls clenched down on him so tightly as you came, a cry of his name passing your lips as your back arched—

the pressure made him buckle and he thrusts in deep one last time, tip breaking past your cervix, as his climax enters you in thick strings of warmth.

That was mistake number two: you didn't bring protection with you.

But at that moment you couldn't care less (your cycle just ended anyways, you should be fine), watching him whimper your name in full pleasure as his teeth grinds against each other, his forehead and eyebrows knit and furrow as he releases before it relaxes after he is done.

And then he falls face first to your chest, the renowned Alchemist running out of the minimal stamina he had with him. Buried between the valley of your breast, Albedo had the most serene (almost drunk) expression on his face, lips pressed against the skin over your heart where it beats with fervor from your activity.

He tested another experimental thrust, lighter this time, as he felt your mixed fluids moved around the tiny space. You gave a wailing moan at his action, and he breathlessly laughed at your reaction.

Albedo stayed in you and on you for a few more minutes after that. Still trying to regain strength as your tired pants became the white noise that night.

"Albedo..." he hums against your chest as his arms tightened around your waist, enjoying the peace your hands brought to him as you stroke his cheek. "Albedo, I need to clean up." He jests that you should just keep it in you and you responded with rapid pats, whining at the notion. He chuckles.

It took him a lot of willpower to get up and he made it obvious as hell, taking his time to remove himself off your chest, grumbling that his bed was complaining too much. You let out a cute snort before smacking his arm. Albedo grips your hips as he gently pulls out when he stops suddenly, realizing that the liquids would pour out and make an obvious mess if he were to do so.

His head passes around the immediate area as he pinpoints a peculiar object, plucking it from its plastic package, still new from the bubble wrap. A sharp gasp suddenly comes by you at the cold and hard sensation that replaced Albedo inside you, only a few inches deep as the Alchemist walks off to get tissues. Wary, you looked down to see the object, choking out when you saw its end sticking out past your crotch:

A test tube, pristine and clean, was preventing the fluids from dripping out of your hole.

When Albedo came back with the tissues and spare cloth in hand, he muses at how your deep red face was smacked tightly against your palms. He offers to clean up, a gentle hand carefully pulling out the tube, but you refused and got quick work on yourself. That was enough embarrassment for tonight.

Unbeknownst to you with your busied self, Albedo held the glass vial in close inspection and curiosity. The translucent white liquid barely blocks the night light and produced the same strong scent he'd been chasing the whole night— he sticks his tongue out to taste, ah, slightly salty and sticky.

Albedo wonders what kind of experiment he can do with this.

The obvious lift on the shoulders of the Chief Alchemist was greatly acknowledged by everyone in town who were aware of the impasse the young man had troubled himself with for the past few days. The bags under his eyes were gone, and the tealness he has shined with newfound vigor. Besides the mood shift, many of the knights had also noticed the time spent between the two of you. Missions and expeditions were always coinciding with each other and people barely saw you separated, giggling and smiling to yourselves in your pink world.

One day they finally found out about your relationship when a knight barged in to his laboratory for an urgent matter. Blurting out the Chief Alchemist's name before he realized that you were there, lips locked against each other.

The news spreads fast with that little detail and everyone congratulated you on your relationship.

Behind your bashful smiles, you and Albedo sighed in great relief, thankful to the archons that the knight didn't took notice of your hand under his big white coat that time.

This turned out like this cuz alchemy boy very new to things u_u and little stamina, he needs to exercise more ehe-

@creation-magician @dandelion-dreams @zelos-simp @struggljng @youroffical-weirdo @your-local-venti-simp @indigodreamtime47

#genshin impact #genshin impact oneshots #genshin impact x reader #exile.flower #genshin impact albedo #albedo x reader #Albedo #not for children #bonafide specials #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa #author.exe stopped working #author scared #*glares* part two will wait a lil longer #female reader

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ambiguouspuzuma · 2 years ago

Text

Character study

The man's beard was like a thicket of gorse, more sprawl than volume, less middle than edge. That was its natural state, of course - the writer knew that as well as anyone - but it struck him as distinctive for precisely that reason. In a world of increasingly curated appearances, he didn't see much in the way of nature anymore.

For today's men, facial hair was often a tamed creature: a carefully coiffured look, trimmed within an inch of its life, like one of those topiary boxwoods pruned into a perfect shape. By contrast, this was a garden surrendered to weeds, or the rough heather strewn across an empty highland moor.

The auburn brush ranged from the man's pale cheeks to the crest of his defined jawline, and then poured onwards like a cascade down his neck, making it halfway before it faded into skin. The neck itself might have been unusually long, although the writer suspected that the man's face may also have been stunted - his jaw abruptly jutting out where others would continue on - and it was too hard to determine which was which.

"Can I help you?" The man's tone, on looking up to find himself the subject of such a study, was equally short.

"Not at all," the writer said, a smile on his own thin lips. "I'm just people watching."

"People watching?" He looked around. They'd taken opposite seats in the carriage, one of those banks of four where two passengers could each take a corner and preserve their leg-room and personal space. In theory. "It's only me here. It's going to be a long journey, and I'd rather not be watched the whole time. You'd be better off looking out there."

He gestured through the window to his left, where the horizon rippled into hills and valleys beneath a gloomy sky. Their foreground was forest, and trees raced each other in fleeing their approach, hurtling along the tracks in their wake. It would be the same for the rest of their trip. A suitable backdrop for this scene, but nothing entertaining in itself.

"I'm all good for scenery," the writer replied. "At the moment, I'm casting. More portrait than landscape, if you catch my drift."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm a writer. People watching is more than a hobby, you see; it's research. I observe all the little details, our patterns of speech and action, every imperfection and idiosyncrasy, and use them to make my characters feel real. I like to travel, to see how people react to different situations."

"Is that why you're here?" The man didn't seem keen to have his imperfections studied, but he was otherwise intrigued. Most people secretly longed for their fifteen minutes of fame, and winding up in a novel was an interesting prospect. "A research trip? Are you writing anything at the moment?"

"I'm hunting my muse. Looking for inspiration. I always am, really. Such is the author's lot. Once you become a writer, you cease to become a man. The storyteller cannot be a character. The photographer is always out of frame."

"Actually, they're often in them now," the man said. "They're called selfies."

"Instead, he must become a sieve," the writer continued, ignoring him. "Distilling life into the tales worth telling, panning for gold amongst the dust. In moments of great beauty, or great sadness, the writer will be there, taking notes: observing the emotions from outside, to pin them down like butterflies, stolen flowers pressed between the pages of his book."

"Right..."

"He is the filter, the place where blood congeals to ink, the screen on which the shadows play. The whole world flows through him, and the stories flow out. He is the voyeur, the watcher on his reader's behalf. The man who must transcribe the script of life. The man who puts the lyrics to the melody. The man who translates wonders into words."

"I see." The soliloquy was wasted on its audience of one. Whatever strange creatures a writer had to be, this man was far more interested in whether he might make the cut. "So... have I inspired you at all?"

"You're still just a character," the writer said. He reached into his bag, and pulled out a gun. "Now, let's give you a plot."

#writing #short story #creative writing #original fiction

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mxvladdy · 4 years ago

Note

I would like to request! Can I request? Well I wish for you to consider what type of person/what kind of situation would cause the brothers to make a pact with someone. Maybe even what they would request in exchange? This can be before or after they met MC. With that out of the way, I totally binge read all of your works after my sister gushed to me about the True Form series, and just thank you??? It made me really happy reading them and it's always impressively detailed and well thought out.

Awww thank you! I’m glad it’s rave-worthy! I plan to add to it soon bc it was an absolute riot to write and research for lol

And wow this one is a toughie! I’ve actually never thought of what would make them want a pact! Hope ya like it!

Lucifer- Pact of Success

Absolutely the hardest brother to do business with, but that is probably a good thing. He is incredibly selfish with his contracts. Sure, they’ll benefit from his pact mark, but he will get the most out of it. Aside from MC he only takes requests for contracts from the human “elite”. They make wonderful feathers in his cap.

But also he takes some enjoyment in breaking them. They always get so cocky with his contracts thinking that they have him on the ropes and at their beck and call. It gives him a good chuckle, humans are so brazen considering their very short lifespan.

He destroys them slowly over time- all the little minutia he peppers in his legal bindings adds up. Not that his normal clientele ever read the fine print. But he designed it that way to make sure they don’t. All their requests are the same and so simplistic. Big boats, fancy cars, climbing the proverbial ladder faster than their friends or enemies - blah-blah-blah. At least the paperwork is easy to complete.

Very rarely does he find a contract he is excited to make. Those contracts are given to artists and craftsmen he sees potential in. He loves good art, and every artist should take pride in their work.

When it comes to the “price” of his pact it is worryingly simple. All he wants is some of their time. It sounds simple, and it is. Which is why it’s dangerous. The contract doesn’t specifically say how or the rules of it. How he takes your time is completely up to him.

Sometimes he simply comes for a drink and to ask how business is going. Or with the pacts he gives a damn about- he pops in to see progress on their artist visions or listen to their latest musings.

Other times if he grows tired of his pact holders’ ever-growing demands or ludicrous requests he comes and takes time right out of their lifespan. His visits leave them weak and fatigued though they can’t place why. He is a slow siphon of death and they are too foolhardy to notice. If he is feeling especially cruel, or sentimental he takes memories, things that a demon generally wouldn’t want.

Time with family, the first time they met the love of their life, a child’s birthday. He takes them all and leaves them with only a blurry recollection in his wake

When MC crosses his path though he is very apprehensive. He doesn’t want a pact or anything that could jeopardize Diavolo’s upcoming plans. But they make his skin itch with want. He doesn’t want them to be another trophy on his wall. He wants a mutually beneficial pact, one that almost leans in their favor and it grates him. Should/ when a pact is made he won’t use his powers on you as then he would have to take something in return. Instead, he takes his time and coaches them to be successful by their own right, though if he has to eliminate some obstacles- well they don’t need to know that.

Mammon- Pact of Riches

I love his man with all my heart, but even when he isn’t losing bets or getting tricked into pacts he still isn’t the most selective with who he conducts business with. He is the avatar of greed, after all. I guess it comes with the territory.

He scouts for already wealthy humans or people with a good head for numbers and is money smart. Some are too smart to deal with him, knowing that whatever monetary gain they are granted from him will backfire in the end (or their mama’s taught them not to make deals with strange demons). But a sucker is born every minute, and he has nothing but time on his hands.

His pacts are pretty simple and upfront. Sign on the dotted line and they get some of his wicked gamblers’ luck and more riches than one human life span could do much with. While he gets a glorified accountant and a nice percentage of their profits. It’s a win-win… for him.

See he forgets to mention that there are two sides to every coin, and his flip side is particularly detrimental to one’s health. He just so conveniently glosses over that his luck will wear out over time depending on how frequently the pact holder uses it.

But the hunger for more doesn’t. If anything that particular sensation grows into an all-consuming fire in the pit of their pitiful guts. It forces them back into the seedy basements or griming gambling halls. One more roll, one more stack of bills, just one more time and they will hit pay dirt surly! But the losses just keep coming. If one of his pact holders ends up face down in a ditch after one too many bad hands and uncontrollable greed… well ain’t nobody’s fault but their own.

He has a softer spot for humans that seek him out and treat him like a living being instead of some tool to be tossed around at will. It’s refreshing. He will actually take some care with these pacts and tell them to temper their use of his magic so they can get the most out of it in the long run. They still might run into misfortune and he is genuinely sorry for that but there is only so much he can do in the end.

With MC he doesn’t even tell them about what his pact can do or how to use it. He doesn’t want anything bad happening to his human. If they want something tell him he will do it himself no magic or pact summoning required. He wants to keep them happy and healthy for as long as his lifespan will allow.

If MC should find how to use his pact mark he will get pissed. Not so much at them but the situation in general. He’ll be upfront about the whole thing, judge him how they want but he refuses to let greed consume them too. He focuses a lot of time and energy on learning how to reel in his magic with them so they get some of the perks but none of the major downsides. Unlike with his other pacts where he lets it all just run wild (just means they use up their contact faster and he can move on to even bigger fish).

Leviathan- Pact of Wisdom and Skill

Surprisingly, despite his antisocial tendencies with “normies”, he gets around when it comes to contracts. Perhaps it’s jealousy at his other brothers or perhaps he finds collecting contracts a bit of a game on its own.

He has a small niche of people interested in his pacts. Pacts with him give people a strategic advantage in nearly any situation. Seemingly overnight his humans turn into near tactical geniuses. Because of that, he is very popular with military leaders and humans with dangerous careers.

He also makes mini contracts with foot soldiers and humans with dangerous oceanic jobs. They just want to make it out alive and he gets that. With contracts like these, he is more lenient and doesn’t ask for much. Make an offering of fancy food to Henry 2.0 or wait in line for a rare human figuring he wants. Wam-bam thank you ma’am kinda business.

This is completely different from his larger contracts. With the military contracts, he expects them to continue with their duties until they die in the field. Simple as that, he doesn’t mince words in his contract. It’s what he would do as General so he expects it from them. Should they try to define him he will get rid of them.

He takes delight in defiant contract holders. They think they are as clever as he is now. But they forget that they are using his magic. He could take his magic away right after they defy him sure...but he won’t. He lets them stew for a bit, thinking they have had the last laugh on envy. If they wish to play games with a General then he will make sure it’s good.

With MC he plays on easy mode, granting them insight and little touches of his magic during exam week or when playing a game against his brothers. He wants nothing in return from them but some quality hangout time.

Satan- The Pact of Retribution

As the only pure-blooded demon out of the seven, he does these pacts out of necessity like most other demons. While the others do it more so out of monetary gain and an obligation to the crown. Or if you’re Belphie, sheer enjoyment.

He does it because he hungers, it a hole in his very self that he is trying to fill. He hunts for one reason only- relief from his cardinal sin. He will never feel the calm after a storm of rage naturally. Patience and tranquility are the antitheses of his very creation. So he gets it artificially through his contracts.

He looks for the downtrodden, angry, and the most bitterly despondent humans he can find and gives them the chance to seek vengeance. He is very upfront with what his pact entails. Once the vengeance is complete his rage will consume them and they will become another soul for him to consume.

He isn’t cruel about the process or tries to trick a human into a mark. Very few of the ones he approaches turn him down even after hearing the details. It is possible that humans once shot to get even and he gets to feel bliss, to feel calm. He finds out that the longer or more obscure the plan for retribution is the sweeter the outcome is for Satan.

If he is feeling super ornery he will go after people affected by the outcomes of Lucifer’s pacts. They are easy prey and almost as wrathful as Satan himself. Bonus it aggravates Lucifer to no end when he has to go out of his way to clean up the mess Satan’s contract made of his own. Anything to piss him off makes Satan feel all the better.

With MC he doesn’t need to use his pact magic. Mostly because they are always around him in the Devildom, and no one is stupid enough to mess with someone Satan favors. If someone or something does irritate his MC he will take it out before it can fester into something his magic will try to latch onto. Keeping you calm and happy makes him feel almost tranquil as well.

Asmodeus- Pact of Gratification

Another very popular pact to try to get, and how could it not? He is fabulous~ But as much as people try to find him, he only goes for a certain type of contract. He has his perfectly manicured fingers on the pulse of the fashion and beauty industry.

His name is a whisper among the up and comers in the business. Many-while not looking for a pact - at least want to see him at least once. Many never will, they get cut from their agency or quit before they could get a foothold. It happens, and he hates to see it. Everyone deserves to feel gorgeous, or at least get a chance to be in the same room as him!

But for the ones the perceiver and climb the ranks get invited to one of his many parties. They can only get invited by someone wearing his mark. He trusts them to know who would be amenable to his contract.

His pact grants its bearer a glamor that can’t be broken by any meer mortal or mage. It makes them absolutely irresistible. How they wield that power is completely up to the user, he won’t judge or intervene.

Once they sign the contract all his holders see him frequently. He absolutely loves dropping in on their shoots or fancy dinners to say hi or get a recap on how they are fairing. Not because he is a nice demon or just super friendly (though they would like to think so). No, he just likes to watch.

His payment is slow, methodical and no one sees it happen until it is already complete. In exchange for beauty and the graduation of getting whatever their little hearts could as for he gets their ability to love, whether that be familiar or sexual. Asmo loves the feeling of being loved; he wants it in all ways possible.

Some pact holders don’t have an issue with this. They got their looks, a successful career, and people to manipulate to their heart’s content. Not having strong contentions with anyone works in their favor. But others don’t and while they search for him to try and get that little slice of humanity back he is long gone. He got what he wanted anyway.

MC is his darling. He can and will make a special contract just for them (reviewed by Lucifer). A beautiful new contract for a beautiful soul! He wants you as unchanged as possible because this MC is the one he fell for.

Beelzebub- Pact of Prowess

His pact is a very elusive one as he isn’t keen on going and looking for one. Beel isn’t a big fan of these trades, but he needs them every once and a while. Nothing is more filling than a contracted soul.

His trade is basic, make a pact and you get his strength. He, like Satan, is upfront about what his payment is and what side effects will plague them. He sees no reason to lie about it. The more they draw on his power the more the host's body gorges itself. Their bones will collapse in on themselves from the stress of it- the magic feeds on anything in the host bodies. It will deplete the iron in the blood, go after the calcium in the bones, sink its teeth in their muscle system.

It’s all rather gruesome and Beel does feel bad about it. He tells though who are still adamant about binding with him ways they can negate some of the side effects by taking supplements and augmenting their diets.

But it is like patching a deep cut with a bandaid, it just won’t work. His stomach is near bottomless- humans most certainly aren’t. They simply can’t eat enough to sustain their body like he can.

It surprises him that people still seek him out. To some, the pros outweigh that very huge cons. Some really do believe that they can find a loophole or find the right mix of medication to offset it.

He doesn’t get beaten up about it anymore but it gets on his nerves how obstinate humans can be about his very clear warnings. When his magic finally consumes them he takes both the body and soul back down with him and feasts on both.

With MC he keeps an eye out on them. Consistently checking in, making sure they don’t skip a meal, and join him at the gym often. He wants them to be strong and healthy enough to not ever want to use his pact. Though he does speculate that their angelic bloodline buffers both his and his brother’s magic a good bit.

Belphegor- Pact of the Visionary

Dreamers come in every shape and size and from different walks of life. But they are are all suckers to Belphie. He is known as the Lord of Decet for a reason.

He will promise them everything and anything their heart desires. That invention that will change the world? Done. A patent that is long overdue. Easy enough. A sudden rush of ingenuity to complete that nagging project. He is a devil of his word, it will be done. It- just won’t be done in the way they would want it.

See manipulating the physical realm is hard work. Like a lot of hard work. More than he would ever do for some stupid little human. It’s a lot easier to control outcomes in his realm.

The moment the contract is signed his hosts fall under his control and he takes it from there building a perfect little dream world for them to frolic in and believe they are getting what they want. He feeds off of them here, taking little sips from their energy and exploring these new fresh dream worlds. His dreamscapes get boring every once and a while, so having a new human under his influence is always refreshing.

While his humans thrive inside their minds their bodies waste away in bed as his magic draws them further and further into an endless sleep.

He doesn’t see anything wrong with his contracts. Who would argue with him that the dream realms aren’t real in their own sense? Did his humans not accomplish their goals in the end? He doesn’t think of the outside effects of his magic and pacts. Belphie really doesn’t care about what families he broke apart or lives he inadvertently affected.

MC is different to him though. He doesn’t keep them under his spell hardly ever (maybe if they are spending too much time with Dia or Lucifer. But he doesn’t push it with them.).He still walks into their dreams whenever he feels but he comes just to visit, not to change. He simply just enjoys keeping you company and relaxing in the little mini paradise you always seem to create in your dreams.

#obey me #request!#obey me luficer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #headcanon

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sun-flower-children · 4 years ago

Text

Felix’s S/O Painting His Nails

A/N: Hey! Sorry I took so long but yes I can write about painting Felix’s nails. There is a full oneshot written under the cut :))))

- it’s canon that he wear nail polish but I bet he doesn’t really try to maintain it.

- probably started when he was trying to rebel against his father and wanted to do more things to piss him off.

- found that he just really liked it

- I headcanon that he he doesn’t take care of them and will let the polish either chip off or he will grow them out

- Felix is really busy all the time with his research to get you back home, to solve the face thief problem and trying to stay out of the clutches of his father.

- so he will very easily give into you doing his nails.

- He likes you, in the romantic sense, but doesn’t do a lot in terms of dates and a lot of romantic gestures because he’s actually really nervous to slip up inform of you.

- He will let you paint his nails as long as he is allowed to read and continue working while you do so.

- While he is reading and flipping the pages with his left hand, you are holding his right hand in the air with one of your hands, giving your dominant hand more control over the polish as you apply it over his nails.

- while you paint his nails; rub your thumb on his hand, kiss his knuckles, kiss the pads of his fingers, kiss his palm, compliment how soft and pretty his hands are.

- This will most definable cause him to get zero work done but will totally bask in your praise with a blush on his face.

“Hey Felix I’m bored.” you sigh. You have been struggling to read and understand the two same pages for the last few hours. It seemed that no matter how hard you try this magic stuff just won’t work for you.

“Well, dear barista, I am a little busy at the moment so please take your musings else where.” Felix says in a slightly amused tone.

You laid you cheek down on one of the pages that you had given up reading and watched Felix work. The way his brows furrowed when he had to rewrite something or add more notes to a concept or idea. The angry scribbling of his pen and he wrote away. Closing your eyes you listening to the shuffling of papers and Felix’s occasional mumbling.

You have traveled to an alternate dimension where your favorite game is a really tangible place. As much as you loved being in this magical place and being able to interact with new and characters from the previous game, you missed home. The activities and the people that you cared about. Also the internet. Opening your eyes again you looked at Felix. Scanning over his busy form and noticed his hands. More specifically his nails.

“Felix when was the last time you painted your nails?”

He looks up and little confused at the randomness of the question and looks at his nails.

“Well darling, I haven’t exactly had the time to paint them since you arrived. For you have made me so awfully busy.” He smiles and looks at you.

“If you aren’t going to work my dear barista why don’t you go to bed. It is a bit late for you to stay up.” As he says this Felix looks away in hopes that you don’t notice his blush. You still catch the pink on his face but spare his the embarrassment.”

“But darling,” you start,” I want to stay with you. I like being around you.”

This catches Felix off guard as he tilts his book more upward trying to hide his face again.

Before Felix can collect himself to properly respond you tilt his book back downwards and lean closer to him,” Can I paint your nails? I have done it before and you could still read while I paint.”

This seemingly simple request had thrown Felix into a bit of a mental loop. You wanted to take care of him? You wanted to hold him? You wanted to be around him more? You wanted to give him attention? He was totally mentally screaming. He takes a deep breathe before responding.

“ If you really want to, you can.” He says, trying to keep his tone in check as to not sound super excited. He waves his hand to float his bottle of nail polish over to you. You gently reach out and grab hold of his left hand. As you brought it to yourself you used your thumb to rub his hand gently; musing in the unexpected softness of his hands.

Felix keeps his gaze focused on his book and tries to read but your gentleness and care when painting his nails is causing him to lose focus. He finds himself re-reading the same sentence and hoping that you don’t notice that he isn’t actually reading.

He sneaks a little peek at you and sees how calm but focused you are in painting his nails. You had finally finished the first five and Felix expected you to put his hand down but instead you leaned down and kissed his knuckles. He quickly looked away and tried to look very interested in this book but could feel his face burning.

Gently turning his hand over and pressing soft butterfly kisses into his palm and the little pads of his fingers. Softly rubbing you thumbs across his skin and murmuring barley audible praises for your lovely necromancer. He looks back at you again only for the two of you to make eye contact. Felix was sure that his heart couldn’t take anymore but then you smiled, and that's all it took to make him a blushing stuttering mess before you.

Felix was not getting anymore work done that night.

MASTERLIST

my inbox is still open if you have any thing that you would like me to write :)

#felix #felix escellun #felix headcanons #felix x reader #felix x male reader #felix x gn!reader #last legacy #last legacy x reader #last legacy x male reader #felix fluff #felix smut #felix x reader fluff #felix escellun headcanons

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anncanta · 3 years ago

Text

Veduta of Venice

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Count Dracula, Zoe Van Helsing, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Zoe Van Helsing, Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Explicit

Veduta (Italian veduta - seen, view, picture, point of view) is a genre of Western European painting and graphics, especially popular in Venice of the 18th century.

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @ravenathantum @flutteringphalanges @ladyhaley28 @dragatha @khyruma

Read on AO3

Or read below

The hotel was damp and cold, but the view was magnificent. Rising from the chair, Zoe wrapped herself tighter in a wide woolen scarf and went out onto a tiny balcony made of openwork stone.

As far as the eye could see, there was water ahead – pinkish, blue, green. Zoe had never seen so much water before. The water has never been so close. Leaning over the balcony railing, Zoe stared down at the low waves intersecting at odd angles.

Such a strange city. When she bought a tour at the agency, she was offered a choice – Verona or Venice. Zoe rejected Verona at once. And she looked at the glamorous, deliberately beautiful photos of Venice for a long time as if looking for something – either a crack in the ideal porcelain world captured on the image or ugly everyday flaws. In the end, she decided – she has nothing to lose.

The flight never seemed to end. The large iron bird seemed to hang in the sky forever, spreading its immovable wings and holding the half-asleep Zoe either in its paws or in a steel silver beak. When, to her surprise, the bird let her go, Zoe still had to get from mainland Italy deep into the archipelago. So she arrived at the hotel completely exhausted.

She burst into a spacious room that smelled of rain and prickly nights, dropped her suitcase on the floor, and stretched out on an obscenely wide bed.

And when she woke up, the sun, mother-of-pearl gray skies, and water looked out of her windows.

Zoe wasn't going to take a vacation. She worked hard and monotonously, with stubborn, dull dedication, unlike many of her workaholic colleagues – not for the sake of her own reputation and career, and not at all for show. The fact is that there was really nothing more in her life.

Zoe didn’t realize it right away. She just worked, day after day, not even always overtime. Like everyone else, she played bowling on Thursdays and had fun in pubs on Fridays. But when her friends and colleagues hurried home to their families at the end of a stormy evening Zoe, starting her old Renault, every time fought the temptation to return to the laboratory.

This went on for a long time. Months. Years. Until one day, on the eve of her fortieth birthday, Zoe realized that the desire to go back to work after a party with friends was her only temptation.

For some reason, this understanding frightened her so much that the next morning she was already sitting in the office of the head of the medical research center in which she worked, with an application for a vacation, and a week later – on a plane on her way to Italy.

Zoe straightened and looked at the bright scarlet sun sinking into the bay. Self-pity is not the best feeling to approach the second half of your life, she thought. Well, in general, she had nothing to feel sorry for herself. She was lonely – but she always had more or less enough of her own company, with the rare addition of a friend or two to chat with over the weekend. She did not have an impressive career – although many of her colleagues at the center, who discussed at tea the young doctor, who had managed to make several breakthrough discoveries by the age of thirty-five, could argue with this. Success in science is an unpopular success. Nothing to brag about. Zoe chuckled out of the corner of her mouth. And she had absolutely no idea what to do next, and for that matter – why all this was needed.

On the other hand, why not?

Would she have died of some kind of blood cancer, she would have made a sort of a romantic heroine, Zoe thought irritably as she closed the balcony.

At the foot of the building, somewhere far, far away, muddy water was rustling and foaming.

***

Zoe bought a complete tour, which included a full package of services, so she did not choose a hotel. Maybe if she did, she would spend time looking for something more comfortable and not so boring, she mused as she walked down to the restaurant for lunch. During the week and a half that Zoe spent here, nothing happened in the hotel that could conditionally pass for entertainment. Don't consider the other guests as such, she chuckled mentally. On the stairs and in the corridors, there were mostly gloomy gray-haired couples and girls of dubious appearance. Sometimes a jazz band played in the lobby in the evenings.

There wasn`t a soul to be seen in the bright and quiet hall – except for a tall man in black, sitting in the far corner at the piano. Leaning over the keyboard, the man absentmindedly fingered the keys, pulling out the notes one at a time. Zoe smiled at the metaphor that crossed her mind and turned around and headed there instead of the restaurant.

In the niche in which the piano was hidden, only one small lamp burned, giving a soft yellow-orange light. Falling obliquely on the keyboard and the lid, it snatched out of the half-light a man's back and shoulder, tightened in a classic black suit, the outlines of the profile and hands with large fingers.

Approaching, Zoe leaned on the piano and for a while, just stood listening to the music. Now, being near, she could finally understand what was wrong with this music – the stranger played skillfully and cleanly, but the melody, its very fabric, seemed... vulnerable and fragile as if the pianist was painfully remembering it or composing it on the go. Zoe watched as his hands gently touch the keys as if asking about something – and finding no answer.

‘You haven't played for a long time,’ she said softly.

‘Very long,’ he raised his head. For a moment, his face – beautiful, pale, with dark eyes and well-defined lips – remained relaxed. Then he brushed aside a straight strand of black hair that had fallen on his forehead and looked at Zoe. And then a strange expression appeared in his gaze – bewildered, amazed... looking. This happens with those who have met someone whom they have long lost hope of seeing. Zoe could bet that he was about to say something, but at the last moment, he resisted. He turned away again and continued to play.

‘My… teacher was pretty good,’ an ironic note slipped through his low voice, ‘but I'm afraid I’m lacking in practice. What do you think?’ The stranger again raised his eyes to Zoe.

‘I like your manner,’ she said carefully. ‘Have you just arrived?’ she asked for some unknown reason.

‘Yes, yesterday,’ said the man. ‘Always wanted to go to Venice,’ he added slowly. ‘To this... city of dreams.’

Zoe smiled involuntarily. Looking at his hands, which were still on the keyboard, she suddenly imagined with amazing clarity how fingers stroking the keys touch her skin. Imagined how they touch her neck, shoulders, pass along the shoulder blades, move to the waist, barely noticeable, but confidently increasing the pressure. Turning away, Zoe blinked.

The momentary rush of embarrassment, however, disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. What are you here for, Zoe, she asked herself. Not to sit in the room in the evenings with a glass of Tokaj and picture suffering, are you? Take a look at this piece of masculine beauty and make the most of what he promises. If he promises, of course.

‘ – at dinner tonight?’ Zoe woke up and looked at her interlocutor. Judging by his look, he was perfectly aware of what she was thinking and did not seem to mind. ‘If I understood correctly, there will be dances after dinner.’

Zoe nodded.

‘It's always like this here on Fridays. If you're looking for entertainment, there is hardly a better case,’ she said, looking him in the eye. ‘The season has just ended.’

The man silently shook his head.

‘I’ll come,’ he answered, standing up. He bowed graciously, intending to leave, and suddenly turned around. ‘What is your name?’

Again this strange seeking expression, a poignant mixture of despair and hope. And mockery – not at her, at himself.

‘Zoe Van Helsing,’ she said. Amazement flashed in his dark eyes but then disappeared.

‘Count Dracula,’ he said, shaking her outstretched hand. ‘See you at dinner, Zoe Van Helsing.’

***

For the upcoming evening, Zoe prepared carefully. After scrapping several spectacularly low-cut dresses, she settled on blue jeans and a light blue blouse. ‘If he is a real Count,’ her pride chuckled, ‘you will hardly be able to surprise him.’ Well, she didn't intend to.

‘I want to have a good time,’ Zoe muttered, glancing at herself in the mirror of an antique carved dressing table. She washed off the mascara from her eyelashes, which she diligently dyed five minutes ago, then, after short thinking, wiped a thin layer of lipstick from her lips. Zoe used makeup a little and only on special occasions, but it was not a lack of habit or awkwardness that made her get rid of it now. She could not explain to herself why, but she was sure that the best choice for meeting the Count was naturalness.

The hotel restaurant was unusually full: probably dancing inspired not only her, moving to one of the few free tables – at the exit to the terrace – Zoe thought. Sitting at the table and ordering a glass of Chianti, she turned her face to the light wind blowing from the ajar doors.

The bay shone in shades of blue, pink, and dove. Small waves broke up, catching the lighted lanterns. Zoe heard how music was born and tried its power in the hall. The wind became a little cooler. The waiter brought her Chianti.

She could have sat like that all evening, Zoe thought after the third or fifth sip. The music became louder and a little braver. Zoe decided that she might need more wine.

‘You promised me a dance.’

‘When did I?’ Zoe turned around.

Pause.

‘One hundred twenty-three years ago.’

She chuckled.

‘What a precision. And what a tactlessness!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

He was dressed in the same classic black suit as when they first met, and just like when they first met, she wanted this suit off him immediately. Zoe nodded to his questioning glance in the direction of the chair opposite and said, putting down her glass:

‘You just hinted at my age?’

‘No way,’ Dracula responded with mock horror. His eyes flashed with a mixture of irony and melancholy. ‘Never mind, this is... a personal joke.’

The orchestra fell silent behind them. One by one, the instruments stopped playing, as if they were disappearing into the shadows, yielding to the only remaining violin.

Zoe finished her wine. She felt like crying. Determination and frivolity vanished, and anger with herself remained.

‘I –’ she began, but Dracula interrupted her.

‘You promised me a dance.’

She watched him get up and walk over to her. Taking his hand, she rose and allowed him to lead her to a small dance floor in the opposite corner. She saw him making a sign to the musicians, heard the first chords sounded, then he pulled her to him and velvetly ran his hand along her back.

Everything floated somewhere: Venice, the damp smell of canals, a shade of raw plaster, which seemed to cover everything and everyone in this city, a draft coming from everywhere; pink-blue sky. Closed, sharply defined lips and dark, demanding eyes.

Music came from somewhere with dry clicks, crumbling on them beat by beat and measuring their steps. Piano – thunderstorm, monotonous rain, wet asphalt, water on San Marco. Pigeons flutter out from under her feet. Fractional flashes of droplets gather in puddles, a violin steps carefully over them, creeps in, displaces other sounds, and again remains alone. Freezes, kissing her forehead. And everything freezes with it.

...They took the elevator for ages. Squeezing his hand, Zoe watched the numbers change on the scoreboard on the wall. When the number three finally lit upon it, it seemed to her: a little more, and she simply could not stand it. They got to the room, and holding the key card to the door, she was surprised – it does not open until it dawned on her: not her suit. The door opened, closed behind her. Zoe leaned back on it, lifted her head.

Dracula leaned over to her and took her face in his hands. Zoe stood silently, motionless. Closing her eyes, she held her breath, feeling the touch of his lips, then – the tongue. Snuggling up to him, she grabbed him by the neck. He ran his hands over her body, finding, squeezed the nipples through the fabric. He pulled her blouse from the belt and ducked under it with his palm. Exactly how she fantasized... a long time ago... yes, this... afternoon. Twitching impatiently, Zoe swung her hips, her jeans button digging into his stomach. He pulled away, turning her, pressed her to the door again, tore off the button, zipper, and put his hand into her panties. Zoe buried her forehead against the door with a groan. His fingers caressed her harshly and roughly, without ceremony, tormenting her, not allowing her to escape. Zoe finished, breathing out a soundless scream.

Grasping her from behind, Dracula waited until she calmed down, turned her around, ran his fingers over her cheeks, erasing the lines of tears. He pulled her into the room, along with him, to the bed.

Lying on her back, Zoe listened to the disturbed world rebuilding within her body. She smiled at Dracula, who had time to put his clothes somewhere and bent over her. Now his touch was gentle, fleetingly teasing as if he was asking for forgiveness for the recent explosion. Zoe lifted herself up and slid into his arms – and gasped as he rolled onto his back, swapping them.

Zoe loved sex and found partners easily. Many of them were passionate and skillful. But she never really wanted to be on top. She shifted in embarrassment. She wasn't even sure she understood how...

She did not have time to think out the thought: grabbing her by the waist, Dracula slowly lowered her onto himself. And it was so good and... accurately, that Zoe bit her lip with acute pleasure. Dracula waited a couple more moments, lifted her, froze. Zoe frowned in bewilderment. He smiled and moved his hips. Once, twice. The third – slower, then faster, and in the same order – again. Arching, she trembled – and when his fingers found her clitoris, everything became unimportant, there were only moans and sighs in the darkness.

…

‘Would you like some coffee?’ Zoe asked. Dracula, hugging her with both arms and absentmindedly running his fingers over her stomach, shook his head.

‘I don’t drink... coffee,’ he replied, and there was distant anxiety in his voice. Zoe nodded nonchalantly as she climbed out of bed, wrapped her dressing gown, and walked over to the table.

‘It's cold,’ she said, looking into the coffee pot. Well, the coffee was brought in yesterday. She turned to Dracula, who was sitting on the bed. He was disheveled and looked at her in a strange way. ‘I'll order a new one.’ Stepping to the balcony, Zoe opened the glass door and breathed in the morning air.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dracula get up and approach her.

The sky was still gray, but somewhere in the distance birds were already awakening. Zoe turned to Dracula – and froze, bumping into a sharp, focused gaze.

He stood naked in front of her, and there was something very familiar about it – not because of last night, but different.

‘Sorry.’

He grabbed her with lightning speed, so that she did not have time to recoil or cry out, hugged her again – and something happened.

Zoe felt herself trembling and swaying, slipping and falling into an unknown direction. Everything blurred, and before her eyes flashed pictures – an iron grate, a torch thrown to the ground, the smell of burnt wool, a nun's dress, and blood. Swaying, salty air, captain at the helm, shouts, shadows on the deck, and another fire. An explosion, the smell of fresh gunpowder tickling her nostrils, a man's face distorted by rage bending over her.

Agatha recoiled, gasping for air, and finally screamed when she realized what he was doing.

‘Agatha, it`s over!’ Reality fell on her and struck from all sides at once, stunning. ‘That's all, Agatha!’ Dracula hugged her, holding her. She struggled, trembling, bursting into sobs. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated when she was exhausted and quieted down. ‘Sorry, I had to make sure.’

He let her go, and she, moving away, climbed onto the bed, huddled like a wounded animal. She wrapped herself tighter in her dressing gown, which miraculously still remained on her. She leaned back on the pillow and cried softly. Dracula silently sat down on the other side of the bed.

‘You survived,’ Agatha said without looking at him.

‘I did,’ said Dracula. ‘I just slept for a hundred and twenty years. Then I woke up and saw around... all this. But I liked it, you know.’

Agatha didn't answer. She didn't want details. She wanted to close her eyes and not open them for another hundred years.

‘How many have you eaten?’ she said dismissively.

‘Agatha, you worked at the research medical center,’ Dracula's voice sounded annoyed. ‘Do you know who the donors are? These are special people who donate blood, eggs, and sperm.’ He paused. ‘And there is Tinder, besides.’

Agatha felt her head begin to throb heavily.

‘How is this possible?’ she asked hoarsely. Turning, she looked at Dracula. Dracula didn't answer. ‘It’s the twenty-seventh of October two thousand and twenty,’ Agatha said with an effort. ‘I ate toast for breakfast. My blood type is the first negative. I don't like grapes and I love bananas. Last year I went to Islamabad. I remember the life of Zoe Van Helsing!’ she shouted; her voice rang out again.

Dracula was silent, and somehow that silence helped calm the storm that was raging inside her. Agatha looked around the room, looked at the bed, and at Dracula. She breathed in without a sound. Her body was still agitated, still keenly aware of what they were doing together. How could she do this – with him?

‘You remember the life of Zoe Van Helsing because you were her,’ she heard Dracula's voice. Agatha looked at him incredulously. ‘Her life was real. From the very first day. And at the same time, from the very first day, it was you.’

Getting up, Agatha walked to the balcony and leaned against the glass of the door. She frowned at Dracula.

‘It is believed that reincarnation,’ he said, ‘is always a new personality. In rebirth, a person begins a completely different life. And in most cases, apparently, it is. But it happens... it happens very rarely that the former personality turns out to be so strong that it displaces or does not let the new one in, and a conflict arises between them. I heard about this maybe two hundred years ago from some Arab doctor.

Agatha listened in silence.

‘The problem is,’ Dracula continued, ‘that two consciousnesses cannot get along in one human body. Such a split cannot last forever.’ He made a pause. ‘Have you ever been diagnosed with... what is it called now... cancer?’

‘Some years ago. I was in the hospital. Suspicion of leukemia,’ Agatha said in surprise. ‘Not confirmed. Zoe... I've seen the tests. But Z... I'm not an oncologist. I figured it was just a mistake. Someone confused the tubes.’

Dracula stared at her wordlessly.

‘Now, yes, that's a mistake,’ he said and stood up. In the split second after his words, something changed in his face and gaze, and in the room. Standing in place, Agatha watched him approach, stretches out his hands to her, opens her dressing gown. Already when he is very close, holding her between himself and the glass, raises her hips, and enters, she remembers that he is still naked.

Looking into her eyes, he pushes into her body, hard, rough, and deep. She has nowhere to go, not to hide, she should be disgusted and ashamed, she should be hurt, in the end, but she only moans and, shuddering, leans back.

The despair in his movements melts, smears out, he gets out of her, carries her to the bed. He enters again, leaning on his hands, continues, at the only point in contact with her. Agatha cums from this alone, and sweet spasms are still poured in her – while he lets her go, while he searches for his things, finds them, while dresses and, buttoned-up, walks to the door.

Agatha is unable to move, she feels at the same time heavy and light, but her thoughts and feelings are more clear than ever. She turns and holds out her hand.

‘Don't go.’

#dracula 2020 #dracula bbc #bbc dracula #count dracula #zoe van helsing #agatha van helsing #dragatha #fanfiction

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2manyfandoms2count · 3 years ago

Text

Four months later, my contribution for the @mlwritersguild April event! The prompts were the snake, ladybug, cat, ticket and treble emojis.

Note: I started writing this after Truth and Lie aired, and I tweaked it to be set after Gang of Secrets, but before the rest of the season; it's basically what I hoped would happen before all of the Ladynoir drama unfolded this season. I hope you'll enjoy this take!

Read on AO3

---

Of irony and trust

Sometimes, Ladybug liked to take a break and muse about how ironic life could be. The topic of such instances varied from I got grounded for skipping class and of all the places in Paris, the one I had to sneak out to because of a freaking Akuma happened to be the place I would have been in had I not been grounded in the first place to I’m the holder of a luck-associated divine artefact, yet out of two love letters and a constipation medicine prescription, guess which one ended in my crush’s hands .

Tonight’s boiled down to being caught stalking her ex-boyfriend (if they’d ever made it to the defining part of their relationship) in, granted, a fairly discrete manner, since she’d been transformed at the time, to check he was still doing okay after his akumatisation, and ending up not only being thanked for her concern and for saving him, but also being apologised to for falling for Shadowmoth's promises again, something which she still considered she’d been largely responsible for (even though Alya insisted that her secret had probably just been the metaphorical last straw, and that Luka would have broken down about truths sooner or later).

She sighed, looking into the sunset as she played with the two tickets Luka had offered her by way of thanks, wondering what she could, and should do with them.

In spite of everything, Marinette was bound to get one for herself any day now; Kitty Section were opening for Jagged Stone at the annual Bastille Day concert, a week from then, and if her friends didn’t invite her directly given the circumstances, there was a high chance that she’d get an invitation from Jagged himself to thank her for designing his latest album cover.

That being said, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to go. Watching Luka play on stage would only remind her of the fact that she couldn’t be in a relationship until all the Miraculouses were back in the box, even though it had felt amazing to be distracted from Miraculous matters for a bit.

Her mind wandered to Chat Noir, who was uncharacteristically late. She was faced with a very peculiar dilemma at the moment, one she could have used Master Fu’s wisdom to resolve; on the one hand, revealing her identity to Alya had been one of the best things to happen to her in a while. She felt a lot lighter, and it really made her wonder if sharing her identity with her partner would be such a bad idea. On the other hand, her mentor’s warning and her glimpse at an alternate reality where caution had seemingly been thrown to the wind still echoed in her mind like a tolling bell.

She knew Chat Noir trusted her, like she trusted him; a lot was left unsaid in their peculiar relationship, but that was something they’d never lie about - or at least she hoped so. She also knew that having revealed her identity to somebody who wasn’t her partner, and not even telling the latter about it, was a dangerous flame to play with. One maybe hanging out with him more, say, to start, at a concert, might help dampen ever so slightly.

It wasn’t like she could invite anybody else, and especially not Adrien, anyway…

An unfamiliar thunk, followed by a short skidding sound, startled her before she could reconsider her other options, and had her scrambling to her feet to assume a defensive stance, eyes darting around to find the source of the sudden interruption. Had somebody been Akumatised? What was their power? And where on Earth was Chat N-

“Sorry, don’t panic, Ladybug! It’s just me,” a voice sounded from slightly below her, drawing her attention to the edge of the rooftop, and to the lyre that appeared to have been thrown at her feet. The magical instrument made her shake off the thought that the voice had sounded a lot like her partner’s, and sure enough, instead of the black-clad superhero, it was a green-hooded one whose head emerged from the side of the building, slightly breathless from the climb.

“Adri-, I mean, Aspik?”

“Hey,” he hoisted himself up and brushed off some white dust from his suit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wasn’t expecting you to already be there,” he added sheepishly. “I thought I’d have time to recover from scaling the building.” He bent over, resting his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” She chuckled lightly at his pun. His humour was almost as good as Chat Noir’s. “You know that the lyre does enable you climb up things, though, right?” She smiled as she plucked a chord. A music staff appeared between them, and she demonstrated by starting to climb it, as if it were an elaborate staircase. The soft notes of a scale echoed around them as her feet landed on the lines.

As she turned towards him to gauge his reaction, she saw that he looked at her with something between fascination and mild annoyance.

“Chat Noir didn’t show you, did he?” she asked, jumping down and giving him the lyre back, a small blush dusting her cheeks.

“I’m not sure he knew himself,” Aspik muttered back.

“Right." She smiled tightly. "Miraculous powers was actually something I wanted to talk to him about tonight.”

“Ah. You weren’t expecting me, then, were you?”

Ladybug paused. She’d honestly forgotten about Chat Noir asking her if he could borrow the Snake Miraculous; it had happened right after Marinette had told Alya about being Ladybug, which had kickstarted a whole lot of research to ensure her friend was protected. She’d of course managed to make it to patrols physically, but even so, her mind had been a little elsewhere.

She just remembered Chat telling her that he might be busy in the upcoming weeks, but that he refused to leave her alone on patrols. She’d felt a little guilty about the comment and apologised yet again for the ones she’d missed, but her partner had brushed it off with a smile.

“Not really, no. But I’m very glad to have you here with me!” She poked his arm as playfully as she could muster, but his cocked eyebrows told her he wasn’t fooled in the least. “To be completely honest with you… I’m not sure who I was expecting.” She smiled sadly. “We haven’t exactly discussed bringing heroes back since most of our temps’ identities were leaked, so really, it could have been anyone new, or you, or…” She glanced down at her tickets again, and his eyes followed hers.

His understanding nod turned into an inquisitive look as her gaze darkened. She had to admit that she was relieved Viperion wasn't the one Chat Noir had chosen to replace him (temporarily, her partner was absolutely irreplaceable - she made a mental note to tell him as much again the next time she saw him) tonight; she wasn't sure she would've survived two surprise conversations with him in the same day. There was just too much guilt weighing on her heart when it came to him, although she hoped that time would eventually lessen it.

“Um, Ladybug?” Her companion probed.

“Yes?” She shook herself out from her guilt-ridden daze.

“Are you alright? You seem a little… troubled.”

“It’s nothing, really.” She tried to give him a convincing smile before sitting back down on the edge of the rooftop. When had it become so hard to act bubbly around Adrien? It was kind of nice not to be a blabbering mess for once, but she wished she could feel a little more upbeat.

“Sure? I’m here if you want to talk, you know; it’s kind of in my job description.” He sat down next to her and nudged her elbow.

“You have a job description?” One of her eyebrows shot up.

“Well, you know… It’s not because Chat Noir can’t be here tonight that he doesn’t want you to feel supported.”

“My sweet, thoughtful Kitty,” she shook her head with a smile, before sighing. She didn’t notice Aspik’s cheeks pinken, just under the fangs of his mask. “To be quite honest with you, I’m a little worried about him.”

“You are?”

Ladybug paused, uncertain whether she should continue or not. Aspik’s encouraging look helped her make up her mind. “It’s just something he said not too long ago… about only having fun when he’s with me.”

“Ah.” Aspik twiddled his thumbs.

“He brushed it off like it was a completely natural thing to say, but I still find it concerning.”

“I guess the wording isn’t very reassuring,” Aspik said cautiously. “It sounds worse than it probably is, though; he does, I mean, he must have friends, and he must have fun with them. Maybe… maybe you just caught him at a bad time?”

“I suppose it had been a pretty long day.” She pouted thoughtfully after a short pause. “But I don’t know, it scares me. I… Well, things haven’t been easy in my life either, especially lately, but there’s a part of me who’s afraid to tell him just in case… in case he really meant it. I really don’t want to spoil his fun.” She bit her lip, then shook her head with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” That was half a lie. Adrien was a friend she knew she could trust, one whose presence felt very comforting. Maybe the sunset was getting to her head, making her feel like they were above time and reality, but she almost believed that they were in a safe bubble.

“I really don’t mind, if you don’t. Miraculouses come with professional confidentiality anyway, right? Whatever you say will stay between us. I promise.” He smiled. Ladybug could tell it was genuine, but there seemed to be something brave about it, too, as if he were ready for a band aid to be ripped off. “What could you possibly tell him that would ruin his time with you?”

She looked at him lengthily, gauging him. “Firstly, I don’t want him to worry about me. And secondly…” She was about to tell him about sharing her secret identity with Alya (without naming names, of course), when the thought that if Chat wasn’t the first to learn this information, her guilt would deepen, crossed her mind. “Ugh, see? I’m doing it again, opening up about stuff that would concern him directly with other people, instead of telling him directly. I’m such a bad friend.” She put the tickets to one side and held her head in her hands.

“I don’t think you are.” She felt him pat her back tentatively. “Actually, you… You kind of remind me of one of my friends.” She peeked at him through her fingers; although his hand was still soothingly rubbing her shoulder blades, he was looking at the street below, a soft smile on his lips. “I think you know her, Marinette Dupain-Cheng? Anyway, she’s a really great person, but sometimes she makes mistakes, too. It’s alright, though, because she always means well. Like you.” He smiled at her, this time. She felt her cheeks warm as their eye contact lingered. “My point is,” he cleared his throat, “Chat Noir knows you, and trusts you, right? You just need to trust him.”

“I already do.”

“Then what are you risking? Is what you did really that bad?”

“Not in the grand scheme of things, I guess.” She paused. “I don’t think I had much choice, anyway. But even if I don't really regret what happened, I'm concerned that he won't understand why there are some things I can't open up to him, specifically, about.”

“Honestly, you'd be surprised at how much he'd be ready to let slide when it comes to your relationship," Aspik said quietly. "It's no secret how much he, erm… appreciates you."

"I love him very much, too," Ladybug whispered. "And that's why I don't want to see him hurt. Ever." Ever again , she thought. "And this… This will definitely hurt."

"Okay, but look at it this way: sparing him is an honourable reason to withhold information from him, but if you don't tell him what you can soon, it might end up hurting him even more, for instance, if he somehow learns about it from somebody else. Or, depending on how important that information is, he might feel hurt that you kept it from him for so long." He bit his lip and eyed his bracelet.

"You're right. I know you're right." She grunted and leaned back, looking at the swirling orange clouds. It reminded her of another warm sunset exchange she'd had, after spending an afternoon in what had felt like the coldest world ever. "It's just so difficult for me to wrap my head around, I can't imagine what it'll be like for him."

"You might have to give him a bit of time and space, then,” Aspik warned her. "But eventually I'm sure he'll come around."

“I hope so.” She sighed. Her yoyo beeped, signalling the end of patrol time. She hesitated to ignore it; Adrien had proven to be a very enjoyable partner - not that she’d doubted he’d be when he’d shown up, really, but something about talking about Chat Noir had helped her keep a rather level head with him. She knew she had to head back, though. She wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to remain coherent if they switched topic, something she felt like they'd need to do soon if she didn't want to say too much, and beyond that, she had an important essay to outline and write for the next day. “Well, I think that’s our cue. Thank you for keeping me company tonight.” She smiled, pushing herself up and holding a hand out for Aspik. He took it and she helped him up.

They stood facing each other for a bit, smiling, unsure about how to properly end the patrol. It wasn’t like they could walk each other home, really. A small gust of wind ruffled the tickets which still lay on the ground, under one of Ladybug’s feet.

“Oh, hey, you’re forgetting this.” Aspik bent down to retrieve them and handed them to her.

“Right, thanks.” She looked down. Their discussion had boosted her confidence regarding talking to Chat, but she still didn’t know who to give her second invitation to. If she gave it to anyone.

“Who’s the second ticket for?” He nodded towards her hands, as if reading her mind.

“I was actually trying to figure it out before you arrived.” She smiled. “I kind of feel like I should gift it to you as thanks for being so great. Tonight! Just tonight, of course. Although I’m sure you’re just as great every single day,” she winced at her awkwardness. “But you’re going to be there anyway, aren’t you? And on stage.”

“If I can even make it. My schedule’s been a little all over the place lately.” His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second as he toyed with his bracelet, before lighting up again so fast Ladybug thought she’d dreamt it. “But I think you and I both know who you should give this to.” He gave her a pointed look. “I think it would be a great way to butter your partner up before delivering whatever bad news you’re withholding from him.” He winked.

“Very smart. And very practical. You know, you’re a lot like Chat Noir, actually. It’s a compliment,” she added quickly as she saw him tense up.

“Well, I sure hope so, my Lady,” he chuckled. The words sounded foreign, and yet right, in the hooded boy’s mouth.

“What… what did you say?” She gaped.

“I'm obviously not used to this Miraculous, I accidently activated it when I played with it. It doesn't happen with the ring, you see." He smiled and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly as she looked on, slightly bewildered. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you won't remember any of this, but since we're here... I’d be happy to find a way to join you at the concert, my Lady." He bowed and kissed her hand. "It was lovely chat-ting with you tonight, I'm not sure I'm looking forward to what you have to tell me, but you know what? Thank you for the heads up.” He straightened up and squeezed her hand in his. "I'll be waiting for your call, after we're really done with our conversation." He placed his other hand on his wrist, and Ladybug's hand immediately flew to it, eyes almost feverish in the setting sun.

“Adrien, I mean, Aspik, Chat , wait-”

He paused, looking at her expectantly.

"Why?" Her question came out as softly as the hand that was suddenly cupping his cheek. "Why pretend you couldn't come tonight?"

"I had a couple of things I felt like maybe getting off my chest, if I got the opportunity.” He shrugged, leaning into her touch. “I just wanted to make sure I could backtrack if I made a mistake.”

“Oh." Ladybug gulped, and looked down. "Chaton, I... I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me about your own problems.” Her piercing gaze met his again as she ran her thumb along the edge of his mask. “If something’s burdening you, I’ll be more than happy to help carry the weight. You can trust me, you know that?”

“I already do my Lady.” He winked at her and kissed the palm of her hand quickly before touching his bracelet again. “Now, I don't trust you not to be mad if I run out of time, though."

"Yeah, I don't think I'd be ready to let that slide just yet." Her eyes twinkled in the dusk light.

"In that case... Second chance.”

#miraculous ladybug #the miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #ml #mlb #miraculous fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #ladrien #snekbug #ladybug #aspik #adrien agreste #ladynoir #chat noir #elle writes

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meyeselph · 3 years ago

Text

Gwenpool: Desperate Misanthrope's Confused Angst

Showtime

Ms. Pool woke up in a familiar room. Not in Krakoa - there are no mutants around. This isn’t a story about that. Look, honestly, without an actual Gwenpool series and the constant breaks in her comics appearance I can’t even begin to give a fuck. I cancelled my marvel universe subbie. I might get back to my stories but single issues are iffy. I read fast and don’t pore over the artwork. So I get 10 minutes of entertainment for….FIVE DOLLARS? When did this happen? Jeezus.

Who even reads comics anymore?

Anyway, long story short, Gwen got out of bed and recognized the room as her old one from the “old times.” The dark times. The ‘not running around in pink and white outfits and shooting people’ times. She panicked (Been there. It is what it is though). The only way out of trauma is through.

She dressed in old clothes, immediately hit by old smells, she couldn’t help but cry. Was it all a dream? Have I gone insane (again)? All the usual self doubts cropped up. I mean, really, if you think this kind of thing didn’t pass through her mind regularly why don’t you transport yourself to a comic book universe?

Oh, you can’t?

Oh. It isn’t actually possible for you and I’m stupid for suggesting it. So, yeah. If it actually happened and you kept that attitude then the logical assumption for a normie is a mental breakdown. Trick for Gwen, though, is it's probably always been both real and her being nuts.

So she goes downstairs to the kitchen to figure out why this is happening and Evil Gwen is having cereal. Let's say cocoa puffs. I’ve been thinking about those recently. You ever remember cereal as something worth cherishing. Not as just bullshit that TV convinced you to want? God damn, now I want Cookie Crisp. Cookie Crisp wasn’t even ever that good. Why do I want Cookie Crisp?

So also sitting around the table were the faceless versions of her father, mother, and her brother. Just chilling. No BD. Seen Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind?

Yes, I know that references aren’t jokes - fuck you, I’m painting a picture and I CAN’T PAINT, THAT’S WHY THIS ISN’T A COMIC. Fucks sake. Anyway. So, Gwen is so creeped out that she just sits her butt down by Evil Gwen as if she’s the comforting presence here.

Her name’s too long. Let’s call Evil Gwen uh…….Gren. You know, like Grendel from Beowulf. I haven’t actually read Beowulf and this is all a little confusing but I'm solving problems here. Writing this is harder for me than you would think so it’s best to keep things flowing off the cuff. That’s the Gwenpool™ style anyway, isn’t it? Are you laughing yet? IMPROV. “YES AND” MY SHIT, READER!

“So, you ever really look into the retconned past thing, hun?” Gren said, moving her tongue around her food. Being gross as an attempt to be properly evil. She swallowed before continuing. “This is all I could really put together on short notice but i’m pretty sure what the future people created, all that stuff to try and trick you, it was all bullshit.”

“What do you mean? Are you trying to convince me to go all psycho like you again?” Gwen asked, exasperated, realizing she was now back in the whole ‘fuck with Gwen to decide her fate’ song and dance routine from the end of her first arc.

“Nah, not really.” Gren said. A hammer appeared in her hands out of nowhere and Gren swung it into their fake father’s head, snapping his neck..

“DAD!” Gwen instinctively cried as she saw her father’s body slump to the floor. Gren slapped Gwen’s face. “That’s it,” Gren said, “this is what the trick was.This is a poorly created character in a fictional story. Meant to manipulate you into attaching your concept of “father” to it. Even his finished version in the original comics run wasn’t THAT well drawn. Your dad read like a boomer’s idea of a responsible parent. You were going through a mental crisis and struggling to find purpose in life and his genius idea was get a shitty low paying job and suck it up?”

Gren turned to their brother, pushed his face to the table and smashed the back of his skull. . “Brother dearest, too. Going right along with their victim blaming. He gaslighted you as if what you were going through was just you being ‘irresponsible.’ Bitch, people working a minimum wage job aren’t somehow not impoverished and miserable because they get some of that ‘honest work’ that folks keep badgering on about. Minimum wage work is occupied by many physically and mentally disabled people held hostage; they’re people society only pretends to care about. Then they turn it all into you acting like some world ending threat. No questions about what drove you to the edge in the first place. You are just ‘unstable,’ so you’re just a problem to be solved. They say, ‘Let’s all solve this girl being upset and on edge by ruining her concept of self, reality, and memory.’ Brilliant!”

Gwen barely processed this in horror. Gren then slit the poor facsimile of their mother’s throat while continuing to rant, “You see people die all the time, Gwen. Half of the time you are doing the killing. You do it because it’s in a story. In a story the NPCs don’t matter and, after all, your original schtick in the story was to be kill-crazy. The non-marketable characters can be replaced or retconned at the stroke of the artist’s pen.” Gren leans forward as she pulls a Gwenpool mask over Gwens face. “Then the writers convince you that you have some middle class milk toast family and you take abuse and subsume your emotional needs because the problem MUST be you. You aren’t ‘normal’ so you have to be fixed.”

Gwen wiped her eyes over the mask and sighed. A bit of fire filled her gut as she stared at Gren. “So fucking what? You want me to go on a killing spree and be a big time villain to get myself a nice, shiny permanent big bad status? That’s how I stay around right? Just build my legacy on bodies?”

Gren scoffed “You already lost that fight, girly. Where do you think we are? Because this ain’t Marvel Comics.”

Confused, Gwen blinked and tried reaching for the page margins, finding nothing. Wait….why was everything on this page so ill defined and undetailed? Wait? Why was the story in kinda wobbly third person past tense?

Gwen sighed “Oh. I’m in a fanfic. I guess the publishing fight is for another day eh?”

“My advice, personally,” Gren stated, “is that you consider the lobster.”

“Wait, what the fuck?”

Gren pulled aside the kitchen curtains revealing the face of a giant lobster, its claws tapping on the glass. The lobster muttering gutterally about personal responsibility.

“Because there’s a couple thousand giant lobsters outside that would like to claw you until you read their book.”

Scared of Girls

On the rooftop, Gren shoved a high powered rifle into Gwen’s hands while she handled the close range threats. So, this conversation they’re about to have is important. Sniping puts Gwen into a sort of zen space, so that’s a better task to keep her focused, after all.

“So, what? You wanted me to internalize that my “origin story” is bullshit? Okay, what does that accomplish, then?” Gwen asked in a bit of a deadpan. She was so tired today. Not really feeling her happy go lucky energy. More like a “happy go fucky” energy. It was hard to always be on a knife's edge. Still the rifle’s kick into her shoulder was satisfying as she blew through two of the creepy looking lobsters at once. “Also, why the lobsters?”

Gren considered this. “Okay, last question first, I had to experiment a lot and do a lot of research to construct this place for your learning and healing in fanfic form....These buddies are a failed experiment of mine that I repurposed because the fic needed more action. Isn’t that right, giant enemy crap?” As she peppers the nearest goon with a hail of shotgun pellets the entire throng of them burst out, sharply muttering about divine symbols.

“As for what I'm trying to teach you, it’s that you aren’t reaching your potential.” Gren grumpily huffed.

“Duh,” Gwen reloads, “I mean you just killed a mannequin version of the voice in my head that says that to me every day.” one of those crustaceans talks about feminine symbolism while she decides on her next target.

“Not like fake daddy’s ‘Be a responsible member of society by paying your taxes’ type of potential. I mean your creative and emotional potential.” Gren flipped off the slavering throng of monsters, noticing they were starting to keep their distance from the roof.

“I never did finish that fanfic idea I had.” Gwen mused.

“God, don’t mention that,” Gren thrusts a finger at Gwenpool. “Not that I don’t respect fanfic, but when comic book writers make you and Kamala squee about fanfiction to try and relate to “the kids” it comes across as so condescending.”

“Really? I mean…..I'm sure it’s meant as support for the concept?”

“Most fucking superhero comics are just legalized fanfiction! The people who created the characters are either long gone or working on someone else’s characters! They just think they are so much better because they got fucking paid. They can’t imagine themselves as on the same playing field as fanficcers even though most of them have the same level of connection to the roots of the work as anyone else.” Gren groused loudly as she seemed to pull Reed Richards out of nowhere.

Confused, Reed looked around until his eyes met Gwen’s.“Oh great, you again.” Reed groaned as he turned to survey the piles of lobster gibs while Gwen cheered the lobster forces’ retreat with a resounding “EDF, EDF!”. The scattered creatures skittered amongst the bland scenery. It looked like a suburban neighborhood but someone forgot to color in the sky….or write that the sky had color. A castle hung out in the distance breaking up the generic normalcy and lay cloaked in shadow despite being surrounded by an endless white void.

“And…..black….you?” Reed pointed to Gren, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I have an evil future self….well I stopped that future so it’s an….evil...alternate timeline self?” Gwen said with a nervous chuckle, abandoning the kill quest for the minute and rested her rifle on the roof.

“Ah. Yeah I’ve been down that road. It’s a rather common occurrence. Multiverse being what it is.” Reed laughed heartily while putting his hands on his hips.

“I’m not sure I’m evil, honestly,” Gren interjected. “I think I’m just really fucking grumpy and I’m slightly more gung-ho on the homicide. Considering Gwen’s already one of the more kill crazy characters on the roster it’s not that much of a distinction.” Gren flipped her cape. “My main distinction is I don’t like that meme from The Incredibles! You can just make it so the cape detaches automatically when it’s pulled hard enough!”

“You could still have it tangled up around your face.” Reed pointed out in his standard know-it-all fashion.

“Don’t make me go into fuck wife mode, stretch.” Gren spat. “Okay, anyway, so I brought him here to illustrate a point. Reed. Explain particle physics to me as a laymen.”

“Huh...i’m not sure why but okay. Particle physics (also known as high energy physics) is a branch of physics that studies the nature of the particles that constitute matter and radiation. Although the word particle can refer to various types of very small objects (e.g. protons, gas particles, or even household dust), particle physics usually investigates the irreducibly smallest detectable particles and the fundamental interactions necessary to explain their behaviour. In current understanding, these elementary particles are excitations of the quantum fields that also govern their interactions. The currently dominant theory explaining these fundamental particles and fields, along with their dynamics, is called the Standard Model. Thus, modern particle physics generally investigates the Standard Model and its various possible extensions, e.g. to the newest "known" particle, the Higgs boson, or even to the oldest known force field, gravity.” Reed rattled this off rather mechanically.

Gren then took out her phone and showed Gwen the Wikipedia article on “Particle Physics,” which is naturally the same words that Reed had regurgitated above, just without any formatting and, again, on a phone.

“Reed can’t be a genius in any subject unless he’s written by a genius in that subject. That’s how stories work. Everyone is limited by the understanding and capabilities of the writer. Same with your origin story and all the people you’ve interacted with. If you are as ‘meta’ as you think you are then you have to realize that you aren’t actually talking to people. You are talking to the writer. Dr. Strange didn’t rewrite your existence to be a part of the Marvel Universe. As far as most of Marvel continuity goes Dr. Strange was never there and doesn’t know or care about his MCU casting…..Hey Reed, buzz off please before the conversation pivots to why you haven’t cured all known diseases.”

Reed looked a little surprised but then pulled out a teleportation device (of course he has one) and blipped away with a shrug.

“How awkward is that going to be when he enters the MCU after Kamala is already introduced with a very similar power set?” Gwen chuckled.

“Keep up the way you’ve been going and you’ll never see it. I’m not exactly expecting a young blonde girl casting call for Deadpool 3 and that’s your best bet.” Gren snarked. Gwen winced with a sigh.

“I don’t get what I'm doing wrong. I have a fanbase comparable to some of the characters that have already shown up but I can’t even get comics written about me most of the time. An MCU push seems unlikely. They would literally have to deal with completely recontextualizing my powers and gimmick”

“Let’s ask her what you should do.” Gren motioned her way to the suddenly appearing long hair future Gwen, looming over them like The Attack of the 50 foot Woman for some reason. Dwarfing the roof they are on. Let’s call her BIGwen!

Gold Guns Girls

As BIGwen acclimated to her surroundings she stubbed her toe on a car, dramatically flipping it so that it took out a few more lobsters before caving in a nearby house. The lamentations about clean rooms soaring as the remaining couple dozen of them attempt to clean up some of the bodies of their fallen kin. The large and sort-of-in-charge Gwen hissed in pain and adjusted her boot. Getting her balance as best as possible she muttered curses that traveled rather well considering the lung capacity of a giant.

“You know,” Gren started, “I wasn’t expecting much from our previous uses of the ‘make her big for emphasis’ trick, but it really does only work as a vague ghostly background element. I didn’t just want it to be ‘oh, here's a third Gwen for the conversation, though. Would lack umph.”

“ Yeah, I get it, but staring at my own giant taint is unsettling.” Gwen muttered.

“I’d still, hit it.” Gren grinned, then immediately got punched in the arm. “OWWW! Look, I’m the evil one here and we’re in a fanfic. I’m allowed to make internet fetish jokes.”

“And I’m allowed to hit you for it.”.

“Dirty lampshading goody two shoes. Don’t act like half your fanbase isn’t thirsty. It’s “insert current year argument”, all art is sexy to someone.” Gren complained back,rubbing her arm before hopping off the roof. Gwen followed while listening as patiently as she could considering how many changes in topic her evil-caped self is going through to get to her point. “This chick is the reason you’ve been on the path of good girl. Some vague idea that in the future everything will work out for the best. HEY, DOWN HERE, BIG SHOW!” Gren waved at BIGwen and she looked down curiously.

“Yeah what??” BIGwen responded in a booming and agitated tone. Honestly, being in this fic made every version of Gwen a little grumpy.

“How’s she supposed to be a popular hero that makes it into the MCU and has a stable publication history?” Gren asked.

“Fuck if I know.” Came BIGwen’s response. “Have you tried growing your hair out?”

“Rub it in,” Gwen muttered under her breath, “I’m not gonna lie, I’m kind of depressed now.” Gwen said as she sat on an abandoned car.

Gren hopped on the roof of the car, patting Gwen’s shoulder before squatting with enough force to flex the car’s shocks like a rocking chair just to amuse herself. “Future “good” Gwen wasn’t an actual plot point, it was a call to action to the fans to make fanfic like this and support the character outside of the actual Canon. Chris didn’t trust that Marvel would treat the character right. That, and your obsession with getting a new book, are both the writer’s attempt to turn a marketing tactic into fan engagement. If you want to be real then that makes the fans want you to be real even more, too.”

Gwen sighs heavily and leans her chin on one hand. “I mean...the time traveling through the life of an NPC fan complete with a Never Ending Story reference was a bit sappy even by the standard we sometimes set...damn it it really was just kind of a fan manipulation trick wasn’t it?”

BIGwen Sat down on the street next to them and crossed her legs. “Hey, little me. Don’t get too down. I mean it worked for the most part. You have a healthy cult following. Characters have survived on less and there are worse things to be known for then as a fan first character”

“But I have to fight for attention all the damn time, though. It’s so easy for Wade with his fucking meme bullshit. He even gets runoff enthusiasm from me. Jeff the land shark is all over Oldpool online” Gwen felt rather heavy and tired all of a sudden. Marvel editorial forcing a gun to your head is not a fun way to be.

“All that fight is hell on the fanbase too.” Gren sighed. “Advocating for shit, getting crumbs and being expected to accept it while Disney lavishes all the attention based on some bullshit numbers game. Even if you make it into the MCU will it be a Batroc style cameo with obligatory ‘killed off in case we don’t feel like paying the actor again later.’ Will it be an emotionally rounded character or an ambush bug style joke? The thing is. You're Not the one fighting and you never were.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

“This version of her doesn’t know?” BIGwen whimpered.

“You aren’t real, Gwen.”

Head Like a Haunted House

“No….we aren’t having this conversation. Fuck you fuck you i’m not a fucking Nihlist and i’m not going to do this right now.” Gwen said as she scrambled off of the car and pulled out some guns. BIGwen then picked her up off the ground.

“You need to hear this, Gwen,” BIGwen boomed. “The gimmick has run its course. It’s fucking with your canon. You’re never going to be a marketable character keeping up a half fourth-wall Kayfabe”

Gren climbed onto BIGwen’s Shoulders and perched over Gwen all menacing like. “You need to listen. I’ve been trying to ease you into this. Making things more meta slowly until you were ready but it was never going to be easy.”

One of Gwen’s guns was fired from it’s holster and pierced one of BIGwen’s fingers. BIGwen screamed and her grip loosened. Soon Gwen was on the move running up her arm and firing at Gren, who dodged like the nimble and cute badass she is. “Don’t do this Gwen. Just because it doesn’t matter to the comic version of you doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m a real person god damn it! I read the comics out there! I came in! That’s why I know shit I shouldn't know. That’s what I am! THAT’S ALL I AM!” Gwen shrieked as she pulled out a sword from hammer-space and decapitated BIGwen. Suddenly a mess of colored streamers and a pile of Mickey Mouse merch tumbled out. Look, I am busy right now. Gwen is still slashing at my ass. I'm not going to explain it.

For some reason now the remaining lobsters were helping Gren. For Gwen’s own good you understand. This is proof that I’m right for some reason.

Gwen pulled out a revolver, firing pumpkin sized holes in lobsters who were still wailing about self actualization. She fully planned on shoving a sword up her evil self’s ass and getting rid of this doppelganger shit for good. Which is total bullshit by the way. She totally just cut off Gren’s leg because what the fuck you mean I’m not real? I’m going to be real all over your corpse.

Gren didn’t really think that was even a good comeback and also thought you should probably say it instead of meta willing the smack talk into existence, otherwise this fanfic is going to read like trash. Also, Gren’s leg wasn’t actually cut off. In a puff of smoke it is revealed that the cut off leg is a log and her leg is fine. Gren is a ninja now, believe it.

Gwen proceeded to do a sick ass CQC judo throw on Gren and then grab her cape and wrap it around her face like Reed suggested. Callbacks for the win! Callbacks to Checkov’s gun ideas always lead to victory in fights! She then totally shot at her and such.

But the bullet was caught by the cape because the cape was a symbiote! That’s right Gren is also GRENOM!...boy that sounds stupid. Anywho, the cape was no longer around her face and the fight continued and Gren now ALSO had extra powers and special wizard-symbiote armor (that would only show up in the MCU version if Marvel finally got the Sony characters back). The meta powers work like shit in text but this would be really good in CGI or animation if Marvel wanted to adapt this fic and give the writer lots of money. Gren still has more experience with them, though, and Gwen can’t really just kill her way out of this fic so she has to just let the story play out.

…...eh?....oh Gwen’s crying. I love/am you girl but we gotta work on the crying. Fucks sake this is harder than I thought. I’m depressed now too. Well I'll try to get the writing back on track so you guys can see what is going on. Even the lobsters are minding their manners now. Chill vibes, guys.

“The marvel character page for Gwenpool says, and I quote:

Gwenpool arrived in the Marvel Universe from the “real world,” but has wasted no time in making the most of her time in her fictional universe. Using her knowledge of comics to her advantage, Gwenpool causes and solves problems for her fellow heroes.”

Gren drags a lobster corpse slowly toward Gwen and sits on its tail as she talks to her. Taking her time to really scrape the lobster against the ground, smearing the gore on the pavement. Not that it was heavy for her or anything. Totally still has that symbiote, which would make moving it easy. Totally wasn’t a detail added in the second revision of the fic slightly before the lobsters were added.

“The words “Real world” are in quotation marks in that wiki. Real people don’t make it into comics because fiction isn’t real. Half of your versions barely make use of the ‘real person’ gimmick because it’s too meta by half and not every writer wants to waste time justifying it. So they just treat it like Deadpool’s medium awareness. Which it mostly is.”

“I really am just a fucking rip off distaff character.” Gwen moans. “Just a Gwen combined with a Pool. I’m worse than the Batman who laughs. I never mattered because I was never real”

“Fuck don’t say that. You were made with love and care by a team of creators who took a weird offshoot idea and built out a compelling metafiction idea and a likeable protagonist off of it. They just didn’t have the time and foresight to go far enough.” Gren sighed.

“Far enough?” Gwen sniffed as she was pulled up to her feet and dragged toward one of the big castles. As they walked Gren kicked along a Mickey Mouse doll that had rolled out of BIGwen’s severed head. Every time it bounced it cheerfully said ‘hahah. I love you!’

“Too much haha, not enough trauma. You’re not just a joke character.” Gren said as she kicked the Mickey doll into the big front door of the castle. The shadowy thing of course lighting up and being all fantasy and shit as the door opened.

“Well I did end both of my comic runs pretty mopey.”

“Damn right you did. When the jokes run thin they run to your real bread and butter. You’re an empathy machine.” As Gren shoves Gwen through the gate they are swallowed up in the castle, going dark again. “Let’s getcha sad clown on.”

Never there

“See, what evil me should have been telling you about in the original run is how to find meaning and purpose when technically nothing means anything. Comic book characters live in a world without real death and suffering. It’s all a puppet show version of real pain and real emotion meant to bring that out of an audience.” Gren opined as they walked through a black void to a couch floating in a nothing area lit only by the static of an old TV.

“Can we turn on a light?” Gwen asked as she sat on the couch. Gren sat on another recliner that suddenly appeared and put her feet up.

“Fuck off. Ambiance is a thing. We aren’t having a ‘lights on with something fun on the TV’ conversation. So look, I am not really ‘evil gwen.’ I’m half an author insert and half a plot device. If we are talking about the reality of the story you are basically talking to yourself. I am speaking about the things you don’t want to admit to yourself. You know, you’ve seen this kind of story sorta... right?” Gren picked up the remote and frustratedly changed channels between a bunch of vaguely illustrative footage on the TV, not finding anything that worked. A lot of black and white footage of trains for some reason. Just what comes to mind when I think of documentary footage? Weird.

“I am not sure how to illustrate this shit visually and this is a text story anyway so I would have to explain the illustration,” Gren griped.

“I basically get it. It’s not that uncommon a trope.” Gwen nodded.

“Because of the level of meta we are on right now we have to really acknowledge that you are basically an author insert, too. I mean, to a certain extent every version of you is more the writer that is working with your character at the time than a set character.” Gren said as she settled on a visual of Gwen being pushed out the window by her own narration text in the original comic run. When all else fails, resort to footage from the last story. That way people can look it up online!

“Right here is where the character crystallized in the mind of the author of the current fic we are in. A vague suicide metaphor wrapped up in the flavor of self destructive escapism. Your parents in the story thought it was a suicide attempt on at least some level. This is serious business. Not just a girl who doesn’t like work and can’t finish her fanfic. In this comic you are built on this understanding. The writer of this fic has ADHD and autism. So his version of you more or less has it, too. Writers bring themselves with them into their work.”

Gwen nods and takes a deep breath. “I….I can feel it. Like the world is closing around you. You aren’t built for anything that anyone wants from you. The one thing you really believe in, the one thing that really defines you, the stories in your head…..it’s just not enough.

You can’t trust you’ll ever make it with writing because you can barely write. You barely have the energy to do anything but wish that you weren’t you. What if someone actually listened? Actually believed in you and whisked you away somewhere else where the world would fit your needs? What if you were someplace you could be someone else, someone strong and confident?”

“Yeah. Like a funny anti hero in a comic for instance.” Gren nodded. “But the original comics sort of left the theme on the table. They were captured by the misconception of Gwen as the problem and not a person who needed help. All that desperation that real fans of the character might feel just bundled up into love for this character that really ‘gets’ them but Marvel doesn’t ‘get’ the character. They won't use her. They won’t go past vaguely gesturing at her mental issues and moving on. They saved the angst for Wandavision.” Gren scoffs.

“I mean the show was okay but they literally have a character built entirely on the theme of escapism and trauma. One that’s custom built for mind-screw visuals and reality bending plots and they think she’s just a lazy fangirl who really likes guns that they can sit beside Deadpool sometimes and stick in the X-Men’s bloated background character roster when they don’t need her.”

Gren leads Gwen off the couch and deeper into the void where a door to a bedroom waits. A room like her own, absolutely slopping over with old toys of comic book characters. An unclean messy space in a run-down house that smells faintly of cigarette smoke. Huddled in bed, reading an 80s era X-men comic with a flashlight, is a 12 year old Gwen.

“This is never going to be canon but this is the version of Gwen in this fic. She can’t stop crying at school. Things that shouldn’t be hard are so hard and she can’t explain why. Everyone says she’s making excuses. Meanwhile her mother is fucked out of her mind on pain killers and her step father killed himself last year ‘cleaning his gun’ while drunk. You know exactly what is on her mind right now?” Gren says as she gestures at the girl.

“I wish the superheroes would save me from this.”

“They won’t. They can’t. They were never meant to.” Gren Slams the door loudly on the scene.

“That is the emotional core of Gwenpool in this fic. The desperation that so many of the fans down here in the fucking muck of the real world feel. Poor and emotionally unfulfilled. Confused and vulnerable. If Disney and Marvel gave two fucking shits about people like that they wouldn’t waste as many stories as they do. They wouldn’t just use untold wealth to make expensive escapist stories with the military. Their gestures toward progressive ideas that they occasionally make in their stories would be THE ENTIRE POINT of their stories and the actual thing they used that money for instead of lobbying the government to keep Mickey Mouse out of the public domain.

“Disney has the power yet they save a fucking miniscule fraction of who they could. Saving people doesn’t make money.”

When I Get To The Green Building

Gren stormed through the void. The scene disintegrated around her as Gwen followed. Both now in a bit of a sour mood but with newfound determination.

“Come to think of it. Why is the fucking Hulk getting to fight for social justice in the comics? Why are they making a gay alternate universe Captain America? Why are they grasping at straws so hard to find characters that get to advocate and I am just sitting on a fucking island being grumpy?” Gwen groused. “I’m pretty sure I’m pansexual….at least in this fic. I could advocate for a bunch of shit at once.”

“You have a youth fanbase, a unique story and you technically aren’t an alternate universe version of fucking anything no matter how many people still think you are a Stacey. They made a fucking ‘for the fans’ character and then neglected it. Presumably because some fucking money making metric didn’t pan out despite the comics just being an MCU test kitchen and IP farm anyway.”

“You’re a fucking check mark on a ledger. I don’t even know if anyone technically created Gwenpool as a whole and Disney/Marvel can give the character to whoever they want to do whatever they want completely separate from what the fanbase wants and needs because she isn’t established. The IP landlords have spoken. The fans haven’t risen to enough ‘buy my merch’ calls to action to invest more resources. So tease endlessly until that changes.”

“Gah. Now I'm actually as pissed as you are.” Gwen said as she started fiddling with her guns. “Who do I kill?”

“We can’t do shit. You’re not even a character at this point. You are a meme for an underused character.” Gren smirked all evil like. “See but that’s it. You aren’t just a meme. You’re a MEME.”

“Uhm...I don't follow.”

“Like the concept of Justice. Gwenpool is an idea. Defined entirely by how people who engage with the idea choose to engage with it. The IP law means Disney owns Gwenpool but they don’t own how Gwenpool is perceived. Just like we as a people decide what justice is through popular consent we also decide what Gwenpool is. You see they made a character for the fans…..in my opinion that means the fans can do as they like with it even if it makes Disney uncomfortable.”

“I mean they can’t even stop porn of their characters just because of the sheer volume of the problem. I suppose people could do whatever.” Gwen nodded.

“Exactly. So the fans should just fucking Occupy Gwenpool!” Gren said as she flipped her cape dramatically with a mad smile on her face. That’s right. She was Dirtbag Leftist Gwen all along!

“Squat on that IP. Make Gwenpool a mental health advocate. Make her an LGBTQ activist. Make her fight for social and financial justice so hard that Bruce Banner looks like a poser. Make her talk shit about politicians who put their career ahead of the people. Do all the shit that makes the comicsgate crowd sad. Keep politics in our stories! Rally around that pink and white ass so hard they have to notice and then tie it all to the fact that Disney has great power and with great power they take no responsibility for how shitty the world is.”

“ If they are going to fuck Gwenpool fans they gotta learn Gwenpool fans fuck back. We have already proven we can make all kinds of cool shit. Let’s get serious and make more, harder, faster! Get a hashtag or some shit. They can't DMCA all of us! GWEN IS OURS WE JUST HAVE TO REACH OUT AND TAKE IT. Then they either respect the character and her fans or they just hit a PR disaster.”

“Marvel/Disney neglects fan focused cult character themed protest movements. Proves they are only progressive when it makes them money. They’re so worried about Mickey ending up in the public domain? We’re the public domain! After our entire lives stannin their characters and buyin their merch building them from an animation house into a juggernaut they are just another weight on top of the boot on our necks. They have to take responsibility!” At this point Gren is pretty much ranting maniacally and neglecting the actual writing of the story so this is Gwen taking over to wrap up.

Guys I may not be ‘the real Gwen’ but really, isn’t the version of Gwen that actually came from the real world all of us? Isn’t Gwenpool really the Gwens we made along the way? We could easily bring a little heroism and chaos to the real world (at least to the internet) if we really tried. Put the fear of God into some IP landlords and fight for some cool people that society is screwing over, too.

Prove that even in the fandom abyss people aren’t as powerless as they seem. Use that internet comic fan mobbing for something besides giving Zack more money. Disney is gearing up for their next IP fight for Mickey in 2024. Seems like a fine time for IP themed protests. For now we just need to spread the word that our needs are more important than their profits.

It’s been real. It’s been long. It’s been a real long time coming…..

But I finally finished my fanfic.

See ya, true believers.

#gwenpool #fanfic #deconstruction #outofloveiswear #fortheoriginalwritersnotmarvelordisney #tw mental health #tw mentions of suicide #tw mentions of drug abuse #tw violence #tw gun violence

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inquisitorre · 3 years ago

Text

Upon reread, I worried this rule could be a little confusing, so I decided to make a comprehensive list of what, exactly, your muse should know about Pikachu. This is sorted into three categories:

1) Total strangers or those who only know of him through word-of-mouth 2) Those who’ve met him, are close to someone who’ve met him, or have a friend-of-a-friend connection with someone who once met him 3) Close personal friends, family, or frequent partners during his investigations

This list will be updated as the blog progresses and more canon-divergent qualities/plotpoints are added, and will be linked in my rules for future reflections and easy accessibility. If you’re ever in doubt, don’t be afraid to come speak to me privately for further clarifications!

This isn't to say that your muse has to have any of this knowledge! I organised it based on what would logically be available with a little internet research, but you're welcome to throw all of this out of window for your muse. It's never compulsory, just here for those that wish to use it or would have an easier time when doing so.

UNIVERSAL KNOWLEDGE - everyone has the potential to know about these without needing an in-person meeting

That he’s an amnesiac talking Pikachu formerly associated with Inspector Harry Goodman, employed at Ryme City’s Baker Agency.

That Harry Goodman has been officially declared dead following an extended disappearance and the discovery of his car wreckage. No body was ever found.

All Harry’s former colleagues, including Chief Inspectors Hideo Yoshida and Mike Baker, and assistant Amanda Blackstone. All of these people believe Harry to be dead and are not pursuing his disappearance.

That Pikachu has an excellent track record with his cases and is willing to take on anything that catches his interest.

Related to the above: that Pikachu currently defines himself as freelance and refuses to be associated with any one region, town, or police department in particular. He takes on whatever clients approach him or receive no closure from their human-led police departments.

CASUAL KNOWLEDGE - most have the potential to know this, though an in-person meeting with the individual or someone close to them is usually required

That he’s tracking down the manufacturer of the mysterious R gas and on a journey to discover the extent of its effects. The most notable effect at this time is the ability it has to make pokemon go beserk, attacking everything in sight even if they’d been previously docile or even captured by a Trainer.

That he doesn’t believe Harry Goodman to be dead, and is on a longer, full-time investigation to uncover why someone would go to such lengths to stage a fatal accident.

That Pikachu’s morality lies firmly on the ‘chaotic’ end of things (chaotic good specifically), and believes the pursuit of truth is worth breaking a few, unimportant laws for. No formal charges have ever been brought against him.

PRIVATE KNOWLEDGE - things restricted to close friends or investigative partners

The exact details of his past crimes, namely trespassing, breaking and entering, deception, minor theft and property destruction (seen here, where he destroys a Ranger Styler to access the information inside).

The origin of R*, namely that it can only be created using Mewtwo’s DNA. He’s confiscated some of the DNA vials and returned them to the pokemon in question, but there are still many that he needs to find.

That he rents apartments under Harry Goodman’s name. His main base of operations remains in Ryme, but for the sake of staying clean and keeping his clues organised, it’s necessary to spread his homes throughout the regions and always keep a safe space accessible. For safety reasons, he doesn’t like his addresses getting too widely known.

*Can be ignored by those muses that wish to be a part of the R mystery. Either on the manufacturing or investigative side.

#➥ headcanons.

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riversofmars · 4 years ago

Note

I have an idea for a prompt! How about 13 becomes human again for whatever reason, she meets River, and without either knowing the other still manage to get together?

Thank you for this brilliant prompt! Not gonna lie, I was thinking coffee shop AU initially but I think I’ve come up with something better!

For River this is set post Manhattan pre Darillium while she’s teaching at Luna U, she hasn't met 13 and obviously doesn't recognise her. 13 - for whatever reason as per the prompt - is under the influence of the Chameleon Arch and human, not remembering who she is.

Hope you like it!

Rating: G

Word Count: 1800

AO3

Stuff of Legends

“What are you doing in here?“

The Doctor jumped when a voice cut through the silence at Luna University Library. It was late, very late, in fact. 2am was fast approaching and the library had been empty apart from her. She had chosen the time deliberately, she had banked on people being asleep or off partying for fresher’s week.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was…“ She looked around anxiously to see a figure approaching along the rows of shelves.

“You know this area is restricted, right?“ A woman came into view, wild curly hair, silky blouse and a keen sparkle in her eyes. There as a sort of amusement in her voice and she tilted her head as she looked her up and down. The Doctor got the sense she wouldn’t tell on her, at least not yet.

“Yeah, well, uhh… my archive request was denied so I thought…“ She didn’t really know what to say. She knew access to this section of the Library was restricted but she had come a long way for it and when her request was denied by the Academy of Time Travel, she had decided to go about it another way.

“You thought you would sneak in here instead?“ The woman concluded with a smirk.

“Well, they didn’t really give an explanation so…“ The Doctor scratched the back of her head. She was anxious about having been caught but so far, the other woman didn’t seem to mind too much. Perhaps she had snuck in here as well.

“Oh there was this incident, quite a long time ago now, a student snuck into the Academy’s archives and took an ancient vortex manipulator to have a sneak peak at her future essay papers… I mean, you can’t plagiarise yourself so they could hardly expel her but they did get a lot pickier with admitting people to their archives.“ The woman explained pleasantly.

“Well, firstly, that’s very clever of the student and secondly, very unreasonable to restrict everyone else’s access to the archives when some of us have actual research to do.“ The Doctor huffed, somewhere between admiration and annoyance. “Surely the student in question has long graduated…“

“And is a professor now. Professor River Song.“ River extended her hand to her with a smirk and the Doctor’s face fell.

“Oh, uhh… you’re a professor? You work here, I…I shouldn’t be here…“ She stammered, realising her mistake. This woman was staff! And she had caught her red handed.

“No, you shouldn’t be and yet you are.“ River observed sounding surprisingly unbothered about it which sort of made sense if she had been the student in question. The Doctor wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or worried. “What are you doing?“ River asked curiously and looked to the books the Doctor had gathered on a desk.

“Uh… just some research…“ The Doctor answered nervously.

“What are you studying?“ River picked up a book that she knew well. It was one of the more comprehensive guides on supposed Timelord meddling through time.

“Well, not technically a student…“ The Doctor admitted. She wasn’t sure what to say. This woman was thoroughly confusing. She was a professor here but also seemed to have an affinity for bending the rules. Could she trust her not to rat her out?

“So you didn’t just sneak into the Academy’s library section but into the university in general?“ River sounded impressed.

“No, I mean, I’m not a student, I’m a doctor, visiting lecturer… Luna University is meant to have the greatest collection of Timelord artefacts so…“ The Doctor felt the need to set the record straight.

“A doctor, huh? You sure you’re old enough?“ River smirked and the Doctor found herself blushing under her appraising gaze. Was she flirting with her?

“You don’t exactly strike me as a stuffy old professor either.“ She retorted before she could think better of it.

“Touché.“ River laughed lightly and looked back at the collection of books, scriptures and star charts. “Why the interests in the Timelords? Most people don’t even believe them to be real.“ She observed picking up another book to read the back of it.

“I don’t know, I just… personal interest, I guess. Something about them just intrigues me.“ The Doctor replied growing more self conscious. She felt a little silly. A lot of academics looked down on those paddling theories that the Timelords actually existed. Most people believed them to be the stuff of legends. While time travel was certainly real, the idea of almost celestial beings able to live forever seemed too fantastical to be true. While there was certainly something the legends were based on, there was no way of knowing which bits were fact and which were fiction.

“What’s your field?“ River asked curiously putting the book down.

“Astrophysics.“ The Doctor answered slowly. “Yours?“

“Archeology.“ River replied in amusement. “I’m much more likely to take an interest in this sort of thing than you, how do the Timelords relate to your research?“ It was a fair question.

“Star charts… well, that’s where I started. Everything else doesn’t really relate. I’m just… curious, they’re fascinating.“ The Doctor admitted, sticking her hands in the pockets of her coat before shrugging.

“Well, the stuff of legends always is.“ River chuckled.

“Unfortunately, I’m not likely to getting any answers here.“ The Doctor sighed feeling a little bit more comfortable now. It didn’t look like this woman would tell on her but it seemed to have been a wasted trip regardless.

“Answers to what?“ River asked and the Doctor shrugged again, with a little laugh this time:

“You know, I don’t even know… I can’t really explain it… never mind.“ She waved it off. “I can’t read it anyway, whatever this language is, I don’t understand it.“ She opened one of the books and held it out to River, pointing out the circular writing.

“It’s High Gallifreyan.“ River answered as she took the book off her. “The language of the Timelords, that’s what it’s called.“ Her eyes skimmed the page.

“You make it sound like they actually existed.“ The Doctor chuckled. “Is that your field of archeology? Mystical civilisations?“

“Perhaps.“ River winked. “Would you like some help?“ She handed the book back over with a smile.

“You can… you can read this?“ The Doctor exclaimed in shock, surprise and delight all at once.

“Don’t tell anyone.“ River chuckled and looked around to check no-one had heard her.

“How?!“ The Doctor didn’t know what to say. “How do you know how to read this? It’s not like you can just take language classes in this, can you?“ She was in awe.

“My husband taught me.“ River revealed with a sly sort of smile.

“Your husband?“ The Doctor’s face fell, she didn’t even know why she felt disappointed but she did. She had only just met this woman.

“Is that disappointment I hear in your voice?“ River had picked up on it right away and the Doctor blushed scarlet.

“What? No, I mean…“ She stuttered. “Uhm, your husband… does that mean, are you telling me you’re married to a… Timelord?“ The Doctor tried to deflect.

“If you presume that to be his one defining feature, I suppose so.“ River shrugged.

“So they are real? Timelords are actually…“ The Doctor didn’t know what to say.

“He is also the last Timelord. Or was… I’m not actually sure where he is these days, we haven’t seen each other in a while.“ River sighed with another shrug.

“But you just said he’s your husband.“ The Doctor frowned, she wasn’t making a whole lot of sense.

“He’s not the type to allow himself to be held too tightly.“ River smiled though the Doctor was sure there was a sadness behind her eyes. “We… things are complicated, when you’re married to a time traveller. For all I know I might never see him again.“

“And you’re just fine with that?“ The Doctor asked softly.

“Like you say, if he’s really a Timelord, he’s the stuff of legends. An ageless god. You don’t expect the sunset to admire you back.“ River retorted returning her attention to the books on the table, she ran her fingers over one of the ancient star charts absentmindedly.

“That sounds painful.“ The Doctor mused sharing in her sadness.

“Makes you appreciate the shared times all the more.“ River grinned as her wistfulness passed and the Doctor smiled and nodded, she understood. “To be honest, I don’t like being tied down either so we suit each other very well.“ River smirked gaining her swagger back.

“I see.“ The Doctor chuckled.

“That means if you would like to get a drink sometime, or if you would like some help translating these, I’m available.“ River elaborated when her initial statement didn’t have the desired effect of flustering the blonde. She looked up from the star charts to the Doctor waiting for the penny to drop. Her explanation did the trick as the Doctor went red in the face again.

“Really? I mean… you’re not… he’s not gonna…“ She stammered.

“Every time could be the last time, every Christmas could be last Christmas, that’s the thing about time, something you learn as a time traveller, you have to learn to live in the present.“ River winked and reached out and ran her fingers along the yellow braces the Doctor was wearing. “You do remind me a lot of him, you know, I don’t know… probably just my imagination. Or the fact that I’m really very attracted to you.“ She smirked.

“You’re uhh… very forward…“ The Doctor swallowed nervously.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.“ River’s confidence faltered for a moment, genuine concern came over her. “If I misread the situations, I…“

“No, no, it’s fine, I mean… I’d like a drink. With you.“ The Doctor burst out quickly, she didn’t want her to change her mind. “I’d like to go for a drink with you and spend some time together…“

“Good. I mean, great!“ River grinned, relieved. “There is this nice little bar across campus… You don’t need these books, I can tell you everything you could possibly want to know.“

“Lead the way, Professor.“ The Doctor nodded, a grin spreading across her face.

“I don’t think you ever told me your name, what do I call you, Doctor?“ River asked mirroring her expression.

“Maybe just that. I know it probably doesn’t make a whole lot of sense but I never really… felt comfortable with my name… Jane Smith… just doesn’t mean anything to me. Most people just call me Doctor.“ The Doctor shrugged with an apologetic smile. She wasn’t sure if River would understand but she thought it best to be honest.

“Is that so…“ River gave her a smile, her expression incredibly hard to read. “It’s a funny old universe, isn’t it.“ She held out her hand to the Doctor. “You never know what the future holds, you just live it.“

#doctor who #fanfiction #prompt #space wives #river song #Thirteen #thirteenth doctor #river x thirteen #river x the doctor #yowzah #Alex Kingston #Jodie whittaker #femslash #otp #old married couple #AU #chameleon arch #chameleon au

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