#he sounds so old and gravelly. and definitely not any change to his natural voice. maybe a deeper tone but like. that's worse.
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
thebuttsmcgee · 2 months ago
Text
How I feel each time I remember they casted Shadow the Hedgehog as keanu reeves of all fucking people:
Tumblr media
2 notes · View notes
one-boring-person · 4 years ago
Note
Okay so request~~~~
So at the end of last blood, he never stays at his ranch. He tells the aunt “Idk. I’ll move around, like always.” And then proceeds to destroy his home and land beyond repair, you know that story i wrote about picking up first blood rambo?? Well, change that to old man rambo!
What about him having rhat random chance meeting with someone like SR(from the one i wrote) and staying with them. How they take care of him without even knowing him, and how he has a chance to try out a new life away from war and what he was with someone who’s young and starting out on their own ambitions.
I could totally see him being introduced to SR’s friends as “oh, my new roommate!” And him telling SR all about vague war stories, they teach him to cook and cook him breakfast. Honestly just rambo being taken somewhere far away and nice and staying with someone who definitely has their own problems, but takes on the therapy by helping him instead.
Basically, SR is very very damaged and rambo can tell- but they’re so sweet and responsible, mature, and loyal. They take out emotions and pain through spreading love instead of war, he can’t let that go. Not now
(Hopefully that gives you ideas!!!)
I'm sorry this took so damn long for me to write, and I'm sorry that it's so bad, too, but I hope you like it in any case!😓😅
Life Goes On.
John Rambo (Rambo: Last Blood) x Named!OC (not mine)
Warnings: injury detail, death, blood
Masterlist
Tumblr media
John's eyes are barely open as he sluggishly guides the horse beneath him further on, their surfaces dry and sore even as he blinks them. By now it's useless, the dust in the air having gotten into his corneas within the first hour of his long ride, irritating his scleras very quickly. Exhaustion has long since numbed out any pain he still feels, his eyes becoming the least of his worries as he gradually loses the sensation in his lower abdomen, where his more serious wound is bleeding profusely onto his shirt, still oozing even after fifteen hours of being left alone. He knows the blood flow isn't too bad anymore, as his hasty attempts to patch himself up have left him with a better chance of surviving, but his other wounds are slowly driving him to a comatose state. The veteran can't move his fingers properly, the digits clunky and uncoordinated as he tries to grip onto the reins, the blisters from the tough leather split and leaking as he struggles to do so. Nausea has settled into his head, his vision blurred as his strength slowly fails him - he's too old to have survived as he used to. Without his medication, John finds himself plagued constantly by flashes of past grief and sorrow, images of his dead team back in 'Nam flooding his conscience, accompanied by the beaten and bruised face of Gabrielle. 
Beneath him, the horse walks slowly, his thighs aching from the hours of riding, chafing sores lining them under the fabric of his trousers, his body slouched forwards in the saddle. Pity for the animal also gnaws at his mind, and he feels a pang of guilt as he realises that it's unlikely it will be able to carry him much further without any respite. It's head is drooped, steps slow and unsteady, panting breaths rushing from its throat in haggard bursts. If he had any energy, John would remove the tack from the horse and let it go, but he knows this isn't a plausible idea for him if he wants to survive. He owes it to Maria to survive.
His conscience starts to slip, just as the sun comes to its highest point in the sky, heat and dry air lulling him into a false sense of security as he feels his control leaving him. Unable to keep a grip on it, he succumbs to the darkness rising up in his vision, falling into it gratefully, needing the reprieve.
Vaguely, John seems to recall a car pulling up beside him, the door slamming closed as someone shouts to him, hands taking the reins from his. Gravity seems to take control, and John falls from the horse, landing heavily in the dirt, but he doesn't lie there long. Whoever has taken hold of the horse is swift to come to his aid, pulling him into their arms as they try to drag him back to their car. They're struggling, and he wants to fight back, to tell whoever it is to get lost, but he finds he can't, his throat too raw to even force a sound past, so he can only stay limp as they manhandle him into their vehicle, murmuring gently to him the entire time. 
It's at that point that he finally loses consciousness.
*
Agony floods John's body as he comes to again, drawing a hoarse groan from his scratchy throat as he jerks upwards, his instincts still ready for action even after all these years. Blearily, he blinks, hands scrambling to identify his surroundings, dull surprise dripping into his conscience as he finds a soft duvet and pillows on top of a comfortable mattress, warmth encompassing him. Frowning, the veteran pushes himself upright, ignoring the pain in his body as he does so, his hand going up to cup his wound instinctively. Shocked to find a clean dressing plastered over the ragged injury, John blinks again and takes a look around.
He's in a small room, laying on a bed in the centre, the domicile unfamiliar to him. Idly he wonders if maybe he's died and found some kind of afterlife, but a sharp stab of agony from his side eliminates this idea from his head in seconds. The room is quite comfortably decorated, designed to be cosy and close, whilst remaining roomy enough to allow for decent living space. A few photographs line the wall, accompanied by posters of movies he's never bothered to go see, having never really managed to overcome the triggers they often set off when he's not expecting them. 
Just as he goes to climb out of the bed, the door swings open, and an unfamiliar figure steps in, a first aid kit held in one hand as they juggle a bowl of water in the other. Instantly, John's on his feet, instincts taking over as he ignores the flare of agony that springs up in him as he swiftly moves over to the newcomer. In seconds, they find themselves pinned to the wall, a hand wrapped around their throat. Yelping in fear, they let go of the bowl and first aid kit, smaller hands coming up to grip his larger arm, eyes wide as they stare at him in shock, wincing as warm water splashes the two of them. 
It takes all John has not to crush their windpipe, his rational mind taking over the militant instinct as he keeps them in a threatening hold, the youth unable to move at all. A wave of nausea washes over him, and he falters, vision spinning wildly as he drops back a step, losing his grip on the newcomer as quickly as he secured it, the sudden disorientation throwing him off as he falls to the floor again. Grunting in pain, he lands heavily, the impact jarring his bones and muscles roughly. Recovering quickly, the newcomer drops down beside him, eyes widened in concern now, rather than fear.
"Are you alright?" They ask him, voice soft with worry, searching his face for any serious problem.
It takes him a moment, but eventually, John manages a response, his usually rough voice coarse and gravelly now.
"'M fine." 
They just scoff, hesitantly reaching out to help him back up again, heaving his heavy body onto the bed again. 
"You are far from fine." They point out, "What happened, you fight a war or something?"
He almost laughs.
"Something like that." John murmurs bitterly, leaning his head back against the headboard.
Shooting him an odd look, the newcomer goes and fetches the spilt bowl of water, sighing at the mess before they hold it up for him to see.
"I'm just gonna get some more water, then I'll patch you up again, that alright?" They ask him, looking somewhat cautious.
Suspicious, John watches them for a sign of deception. Finding none, he simply nods, knowing he can easily take them out if he needs to. They smile, going to leave the room, only to stop in the doorway and turn around.
"My name is SR, by the way." They introduce themself.
"John." He grunts in way of reply, watching as they nod and leave the room.
*
Two months have passed and he's no longer bedridden, the veteran able to move freely around the house, even though there's still a little residual pain, and the mental horrors he faces every night leave him drained with no reprieve. With no medication to help him, it's no surprise that John has relapsed into a familiar state of sullen silence and brooding, finding himself reminded of the things he'd rather forget every day, in everything he does and everything he sees.
SR is no exception to this: he has warmed up to them, and he somewhat trusts them, the youth having shown him more kindness than he has experienced since Maria and Gabrielle. Their only downfall is that they remind him a lot of his murdered niece, the two having very similar traits that very quickly sussed out. Childhood trauma has led them to becoming very determinedly driven and friendly, ambitious and confident in some aspects of life, whilst also noticeably damaged in other aspects, that he realises very quickly. Somehow, however, they always keep themselves afloat, and choose not to show any of the weight bearing down on their mind, as he knows it is, though he is also very swift to realise that their way of dealing with this pain is very simple; they work to make life better for others. It's visible in everything they do: cooking for him every day, caring for him in any way they can, doing their best to let him know he can trust them. 
At first, he had been somewhat cold and closed off to them, but they swiftly worked to help warm him up again, reawakening the more personable version of himself he managed to cultivate in his time on the ranch. It was nice to become a little lighter again, but his guard stayed up, and still is, though not as much as it was before. Vividly, he can remember the time he found himself trusting them further: when their friends had come over to catch up. 
Naturally, they'd all been surprised to find some nearly hostile ex-soldier residing in their friend's home, living his life out with them. As soon as they'd said something, however, SR had leapt in to defend him, and had inadvertently shown their care for him on a much greater scale than before, reminding John of what his life was like with Maria and Gabrielle. When their friends had then left, an hour or so later, he had stepped up to them and told them how thankful he was, feeling more cared for than he ever thought he would. 
Now, after weeks of being taught how to cook, and being cooked for, plus hours and hours of talking with each other as they helped each other to overcome past grief, he can very honestly say he is immensely grateful to be with them. They know more about him than he told himself he'd ever tell anyone, SR often listening with rapt attention to his war stories, eyes wide as they hear all of the harrowing details. He feels comfortable telling these tales, and they seem content to listen, so he appreciates them in whole new ways. 
And when he finally opens himself back up to physical contact, the embrace he receives from his excitable carer is only too worth it, the first smile in months gracing his lips as he does so. Life feels like it's turning on its axis again - for the better this time.
50 notes · View notes
gnollface · 4 years ago
Text
“My time with the Gnolls.”
(Wrote this as a proof of concept for another anthology project, reading it again i want to revisit it.)
"My time with the Gnolls."
📷
(Wrote this as a proof of concept for another anthology project, reading it again i want to revisit it.)
Excerpt from "My time with the Gnolls" by Dr. Jaysis Une
“When i first began informing my colleagues and friends of my desire to begin an in depth study of the Gnoll race the responses were more or less what one might expect and largely (and unsurprisingly uniform.)
The consensus being that I had, quite simply, lost my mind.
What more could there possibly be to know? Gnolls were mindless blood thirsty demon spawn and
To embark on such a course was akin to suicide.
I took no offense,
I like them, knew well the stories of the savage and brutal nature of the minions of Yeenoghu
“The goddess of slaughter”
“The ruler of Ruin” and any number of other terrifying descriptors.
The Gnolls were little more than horrific and infernal automatons focused solely on slaughtering any living thing standing before them so that they may in turn slaughter any that might further be found behind those tragic souls.
And So while this was not my first dangerous subject to pursue, it was far and away the most
And as such i did my full due diligence as a man of science and assembled all the knowledge i had gained personally to that point and sought out master hunters, warriors and soldiers to add any first hand information i was able before crafting a master plan and outline to maximize my safety while still maintaining my ability to study and observe my horrific quarry. My preparations took the better part of a year before i felt comfortable to embark.
But as the old Gnomish saying goes “All great tragedy follows once great plans”
And i am ashamed to admit it was a humblingly short amount of time until,
despite my best efforts,
my worst fears had come to pass and I found myself captured by the Gnoll warband I had,
To this point, thought I was following from a safe distance unseen.
For reasons i even now still do not fully understand the Gnoll scouts did not immediately kill me but brought me back to their makeshift camp and threw me to the bottom of a roughly dug dirt pit
its top covered with a crudely made barred gate of sticks and branches.
I landed awkwardly and the hard soil and clay bottom with a sound that sickens me to recall to this day.
I had only just begun to gather my bearings and assess the nature of my situation when a low and gravelly voice reached me from a darkened corner at the other side of the pit.
"You must go…..out." it said.
I quickly jumped up from my knees to my feet and backed myself against the wall in fear.
I was not alone in my cell
But a very distinct terror washed over me as my eyes, now adjusting to the dark, made out the shape of my new cell mate, another large Gnoll.
A flood of thoughts filled my head, was this some kind of Chieftain?
Was I to be its food?
Perhaps a toy to be sacrificed to their demon goddess?
What should i do?
I was a researcher, a biologist, not a fighter, i would not mount much of a defense against this hulking creature.
"Wuh-what?` `I replied, shaking in fear.
"They keep you….for Flind. ( Referring to a massive gnoll often serving as warchief for the band )
“Flind mad...when others...leave no blood." The Gnoll explained to me quietly seemingly struggly to capture each word in its head before using it
It said all this without looking over.
For whatever reason, perhaps something in its tone, my fear began to subside slightly, something led me to believe perhaps my new cellmate was not the threat to me I immediately feared..
"Why have they thrown you in here?" I asked him (i think it was a him) surprising myself, the words had left my mouth before i even registered the idea of asking it
I cautiously lowered myself to the floor against the wall opposite him.
"I am...broken." He responded meekly and though i can't be certain, i swear he smirked and chuckled as he made this comment.
Gnolls make such a variety of noises it's often hard to determine.
"Broken?" I pressed, confused, perhaps in his shallow grasp of common he had misspoke?
With this he looked down from the barred ceiling and towards me for the first time,
what little light that was reaching us at the bottom of our hole now reflecting in his yellow eyes giving them the appearance of glowing cinders.
It sent chills down my spine like ice water.
"I am….clean of Yeenoghu, I no…..hear yeenoghu, I do not….heed, I am clean.
Broken...they say." he pointed upwards as he explained to clarify whom he was speaking of.
Though his common tongue was not very fluid he definitely demonstrated a level of intelligence i to this point had never seen exhibited in a Gnoll.
The scientist inside me roared to life, my mind overcome with questions and possibilities, no longer considering the very real danger of my predicament. I straightened myself into a more comfortable position and swatted some dirt from my pants.
"My name is Jaysis, well met." I offered.
He turned his head away slightly and side eyed me
seemingly confused and slightly suspicious before returning his gaze skyward.
after a moment or two, perhaps after consideration
"Hoontra, I am Hoontra"
The large gnoll offered back tapping his big clawed hands against his chest as he too straightened to face me better, it was then, as he came more into the limited light that i noticed he was gravely injured,
both his legs were badly broken.
"You're hurt." i pointed to his legs stating what must have seemed obvious.
Hoontra shrugged,
"Dead soon...gone...Home soon." he replied as he looked up at the night sky through the bars as if contemplating the stars, calmly, and remarkably so considering his words.
As the night went on I started to more clearly notice His mannerisms and movements. they expressed a thoughtfulness that surprised me more than his intelligence.
Gnolls with thoughts?
It was then another thought came to me.
If Hoontra was resigned to his imminent demise what hope could i possibly have?
Well if this is how i am to die, I thought to myself, then I shall die as I lived, and I again pressed the Gnoll for more information.
"How did you become Broken?...eh Clean Hoontra?" i asked him
and again the big gnoll shrugged, not breaking his skyward gaze.
"Hoontra battle..and fall...hurt..Hoontra look quiet place to die, find pretty place, many trees.That place... mama call me, I wake up….clean, no mad, no hungry, no red, just Hoontra. Hoontra and Mama." with this Hoontra resignedly smiled, I suppose i can't be certain it was a smile, an exposing of the fangs for a gnoll is no rare thing…...but i like to believe it was.
I took in what he said in stunned silence, here i sat having a conversation with a Gnoll, what would the others think of this story? I’d likely never learn the answer to that question.
There Hoontra sat staring skyward, he showed no sign of pain, no sign of anger, sadness or anxiety, just what seemed contentment as he continued to look out into the night.
But each answer Hoontra gave me only raised more questions in me
"Who is Mama Hoontra? Who cleaned you? " I asked
With this question again Hoontra looked to me and extended his large muscular arm to the dirt wall besides him and gently pressed his large clawed fingers against a roughly carved image of a Unicorn head.
"MeekiLee, Meekilee is mama." The coincidences were too striking to not be comfortable in assuming that "MeekiLee" was his pronunciation or interpretation of Mielikki the forest goddess.
I was gobsmacked, was it true? Could the Gnolls be cleansed of their demonic taint? Had the ranger goddess cleansed this gnoll? But my internal debate was interrupted as Hoontra continued
"Meekilee forgive and clean... soon Hoontra die and run in tall grass...forever, and Meekilee run with me." Hoontra looked to a small wooden circle carved with the image of a unicorn he wore around his neck tied with some shoddy twine. He turned it around in his fingers for a few seconds before shifting onto his back exhaling deeply, as he moved. For the first time it was clear that he was in some pain
"I sleep...you escape...wake up Hoontra...Hoontra help" I nodded and smiled at this most surprising beast and crossed my arms, a million questions rolling through my mind keeping the the reality of my imminent death at bay.
After some time my thoughts however were broken by the sudden sounds of battle above. Hoontra quickly straightened up eyes wide. With a stunning speed he launched himself forward on just his arms, dragging his broken legs behind him and grabbed me.
He pulled me behind his huge body defensively and lowered his head in a gutteral snarl, the black mohawk of hair running down his spine spiking upwards. I tensed in fear suddenly overwhelmed by everything going on around me,
was this it? was this how i die?
I sunk my fingers into the tattered cloak Hoontra wore over his back and I closed my eyes when suddenly a loud BANG rang out from above followed by several gentle thuds.
Hoontras body tensed suddenly and then he exhaled deeply and his body went limp as he collapsed before me.
“Hoontra!” i said loudly as I shook him, paying no mind to whatever was above.
"Jaysis! Jaysis Une! are you down there? " a human voice called down into the hole as light suddenly surrounded me.
"Yes! im here!" I responded as I looked up and saw three armed men holding crossbows and a torch.
"You ok?" another of the men continued.
"Im unharmed!" I yelled back suddenly relieved
but that feeling quickly changed as I looked down at the body of Hoontra.
"Ok just hold on a minute. we'll find some rope and get you out of there." the men said as they walked out of my range of vision.
I rolled Hoontra over onto his back as gently as I was able, he was shockingly heavy, I surveyed his arrow riddled body and sighed as I struggled to pull his arms over to cross his stomach in some feeble attempt at a show of respect.
There was no way the men would have known, How could they? who in a million years would ever believe a Gnoll could be anything, but well...a gnoll?
I sat beside Hoontra for a few minutes collecting my thoughts, now being able to truly appreciate how big a gnoll is, knowing, id likely never be this close to one again.It was then i noticed that his one hand was closed in a fist, grasping the small wooden symbol of his “Meekilee”
a peaceful smile, yes, it was a smile, on his scarred canine face.
"Doctor! we're lowering the rope to you now." the men had returned.
"Gentleman!" i spoke back "I'm going to need to take this corpse back with me….for study " i said to the men.
The leader sighed "Doctor, there are plenty of dead gnolls up here we ...." he tried to explain when i cut him off
"No, I need this one, ten gold for each of you if you help me get it back to my home." With this the men's eyes widened and with smiles they hurried off to find more rope.
Of course there will be no study.
There is a clearing in my garden at the base of an old oak tree surrounded by different flowers and bushes and such. It has a clear view of the sky and the stars at night, I often sit there to read my books by candle light or a small fire.
occasionally, distracted by the infinity of the night sky i stare off and wonder about everything
and nothing.
This is where ill bury my friend Hoontra and perhaps ill leave a carved unicorn so Meekilee will know where to find her son so they may run together in the tall grass forever.
7 notes · View notes
rillabrooke · 4 years ago
Note
🍒🍑🧡📀🌸 for your personal favorites/anyone you want!
Thanks for the asks!  I did all these about Anna Cleves since she’s my newest favorite oc (and I need the motivation to finish the next chapter lol) ~
This is literally from months ago because Tumblr decided to not give me any notification at all whatsoever, and then I procrastinated for a very long time.  I’ve slowly chipped away at these over three months or so :p
-
🍒 What kind of things do they expect from their relationships? Does this differ between platonic relationships and romantic ones? Is your OC “demanding” or a door mat? What kinds of things do people expect from them in a relationship?
Since Anna is asexual/aromantic (kind of), she has very different platonic and romantic relationships since romantic relationships are... nada.  When it comes to her marriage, they have a mutual agreement to leave each other alone.  Henry and Anna are good friends, if that.
With all relationships, she expects respect.  That’s all.  She doesn’t really care what others say or do when she’s not around, but she expects to be treated nicely to her face.  She has very few close friends, but she would give her life for them.
Frankly, people never expected much from her in a relationship.  Relationships in high society are pretty superficial, so most people expected an invitation to dinner or afternoon tea.  Now that she’s queen consort, she isn’t expected to interact with anyone outside of formal occasions.
Lady Anna definitely isn’t a doormat.  You don’t dare tread on her.  And yeah, she’s kinda demanding lol
🍑 Where is your OC’s favourite place to relax or calm down? Recount a story of their time spent in this place! What makes it so special to them?
There’s a little grove of trees on the Cleves’ estate where Anna and William often played as children.  Even as a mature young lady, she liked to galivant through trees as if she was a wee child again.
On many occasions, Anna feigned a headache to escape painful social situations and hid in the trees until their guests left.  Other times when she really didn’t want to see people (including William), she’d tie her skirt into makeshift bloomers and climb a tree.
One of the old trees had a cavity, and Anna used to hide chocolates in it until William discovered the hidey hole and stole them all.  The little grove is also where William secretly taught her how to shoot a gun.  Ah, good times.
🧡 Who is your OC’s favourite person? Why is this person the top of their list and have they actually met them (an idol or role model or celeb can be someone’s favourite after all!).
Anna loves her brother William to pieces.  She grew up in her older sister’s shadow, so when William came along, she immediately took him under her wing.  They became partners in crime and terrorized the rest of their family for years (and to be fair, they still do).
William’s the one person who has always treated Anna as his equal.  While William inherited the dukedom, he shares his duties with Anna because she has just as much right (or more) to control the goings-on of their estate as he does.
📀 How easy is it to shock your OC? To confuse them? To lie to them, to manipulate them? How are they with feelings of trust? Can your OC be trusted?
Anna isn’t shocked or confused by anything.  If she is shocked, she definitely doesn’t show it.  If by some miracle you manage to manipulate her, you’ll lose your head.  You can lie to her, but she’ll see right through you because she is a master liar.  Her wellbeing depends on an intricate web of lies and manipulation.
Anna trusts very few people, and I wouldn’t trust her at all.  Life is one big chess game, and she’s Beth Harmon.  That’s a terrible reference cuz I’ve never read/seen The Queen’s Gambit and this analogy is entirely based off gifsets I’ve scrolled past.
🌸 What does your OC’s voice sound like? Their laugh? Are they good at singing? Do they have an accent?
Anna’s voice is naturally dry and monotone, but she alters her voice depending who she’s talking to.  For example, when’s she putting on a show for the public, her voice is more lilting and melodic, but when she’s talking with Christina Milan, her voice is more gravelly.
Her laugh is literally “hahahaha”.  Exactly four "ha”s.  Like her voice, her laugh changes depending on her audience.
Anna is moderately good at singing.  She can carry a tune, but she’s no opera singer.  She had singing lessons as a child, as many aristocratic girls do.
She does have a noticeable German accent when speaking English, especially when she’s mad and/or flipping back and forth between languages.  However, the accent slowly slips away the longer she stays in Estrania.
4 notes · View notes
blukoffee · 5 years ago
Text
Out of Place, Out of Time (AU Oneshot)
Okay, so. I rarely (read: never) post original stuff on here, so this is a learning curve for me, pleasebenice, but I swore/promised/crossed my heart that I would contribute to @intricatecaprice 30 Days Dead Men’s Tales. And here we are! This’ll probably be messy and not nearly as pretty as the rest of those gorgeous posts, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
So, I of course had the idea of Isabeau being plonked into the lap of one Cursed Capitán. I mean, who wouldn’t? But as it is currently being wonderfully done by so many talented authors, I decided to stick with my human Salazar. But this is just a small scratch of satisfaction to that itch. I hope you enjoy!  (Also, just wanna note that this isn’t the Monarch and these are different prisoners than those in the beginning of the film. I tried to make that distinct, but just want to clarify. Also, this is purely self-indulging, so please excuse any errors.)
Prisoners Should Know Their Place
It was the screams that told Isabeau her luck was about to change for the worst. And that was a feat, since she was pretty sure her luck had already hit rock bottom.
The guy in the cell next to her, barely a few years older than her, if even that, began to whimper in terror, his fingers tugging at dirty red hair. The wrinkled old man with him started muttering prayers under his breath, the gaps of missing teeth flashing every now and then.
Pretty sure that's not gonna help anyone, dude. Isabeau sighed, then grimaced when her ribs protested the movement. The nasty bruise from the officer's boot would take a while to heal, especially since he hadn't bothered holding back when he'd literally kicked her into the cell.
Asshole. I hope he was one of the ones that screamed like a little girl.
Despite the tone of her thoughts, Isabeau was worried. Whoever had boarded the Victorious were going through the crew with lightning speed, and nothing outside gave away any hints of who the attackers were. For all she knew, they'd be worse than the British she found herself prisoner of.
Great. This day really can get worse. I honestly didn't think it could.
There was a couple of loud crashes up above, and a distinct sound of crackling that sent tendrils of alarm snaking down her limbs. 
Fire. I smell fire. 
Cinders began to float down through the cracks in the boards and she struggled to keep the primal part of her brain from sending her into a panic. 
The younger guy apparently had less control and suddenly threw himself at the bars with a loud crash, screaming at the top of his lungs. The old man tried to calm him, to keep him quiet, but he was thrown off.
Mere seconds later, slow footsteps began to thump heavily down the stairs to the brig. 
The screaming man instantly quieted, staring up at the deck above in horror.
Isabeau looked up from where she sat curled in the corner, surprised by the prickle of unease that skittered with spider legs across her nape.
Whatever was coming their way wasn't anything good.
All three of them froze as boots suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly descending to show a large man leaning heavily on a cane as he made his way down the steps.
It wasn't his sheer, intimidating size that made Isabeau's breath freeze in her lungs. 
It was the way his hair wafted around his head in a halo of black strands, like he was underwater. 
It was how flakes of ash floated in his wake whenever he moved.
It was his burnt and decrepit uniform, shifting and following his movements in a way that wasn't natural.
It was the grey skin, covered in ashen cracks and the splintered skull with sharp, jagged edges of bone.
It was the burning amber eyes, almost glowing with their brilliance in the dark.
They all stood staring at each other for a brief second, then the man was joined by more men, men that had similar appearances of unnaturalness.
Isabeau was grateful she was already sitting down, else she would have collapsed on the floor.
They had walked through the walls. They had simply walked the walls, as if it'd been empty space.
What...the fuck…
The old man next to her began to moan his prayers, a note of bleakness in his tone that said he knew he was about to die. 
Isabeau wasn’t feeling much more optimistic, but she had bigger things to worry about. Such as why the apparent leader of the ghostly horde was now staring directly at her, and he hadn’t blinked since he’d spotted her.
In her short experience in an 18th century world, she’d come to the quick realization that women were simple commodities to be acquired, to be seen and not heard. To actually have intelligence as a woman was considered unnatural, a short step from being pronounced a witch or insane.
So the fact that any man, not merely a ghostly one, was staring at her with such unnerving focus was not a good thing.
She bit her lip, blood seeping on her tongue in an effort not to snap at the man to ask what he was looking at.
The older man’s moaning grew louder, the other man trying to figure out if he was going to fight while there was a distinct stain on the front of his pants, his blue eyes wide with terror.
Apparently, the imposing figure staring at her had had enough. A slight jerk of his head towards the other two prisoners and one of the ghostly apparitions behind him stepped forward, through the cell bars, and thrust a corroded sword straight through the moaning inmate.
Silence instantly echoed through the brig following the thud of his body.
And still the man continued to stare at her, making her skin itch under his perusal, making her want to curl into herself to hide from his burning gaze.
Finally, he stepped forwards, and no, she hadn’t been imagining things.
His entire body passed through the iron bars, sliding through them only a faint resistance and leaving them sizzling and smoking in his wake.
Definitely not human, definitely not human!
Isabeau pressed backwards into the corner, curling tighter as the man or whatever he was continued to move towards her with slow, steady steps. She kept her eyes lowered, so as not to seem as a challenge, and was surprised to find him crouching in front of her.
She squeezed further into the corner, bracing herself for another boot, or possibly a hand, when she heard a deep voice rumble, “Look at me.”
It should have sounded like rocks grinding together, as deep as his baritone was, but instead it sounded like liquid honey, like the purr of a lover, his accent making it roll through the air like music. She could hear a gravelly rasp to it that only added a smoky flavor, making her skin shiver and tingle in the wake of the sound.
Carefully, she slid her eyes up, taking in the once elegant uniform that still flattered his powerful body with its faded stripes, the tattered cravat that floated and swayed in a nonexistent breeze, until her gaze landed on a face that would haunt her dreams.
She sucked in a quick breath, surprised by how utterly handsome the ghostly man was, even in death. Her eyes skimmed over strong, mature features of a male in his prime, who would have been beyond devastating had he been alive.
Nor had he missed her interest, something flaring visibly in those burning amber eyes that made her swallow convulsively.
The man straightened, towering over her, and turned to gesture at another of the men that accompanied him, one with an eyepatch over one side of his face.
Unfortunately, the other inmate still alive had apparently found his courage, if not his brains.
He slammed his hands into the bars, one of his fingers crooked as if he’d broken it, and sneered at the man standing in front of her, “What use do you have of some whore, Spanish dog? You can’t-”
He never got to finish before the man whirled and his hand flashed out, instantly wrapping around the inmate’s throat. He was lifted off his feet in a frightening display of strength, while the man in the striped coat hissed, “She’s mine, and you would do well to remember that.”
Isabeau honestly thought he was going to kill him, but instead he only held him for a few seconds more, just long enough to make sure his point got across, then dropped him, leaving the man in a crumpled heap on the filthy floor.
Wait. What does he mean, “she’s mine”? 
“Moss, bring him.” The man before her whirled around with blazing speed, reaching down to grab her arm and hauled her to her feet.
Isabeau gasped at the feel of his icy fingers on her arm, as unbreakable as any manacle, before she was dragged after him.
One of his men broke the cell lock and he continued to yank her along, making her ribs scream in protest.
“...wait,” she gasped as he headed towards the stairs. “Wait!”
She threw herself backwards, no mean feat when her weight was being continuously dragged forwards, and the man holding her whipped around to glare at her, his eyes a burning crimson.
“I will not wait, chica. You are my prisoner now, and I do not wait for prisoners!”
Prisoner. That hated word burned in her gut. She’d heard it more over the past few days than she ever cared to again, along with a good many more slurs against her simply for her gender.
Fury made her hiss up at his face, “I’m not your fucking prisoner, now let - go of me!”
With a burst of frantic strength, she managed to wrench free of his grip, which had slackened a hair in his surprise at her outburst.
She turned and bared her teeth in a snarl at the one-eyed ghost that stepped in front of her. His eye flickered over her shoulder and he moved out of her way, staring at her with such hostility that her anger faltered.
Two others paused in the act of dragging the unconscious man out of his cell, his dirty red hair hanging lank about his face.
Isabeau shuddered, glad she hadn’t been put in the cell with him, and limped towards the room where her bags had been carelessly tossed. Sighing at the sight of her clothes thrown haphazardly on the bench, she closed her eyes wearily, just wishing this day had never begun.
She heard wheezing breaths behind her and knew that the man had followed her. The one who had claimed her as his prisoner. The one who stared at her with uncomfortable intensity.
Squeezing her eyes harder before opening them, she stepped forwards and began picking up her things, the smell of smoke gradually growing stronger.
“You are not English. What are you doing in an English cell?” the man asked suspiciously, stepping around to peer curiously at her belongings before swinging his gaze back to her.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” she muttered, then finally couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her shirt over her head, not caring if she was being watched or not.
She heard a wheezed curse and felt her face burn in embarrassment, then quickly  grabbed another of her shirts and slipped it on.
Grabbing the rest of her things and tossing the strap on her big bag over her shoulder, she turned to see the man had given her his back out of some form of courtesy.
Claiming her as his prisoner or not, she appreciated the gesture.
“I don’t even know your name.”
He turned to face her, his stance proud even with his slightly hunched back. “Capitán Armando Antón Salazar de Estrada. And yours, chica?”
A spark drifted down from the ceiling and she sidestepped it warily, suddenly realizing just where they were. And what was happening to the Victorious. “Isabeau Revanne. Okay, fine, I’m your prisoner, take me to your brig.”
She’d been trying to expedite matters to get off the burning hulk, but apparently the only thing she’d managed to expedite was Capitán Salazar’s temper.
He stepped forwards, towering over her even without a straightened spine, and glared down at her. “Sí, you are my prisoner, and prisoners should know their place.”
Isabeau swallowed as she struggled not to stare at his face. “My place is in your brig, isn’t it?”
Salazar stared at her for a good long minute, making her grow more and more nervous as heat began to filter down to the room, before he suddenly smiled.
It was a smile that made her extremely uneasy.
“Perhaps I have another purpose for you. Your companion in the brig had a good idea, no?”
Her companion? Wait, the one who had called her a-
“I’m not a whore!” Isabeau spat indignantly, gritting her teeth in outrage at the suggestion. She’d been called worse since she’d been tossed into that cell, but honestly, she’d somehow been under the impression that Capitán Salazar was different.
His burning gaze flickered over her, taking in her clothes that must seem incredibly strange to him. “That remains to be seen.”
Both their attentions jerked upwards at a loud crash, but Salazar was quicker to recover.
Isabeau yelped as she was suddenly lifted into the air, wheezing as a broad shoulder was wedged into her stomach.
Salazar turned and snapped an order, one of his men slinking forwards to pick up her belongings.
Clinging to the back of his coat, Isabeau struggled to breathe as she was carried along. 
Salazar paused at the top of the stairs before moving over to the railing.
What is he-
Her thought vanished as he leapt over the railing, the sudden shock of it sucking the scream right out of her throat as she saw pitch-black water rushing towards her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, only to feel herself suddenly jolt to a stop.
Confused, she cracked open one eye, then both went wide in shock as she still saw water beneath her, yet it wasn’t getting any closer.
Salazar was walking on water. He was walking on water.
An explosion of fire and noise drew her attention away from this new knowledge and she hissed in pain when one chunk of burning debris grazed her arm.
Salazar instantly jerked to the side, swinging her out of the way of another piece of debris before breaking into a run.
Another explosion and she looked up to see a cannon sailing straight towards them. “Look out!”
The massive metal construct whistled by them as Salazar swerved at her warning, his pace increasing to a lithe run as he put distance between them and the exploding wreck of the Victorious.
Finally, he began to slow down to a rolling jog, then coiled his big body into a crouch before springing upwards.
They landed lightly on the deck of a rotting hulk of a ship, a vessel twice the size of the one she’d been on, if not bigger, but all she caught was a quick glimpse, catching sight of the red-haired man sprawled on the deck where he’d been dropped before Salazar turned and carried her down a corridor, 
Indignation began to fuel a burning strength. She’d spent the last several days locked in a cell, she’d woken up in this hell hole of a time period with no warning, she had no idea how to get back, and for the icing on the fucking cake, she had been kidnapped by a stupidly handsome ghost whose intentions she didn’t have the slightest clue about.
And she was tired of feeling his shoulder digging into her stomach!
“Put. Me. Down!” Isabeau thrashed and threw herself back against his restraining arm, ignoring the screaming in her ribs at the sudden movement.
Salazar grunted at her unexpected struggling, then shoved his way through a door, slamming it closed behind him.
Isabeau found herself flung into the air with a squeal and she flailed wildly before landing on something plush and slightly lumpy. She laid there for a second, sucking air into her lungs as her bruised stomach ached, then carefully sat upright, staring at the ghostly captain warily.
But to her confusion, he wasn’t looking at her face. Instead, his gaze was somewhere lower, and she glanced down in alarm, only to see that her shirt had ridden up when she’d been tossed onto the settee. And the bootprint bruised into her ribs was clearly visible.
“Which one?”
Isabeau’s attention flashed back to Salazar, his deep voice ominously quiet, rage turning his irises a bloody crimson. Black blood ran down his chin as he bared his teeth in a snarl. “Which one?!”
Slowly, she inched her shirt down to cover the bruises. “One of the officers. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.”
Sanguine eyes flicked to her face. “Did he touch you - anywhere else?”
She quickly shook her head, even as she wondered why the mere thought of it enraged him. Surely such a thing was commonplace in this time period.
Salazar made a noise in his throat, almost a growl, his face still stern and unyielding in his anger. His fist tightened around the hilt of his rapier, which she just now noticed was still gripped in his hand. 
Isabeau edged backwards along the settee warily, then yelped in alarm when he lifted it up and plunged the tip into the floor with a loud thud, the blade quivering from the force of the blow.
They were both frozen for a second, then Salazar straightened and sent her a harsh glare. “Do not move.”
And with the ominous implications of what would happen if she didn’t obey his orders hanging in the air, he whirled and walked through the door without opening it, leaving wisps of ash trailing behind him.
Isabeau didn’t feel like moving from her spot on the settee. She had seen how deep the blade had plunged into the floorboards and felt it was wise not to incite the captain’s temper. Though that didn’t stop her curiosity from lifting its head and creating questions about the man.
She didn’t realize that she’d dozed off until she felt weight depress the cushions next to her.
Something cool was spreading soothing bliss over the aching bruise on her side, making the pain fade to a background hum.
She cracked open bleary eyes to see a man sitting next to her, huge and imposing, yet his touch was gentle as he feathered calloused fingers over her skin.
“Thank you.”
Salazar paused at her words, then resumed rubbing whatever it was into her bruise. “You are welcome.”
Isabeau was quiet for a second, watching him groggily before blurting, “Why are you helping me?”
This time he didn’t pause, merely pulled away for a second to wipe his fingers off on a rag. “You are my prisoner, therefore my responsibility.”
She couldn’t help but be fascinated by his smooth, efficient movements, the complete unnaturalness to him. He shouldn’t exist, but here he was. Still, questions continued to bounce around in her mind.
“Why did you bring that other man too?”
He chuckled ominously as he suddenly leaned over her, those eerie eyes fixed on her face. “Because I always leave one man alive to tell of me. And since I’m not letting you go, I needed someone else.”
She swallowed nervously as she felt his fingers stroke her hair back behind her ear, felt his weight depress the cushions around her. “What do you mean, you’re not letting me go?”
His hand slid under the back of her skull, huge and powerful against the bone, and he held her still as he leaned closer. His hair flowed downwards to tickle her cheeks when he stopped, his nose almost touching hers. A black grin spread across his lips. “You’re mine, now. And I don’t let go of what is mine.”
35 notes · View notes
sammyhale · 6 years ago
Text
J2 VegasCon 2019 Main Panel
*Reminder: Full answers/more context in vids and gifs <3
J2 jump onstage as fans wave pink hearts from the crowd <3
Jensen: Whenever we come out and do one of those jumps, I always wonder if today’s the day one of us blows a hip. 
Jensen’s microphone keeps making a high pitched sound lol. 
They ask how many first-timers are there. Jensen: Okay, well, I’d like to remind you we’ve been on this show for fourteen years, doing these for thirteen and a half. Where were you??? 
Jared: We are five days into our final hiatus. Jensen: Five days into our hiatus beard!
Jensen won’t shave for a few months.
J2 whispering and Jensen cracking up :P 
Jensen reveals that Jared is wearing a party patch (they help with hangovers). Jared puts his leg on Jensen’s lap and rolls up his pant leg to show the patch lol. 
J2 gave the crew party patches at the s14 wrap party.  
Fan asks if they believe in the supernatural in real-life. Jensen doesn’t not believe in ghosts. First to think there’s a logical explanation. But he’s certainly open to the availability that that 1% could be supernatural. Even though he’s never experienced it in real life. 
Jensen explains the difference between unnatural and supernatural. Unnatural = Jared. Supernatural = us
Norton fixes Jared’s rolled up pants which turns a little dirty, naturally :P 
Fan: Which supporting actors have gone on that have had great careers that you’re still close with? The guest star Jared connects with the most is the girl who played Ruby in season 4 ;) Jensen says they knew Sterling K. Brown was a star when he was on spn, that the Force was strong with him. It’s no surprise he’s had the success that he’s had. Also: Well we’re close to Jeffrey Dean Morgan, even though he hasn’t really done much since spn. He’s still cool. 
J2 ran into Felicia Day yesterday and talked about her daughter aww
Jared watched “Wendigo” recently, named a couple of guest stars (assuming Alden Ehrenreich was one of them ;))
A fan apparently rushed the stage, emotional/screaming and upset about wanting an autograph. Some fans tweeted that she has autism. Fans tweeted that J2, Clif, and Creation handled the situation well. At one point J2 left the stage to help defuse the situation. When they came back out after Jared shouted out: “Our member of the family is having a hard time. We all have had hard times.” He wants us all to be kind. The boys are completely fine. (Some details)
Fan: So after the show, will you continue to shave? Boys: Up here not down there... lol
Jensen: We were talking about Jared’s Viking braids. 
Jensen teased about Jared shaving his head like Borja did yesterday for charity. They said they’d have Misha do it lol. 
Answering sincerely, they acknowledge their look will change a bit, to have their own identities. Jensen:  “Dean is the best imaginary friend I’ve ever had in my life. He’ll be a part of me for the rest of my life. But I don’t have to look like him for the rest of my life.” 
Also: “It all depends on what our wives want us to look like.” lol 
Jared wants to go bowlegged. Asks Jensen how it is, to which he replies “airy.” 
Jensen hopes their relationships with cast and crew will last a lifetime and that is what, quote, “fuels us up.”
J2 are signed to do cons past s15 and won’t end for a while :)  
What is Jared most looking forward to after the show? Getting to know our kids, our wives, and ourselves. Also not shaving! 
Jared: I’m excited to be a dad. Spend more time with the kiddos. Is also excited for the boring.  
Jensen’s never known his wife and kids without the show. It’s been a constant. It’s going to be interesting to see where life goes. He’s excited for the opportunity to spend more time with his kids, wife, and friends. To not get on an airplane.
Jensen: I'm looking forward to but have been happy to have professional opportunities go by these past 14 years in order to tell this story. 
Has anything impacted you (professionally) like SPN has impacted us? Jared says he isn’t sure. Even when “off” we can’t remove our “wigs” like Borja (lol) We’re still working! Always!
Jensen said he and Misha will need vocal therapy after the show to get their voices back to normal. Jensen: I tried to emulate JDM as Dean’s father by speaking with this gravelly voice. I didn’t know I’d been doing this for 15 seasons. I’m a lot older than he was when he played my dad. Jared: Yeah, no kidding!! 
Fan: How do demons deposit sulfur? Jensen: *runs around the stage, making farting noises*
What’s on their bucket lists? And the weirdest thing on there? The fan has an accent that J2 both attempt. Jared says (about the accent): “It’s beautiful and I’m jealous of people who speak better than me, which is everyone.”
We have learned Jared doesn’t have a bucket list. Then he says he would love to go on a helicopter ride. He’s never done it before and it’s the small things. Jensen is unimpressed.
Jared: “What I meant to say was...have a...pet...koala...bear...” Jensen: JUST STOP.
Jensen says, “I want to watch my children grow up.”  
Jared says he can watch his children grow up from the helicopter. Jensen quips, “That’s called helicopter parenting.” 
Jared shakes the fan’s hand and asks where her accent is from, repeating that it’s beautiful. She says, “Yorkshire.” He goes, “no YOU’RE sure.” LOL 
The dad jokes are strong today.
For the final season, this is the first year J2 have said to the writers and producers that they would like to be part of the creative process in the direction and the story of s15. J2 have been invited to the storyboarding with the creators in LA for the final season and definitely want to give their input. They don’t know if they’ll listen, and J2 are prepared for that, but nobody’s lived with Sam and Dean longer than they have. They would love to give input that the show and characters deserve. <3
Jensen: “No one knows these characters more than Jared and I.”
Jared: As a fan of the show, I'd like to offer my input.    
Jensen says they watch the episodes in order to give themselves critical feedback. They don’t read comments on social media re: feedback. 
It’s hard for them to watch themselves as just an audience. Including other TV shows like GOT and This Is Us. 
J2 both loved “Death's Door” then realized we weren't in it much. Jensen: Are we weighing it down? Jared: We're critical of ourselves
Fan: Jensen, you were amazing last night [at the concert]. Jared: Oh, if you think he was amazing last night... :P
Fan asks if Jensen really played piano on Dark Angel and any memories from the show?  It was a little of both Jensen and a pro (close-ups are not him playing). It was a VERY difficult song to learn how to play, Chopin he thinks. He has to think hard to dig up funny stories.
When Jessica Alba gets in the boxing ring (with him) she lined up the punch and hit him RIGHT in the nose. (One of the MANY reasons it’s “so jacked up”) He was too young to say “cut! That hurt!” Realizes he doesn’t do that now, either lol.
Another episode he gets slapped, but the actress wasn’t getting the timing for the fake slap right. She was petite so he assumed it wouldn’t be too bad... But he had a WELT on his face. Whole crew went “oof.”
“Scoobynatural” question for the final scene, how many takes? A small crowd had gathered outside across the street. They’re 20 yards away and can’t hear the regular dialogue. But Jensen knew they would get that last line, and he was embarrassed to say the line because those people wouldn’t know the context. 
Jared: They’re so old they’re animating themselves to be on camera! lol
A fan said she lost her favorite beanie in the Bellagio fountain and was asking on recommendations to get a new one. 
Jared gave his beanie to the fan aww. Then Jensen told Jared that he lost his favorite watch, and Jared immediately took off his watch and gave it to Jensen. Jensen cuddles Jared. Jared then tells Jensen he lost his favorite pair of underwear LOL 
Last question: Fan wants to know where Jensen and Jared went during the “French Mistake” episode.  Jensen says they were at a con. Jared says VegasCon! Or maybe it was Balthazar. But Jensen prefers to think they just didn’t show up for work because “they’re asshole actors.” 
Hugs, standing ovation for the boys, J2 give each other and the fans some love before taking off :) (photo credit: x)
Tumblr media
Info via: Fangasm, Sarah,  #spnlv, #spnvegas
986 notes · View notes
hysterialevi · 5 years ago
Text
Red Dead Rising | Chapter 4
Fanfic summary: 12 YEARS BEFORE RDR2 - Greed, money, and larceny. These are the only things Arthur has ever known; the only things he’s ever been taught. But when Dutch decides to hit a town called Harlow, what started out as nothing more than a plan to rob the local bank ends up igniting the events that lead to RDR2, and a 24 year-old Arthur is forced to confront his morality while the gang faces a terrifying enemy of their own making.
Point of view: third-person
Author’s note: Omg guys I’m sorry this chapter took so long to get out. I hit a writer’s block for a while (and also ran into a few technical difficulties), but I’m finally happy with it. Hope you enjoy and thanks for being so patient.
This story is also on AO3 and Wattpad
Previous chapter
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER
GILLIS FARM
Trotting underneath the golden sun, Arthur rode through the lush grass and rolling hills as he made his way to Gillis Farm, eager to see his fiancée again.
It had been quite some time since the young man last got a chance to visit Mary. For the past couple of months, Arthur had been so busy running around with the gang and planning robberies with them, that he barely had any time to write to the woman, let alone see her in person.
It made him feel guilty, leaving her hanging for so long. They were going to be married soon, after all... and as a husband, he couldn’t afford to leave his wife alone. If Arthur wanted this marriage to work, he’d have to be there for Mary and support her in their new life together. As a couple.
What truly worried Arthur, though... was his recent conversation with Benjamin.
Up until this point, the young outlaw had been convinced that he was more than ready to go through with the marriage. Arthur loved Mary more than anyone else in his life, and he knew the feeling was mutual. They were practically soulmates by now. How could anything go wrong?
But when Benjamin expressed his doubts pertaining to Mary’s commitment, Arthur couldn’t deny that he shared some of the man’s concerns.
Robert had been such an obstacle in their relationship for these past few years that it was impossible to guarantee he wouldn’t have any influence on Mary in the days to come.
...What if Benjamin and Susan were right? What if Mary didn’t love him as much as he thought? Would she really pick her father’s opinion over a new life with him? It shook the young man to the core to even think about it.
If Arthur lost Mary... he didn’t know what he’d do.
He had put so much time and effort into their relationship that if she simply walked away after all this... he’d feel like she was taking a part of him with her.
There was no way Arthur would be able to just “move on” if Mary decided to drop him, and the mere thought of her leaving him put the man in a state of panic.
But... then again, Mary had yet to actually do anything to solidify his doubts. She had been nothing if not compassionate to him so far, and Arthur knew for a fact that their love was mutual.
These thoughts were probably nothing more than temporary anxiety due to their upcoming wedding. This was most-likely what a lot of people went through before their marriage, and Arthur had to remind himself to calm down.
Everything would be okay. He just had to trust Mary.
Finally arriving at Gillis Farm, Arthur steadily slowed Abitha down to a halt and took in the quaint view, admiring the natural beauty surrounding it.
The farm was located on a flat plot of land that seemed to have nothing but open fields stretching out in front of it, and off to the side, Arthur could see a lively collection of farm animals lazing about inside the fenced area.
There were cows, chickens, pigs, goats, and even some horses, too. A few of the creatures lifted their heads in curiosity at the sight of the young man visiting their farm, but the rest of them seemed to be unbothered and simply carried on with their day.
Hopefully, the same would apply to Mary’s family.
Approaching the hitching posts, the outlaw hopped off his mount and left her near the other horses that were also gathered there, giving her a small treat to thank her for the lengthy ride.
The farm wasn’t a long distance from Indigo Peak necessarily, but Arthur would’ve been lying if he said he had no problems navigating the steep hills and rocky rivers dotting the region. It took a good chunk of effort to not slip in a few places, and he definitely didn’t look forward to backtracking through that mess once this visit was over.
Oh, well. He supposed it was worth it if it meant he got to see Mary.
“Good job, girl...” Arthur said softly, feeding Abitha an oatcake. His companion wiggled her pointy ears in gratitude.
“Arthur!” A woman’s voice suddenly called out to him, getting his attention.
Turning around at the sound of his name, Arthur spotted an elated Mary waving to him from the front porch, trying not to trip over her dress as she walked down the steps to greet him.
At the moment, Mary was wearing a simple yellow blouse paired with a navy blue skirt, and her hair had been tied into a stylish bun. A few annoying strands danced around her face due to the light breeze in the area, but that only gave Arthur the chance to tuck them behind her ear before pulling her into a loving embrace.
“Hello, Mary,” he said softly. “It’s good to see you again.”
Mary smiled, hugging him back. “You too, Arthur. You too. I’m so glad you came. How’ve you been?”
Arthur separated the hug and returned the smile. “Good. Busy, but good.” His expression dimmed a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you more often. I wanted to, but... things have been hectic lately.”
The woman didn’t appear to be bothered. “Well, you’re here now, Arthur. That’s what matters.”
She fell silent for a moment, changing the subject.
“Are you, um... still with Dutch and Hosea?”
Arthur nodded, although not proudly. He was well aware of what his fiancée thought about the gang.
“Yes. But don’t worry, Mary. I’m gonna leave ‘em soon. We just have one more job to take care of, and then I’ll be gone once the wedding’s here.”
Mary wasn’t entirely convinced. “Are you sure? You may be willin’ to leave, but... do you really think Dutch and Hosea will let you go that easily?”
“...I don’t know,” he conceded. “Maybe not. But I’m an adult now. Even if they don’t like my decision to leave, I’m sure they’ll respect it.”
That seemed to comfort the woman somewhat.
“That’s good to hear. I just... I don’t want there to be any trouble with gangs once we’re married, Arthur. Things’ll be busy enough as is.”
“There won’t be.” He reassured. “Dutch and Hosea may be outlaws, but they’re good men. They wouldn’t put us in harm’s way.”
Mary paused for a second. “...I was talkin’ about the O’Driscolls.”
Arthur raised a brow. “The O’Driscolls? What about them?”
She lowered her voice, pulling the young man closer to her. “It ain’t no secret that they’re not fond of Dutch’s boys, Arthur. Even if you leave the gang, they’ll still see you as one of them. Are you sure we’ll be safe? That... Colm won’t come after us?”
The outlaw shrugged. “What reason would he have? Colm’s main beef is with Dutch. Not me.”
“I know...” Mary said anxiously. “I just... I worry about you. You’re always out there, runnin’ around and getting shot at. It’s impossible to not fear for your safety.”
Arthur gently placed a hand on the side of Mary’s face. “Everything’ll be alright, Mary. I promise.”
The young woman decided to let go of her worries for now and simply let out a sigh, realizing that it was pointless to repeat the same fears over and over again.
Mary may not have liked Arthur’s involvement with crime, but she was also aware that he couldn’t just drop everything and leave. Despite being an outlaw, Arthur also had his own responsibilities to take care of, and for now... she was just going to have to accept that.
But before she could think anymore on the subject, an intrusive voice suddenly joined the scene and called out to the woman, interrupting the affectionate moment she was sharing with her fiancé.
“Mary!” They exclaimed in a gravelly tone.
She let out an uneasy breath, knowing exactly who it was before even seeing them.
“...Daddy.”
Robert Gillis stomped in their direction, pointing an accusatory finger at Arthur.
“What the hell is he doin’ here? Didn’t I tell you to stay away from this boy?”
Mary tried to defuse the situation. “This ‘boy’ is my fiancé, father. I told you already. I’m gonna marry him. Now, please... just calm down.”
The drunken man scoffed. “Calm down? How do you expect me to calm down when my daughter’s marrying some lying, cheating, piece-of-shit outlaw? Bastard probably came here to rob us!”
“Father!” She scolded. “You know he’s not like that. And besides, I invited Arthur here.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed in disapproval. “...Did you, now?”
Mary nodded staunchly. “Yes. He’s our guest. He just wanted to pay me a visit... and he’s also going to join us for dinner.”
Arthur snapped his head towards her.
“Wait, what?”
Mary stood by her decision. “If this marriage is gonna work out, then you two need to get along... and you can start by sharin’ a meal together. Like a family.”
Robert refused. “...That man ain’t no family of mine.”
The young woman remained persistent. “Well, he’s going be. So please... just for one night, don’t start anything. Both of you. Let’s just... have some dinner in peace. Can you do that? For me?”
Arthur sighed in frustration, suddenly regretting having come here in the first place. What the hell was Mary thinking?
Dealing with Robert was bad enough, but sitting down for an entire meal with him? And for the whole evening? He may as well have just shot himself in the foot and saved Robert the trouble.
But... Arthur did care about Mary. And regardless of how much he may have wanted to strangle Robert sometimes, the man was still her father. If Arthur was going to become part of Mary’s family, he’d have to accept his company eventually, whether he liked it or not.
So, against his better judgement, Arthur figured that if this was what she wanted from him, then... he would do his best to make her happy.
“...Alright.” He agreed, albeit reluctantly. “For you.”
Mary smiled warmly at him. “Really? You mean it? Thank you, Arthur.” She turned to Robert. “...And you, Daddy?”
Robert nailed his stern gaze onto Arthur, not even daring to blink as he gave his daughter an answer.
“...Fine. But he ain’t settin’ one foot in this house with that gun on his waist.”
Mary glanced down at Arthur’s holster. “Why not? You’ve got a gun too, father.”
The older man laughed at that. “Yeah, but mine’s for protection. As for him, his type are always unpredictable. They make a living shootin’ people in the wilderness, and takin’ everything they got. There ain’t no way I’m trusting him to enter my house with a goddamn six-shooter hangin’ off his belt. He wants to sit down at my table? With my daughter? Then he’s gotta follow my rules.”
The young woman shook her head in embarrassment. “...Father, please--”
“--It’s alright, Mary.” Arthur reassured, returning Robert’s glare. “...I’ll put my guns away.”
Keeping his eyes glued on Robert, Arthur reached down to undo his gun belt as the other man watched his every move, monitoring him like a hawk. The last thing Arthur wanted was to do anything Robert asked of him, but at the same time, he also didn’t want to start any trouble when Mary was around.
He knew the woman was just doing her best to have them get along. They were both her family, after all, and if Mary was putting in the effort to make this marriage work, then... Arthur supposed he should, too.
It was something much easier said than done, of course, but Mary mattered to him.
Slipping the accessory off, Arthur turned on his heel and trudged back to Abitha, slinging the loose belt over her saddle as Mary and Robert waited for him.
It was humiliating for Arthur to follow Robert’s commands like this, but he knew the fighting would never end if he didn’t comply. He had to be the bigger man in situations like this, and perhaps that was part of what it meant to be a good husband. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
“There.” Arthur said, patting his empty waist. “No guns.”
Robert wasn’t finished interrogating him just yet. “...Any knives?”
The outlaw had to hold back his annoyance. “...No, sir. Just guns.”
The other man crossed his arms and fell silent for a moment, clenching his jaw in irritation as he stared Arthur down.
“Alright then.” He finally accepted. “You can come in... but if you try anything funny, just remember that I’ve still got my gun on me. And I won’t hesitate to use it. Got it?”
Arthur bit his tongue. “...I got it.”
“Good. Then let’s head inside.” Robert held up a cautionary finger. “And don’t start nothing.”
~~~~~~~~~~
INDIGO PEAK
THAT EVENING
Meandering around camp, Dutch casually sauntered through the scattered trees and tents as he watched his fellow gang members prepare for the upcoming robbery, all of them eager to get things rolling.
It wasn’t too long ago that he informed them of Benjamin’s long awaited update, and even though the robbery was still a week away, the fact that they were finally going to make their move after two whole months had the entire gang on their toes.
Dutch couldn’t deny that he wasn’t without worry, though. This was the first time they’d ever be hitting a bank, and if he was being honest, Dutch had no idea if his men were ready for this. Hosea and Arthur were some of the best outlaws he’d ever met, sure, but neither of them had experience with a heist of this level.
He supposed he’d just have to trust that his people knew what they were doing. Everyone wanted things to go according to plan, after all, and if he learned anything from his time with them, it was that they wouldn’t do anything to botch this robbery.
At least... not on purpose.
Approaching Hosea’s tent, a soft smile crept onto Dutch’s face as he came across a heartwarming scene, causing him to stop in his tracks so he could watch it unfold.
It wasn’t very often that their gang got the opportunity to be at peace like this. Normally, they were always running away from the law or fighting against their enemies... and as anxious as everyone was to rob Harlow’s bank, Dutch knew it’d be a trigger for chaos once it happened.
And so, with a few moments to spare, Dutch simply leaned against a tree and kept his gaze on Hosea, watching as the man carried on with this serene evening.
“...Your reading’s getting much better, Marston.” Hosea praised as the boy examined the book’s text. At the moment, the two of them were sitting side by side on a log just next to the man’s tent.
“Go on,” Hosea urged. “Keep reading.”
John furrowed his brows in confusion, doing his best to concentrate as he mouthed out the words. “...The Indian chief and his son... p-parleed--”
“--Parleyed.” Hosea corrected.
“...parleyed with the... American... ‘ker-nel?” John turned to him for clarification.
“That’s correct. Keep going.”
The boy paused. “Wait, why does ‘colonel’ have an ‘R’ in it? There’s no ‘R’ in the word.”
Hosea shrugged. “I don’t know, John. That’s just the way it is.”
John was quiet for a moment. “...That’s stupid.”
The other man chuckled in amusement. “Perhaps, but that’s how the English language works.”
The boy sighed wearily. “...I’m bored. Can we read the rest tomorrow? I wanna go play with Arthur.”
Hosea glanced up at the darkening sky and shut the book closed, placing it on his lap.
“Yes, I think now’s a good time to stop. It’s getting late. Though... I’m not sure where Arthur is.” His gaze traveled to the man watching them from a distance. “You have any ideas, old friend?”
Dutch pushed himself off the tree, afterwards strolling in their direction. “I believe he’s still with Mary. I know he went to visit her earlier after our talk with Ben.”
A curious expression spread across John’s face. “Are they still gettin’ married?”
Hosea put the book away and stood up from the log. “Yes, I believe so.”
The boy frowned in response. “...Does that mean he’s gonna leave the gang once they’re together?”
Dutch and Hosea fell silent at that, exchanging looks.
“I...” Hosea trailed off, admittedly somewhat sad to think about it, “...I suppose so. He’s got no choice, though. He’ll have a family to take care of.”
John gestured at the three of them. “But we’re his family.”
“True, but everyone grows up eventually, John. Even you will someday. And who knows? You might find a wife of your own when you reach Arthur’s age. You’ll have to be there for her too when that happens.”
The kid rejected the idea. “Then I don’t wanna do that. Not if it means I gotta leave other people behind. That wouldn’t be fair.”
Hosea put a comforting hand on John’s shoulder, urging the boy to get some rest. “Well, there’s still plenty of time before Arthur and Mary... marry. You’ll get to see him again soon enough. Have no fear. Now, go on. Get some sleep. We can continue reading tomorrow.”
John didn’t appear satisfied with the response, but followed Hosea’s instructions nonetheless. “...Okay. I’ll see you in the morning, then. I guess.”
Hopping off the short log, the boy removed himself from the tent’s vicinity and returned to his own corner of the camp, leaving Dutch and Hosea alone as the two men contemplated everything the kid just brought up.
“...He’s got a point, you know.” Hosea said once the silence settled.
Dutch sat next to the other man, plopping himself down on the log.
“About what?”
“About Arthur. He’s gonna be a husband soon, Dutch. He can’t stay with the gang forever. You know that.”
Dutch shrugged in denial. “I dunno. You and Bessie have been married for a few years now and you’re still with us. You don’t think Arthur could do the same?”
“Oh, I’m sure he could. That boy’s capable of practically anything.” Hosea leaned forward, linking his hands together. “But that doesn’t matter. What truly matters... is whether he wants to. And I don’t believe he does.”
The other man stretched his legs out, getting more comfortable on the log. “What makes you say that?”
“Our situation grows more volatile with every second, Dutch. We have lawmen hunting us from the west, rival gangs coming from the north, and God knows what else lurking in the shadows. Not to mention we’ll be robbing a goddamn bank soon. If Arthur wants a stable life with Mary, he’ll have no choice but to leave this one behind. It’s just not possible to juggle the two at the same time.”
Dutch knew Hosea was right, but still remained reluctant to admit it. He saw Arthur as a son, after all. The last thing he wanted was to see the boy leave.
“...It wouldn’t be the same without that little rascal.” Dutch said despondently. “You, me, and Arthur -- it was the three of us that started this whole thing. That boy ain’t just part of our gang, Hosea. He’s part o’ the foundation. If he leaves...”
Hosea rested a hand on Dutch’s shoulder, trying to help him come to terms with reality.
“I’ll miss him too, old friend. But Arthur’s his own man now. To be honest, I feel like he always has been. If he wants to start a new life with Mary, then perhaps that’s what’s best for him. Better than the life of crime we’ve given him, anyhow.”
Dutch let out a heavy breath, slouching his shoulders. “...I suppose we’ve done all we can for him, haven’t we? Sometimes I forget he’s all grown up now.”
Hosea chuckled. “You and me both. But time moves on, and we have to move with it, Dutch. The most we can do now is wish Arthur luck in his marriage.”
With that said, Hosea stood up from the log with a soft grunt and picked up the storybook he was reading with John earlier, leaving Dutch to his thoughts.
“Well, anyway... I think Bessie’s gonna start cookin’ dinner soon. I should go help. See if she needs anything. In the meantime, try not to think too much about it. Arthur loves us too, y’know, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want us to worry about him.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “...If only that were possible.”
Dutch returned the laugh, returning to his own activities. “Indeed. Stay safe out there, Hosea. I have a feelin’ this week’s gonna go out with a bang.”
“Oh yes, old friend.” The other man agreed. “If there’s one thing I don’t doubt -- it’s that.”
~~~~~~~~~~
GILLIS FARM
A WHILE LATER
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
That was the only thing Arthur could hear as he picked aimlessly at his food, sitting awkwardly at the dining table and waiting for this torturous evening to come to an end.
For the whole meal so far, the rest of Mary’s insufferable family had been discussing nothing but politics and religion as if they lived and breathed the two subjects -- and every once in a while, one of them would turn to Arthur and ask the outlaw for his input.
It was probably the most pretentious conversation he’d ever been a part of. It was evident to the young man that none of these people truly had any interest in politics, and merely brought up the topic because they knew Arthur despised discussing these sort of things. Not to mention the fact that they also assumed him to be highly uneducated, and therefore saw his presence as an opportunity to make themselves feel more intelligent.
The only person at this table who wasn’t irritating the living hell out of Arthur at the moment was Mary herself, but even she had caused him some level of annoyance due to her forcing the man to go through this in the first place.
Arthur just wanted this night to end. He was already well aware of how Mary’s family felt about him, and he doubted that sharing one meal with them would change anything. Hell, Robert already threatened to shoot him before he even set foot in the goddamned house. It was unlikely that a simple chicken dinner would be enough to bring the two men together.
“...Did you hear?” Mary’s aunt Loretta asked as she buttered some bread. “Apparently Reuben Walsh has been at Margaret Whitaker’s throat ever since his father passed. They just can’t see eye to eye.”
Loretta’s husband Wilfred scoffed. “Those two fools will tear Mercy apart with their political war before anything gets solved. They’ve got gangs coming at them from every direction, and yet they’re more concerned about whose crown shines brighter? Abraham Walsh may’ve been old, but at least he knew how to keep the peace.”
Robert laughed at the statement, deciding to throw his own two cents in. “Keep the peace? The only thing that miserable old coot did was swipe all of Mercy’s problems under the carpet. Some people call Reuben reckless, but he’s the only person who’s got the balls to do something about the crime in that town. After all, nothing’s pretty when you’re dealing with that sorta lot. It’s about time Whitaker learned that.”
Mary’s grandmother Helga offered her thoughts. “Well, there are rumors suggesting that the reason Miss Whitaker has been so much of a pacifist is because she’s working with the gangs. It sounds like they’re the only ones keeping her in power.”
“Well, of course they are,” Robert replied. “You don’t get to that high of a position with that amount of ease unless you got someone in your pocket.”
Loretta set her knife down, glancing in Arthur’s direction. “What do you think, Mr. Morgan? I understand that you’re, um... familiar with that sort of lifestyle. Who do you think is in the right?”
Arthur paused for a moment, admittedly unsure of what to say.
“Um...” he said sheepishly, “...I-I’m afraid I don’t know enough about Mercy’s situation to really give an opinion, ma’am.”
“Well then, let me run it down for you.” Loretta offered. Arthur wished she hadn’t.
“The Whitakers and the Walshes are the two most powerful families in Mercy,” she explained. “They both carry an extravagant amount of wealth and influence, but recently, have butted heads with each other. You see, Mercy has always had quite a persistent problem with local gangs in the area, and both of these families want to deal with them. They just disagree on how.”
Arthur tried to pretend he was interested. “What do they wanna do?”
“Margaret Whitaker believes that their town is too small to stand up to such a large amount of outlaws, and thinks that the safest solution is to negotiate a deal with them in order to keep the peace in Mercy. As for Reuben Walsh, he would prefer to take on a more direct approach. He thinks that Margaret’s plan to negotiate with them will only lead to more trouble, and wants to wipe out the criminals entirely. But by doing so, he would risk an open war with Lord knows how many gangs.”
Wilfred jumped in. “Not to mention that the man himself is also a cripple. Apparently, the boy’s half blind and moves around in a wheelchair. A wheelchair, for heaven’s sake! How can a man like that fight against anyone?”
Robert boomeranged the subject back to Arthur. “Well? Any thoughts?”
The young man let out a sigh, thinking deeply about the argument.
What did they expect him to say? They all knew he was an outlaw himself, and there was no question that they dragged him into this God-awful conversation purely to put him on the spot.
Still, Arthur knew he’d have to give them some kind of answer if he wanted to keep them satisfied. Yeah, they might’ve been doing this just to humiliate him, but if it meant being one step closer to finishing this nightmare of an evening, he’d do anything.
“...Whitaker, I guess.” Arthur replied. “Why risk more peoples’ lives when you’ve already got a solution standin’ in front of you?”
Surprisingly, Loretta seemed to approve of the response. “Well said. It’s never pleasant to deal with these sorts of people, but when there’s that many of them crying out for blood on the horizon, sometimes you’ve got no choice but to comply.”
Robert, on the other hand, only appeared to dislike Arthur even more. “Yeah, of course he would agree with that.”
“What do you mean by that?” Arthur asked, sounding more irritated than he intended. The young man couldn’t deny that his ability to hold back was deteriorating by the minute.
“...You know damn well what I mean.” Robert fired back. Mary shot a disappointed look at him.
“Daddy, please. Not now.”
“If not now, then when? You know what kind of a man he is, Mary! He may say he’s prepared to commit to a marriage with you, but we all know he’s always gonna be an outlaw at heart. That boy’s gonna get you killed someday, and you’re gonna wish you listened to me!”
Arthur decided to bite his tongue and reached for his drink, only to find himself gripping the glass harder and harder the more Robert prattled on about him.
“Nothin’ to say, Mr. Morgan?” The man challenged. “Oh, you’re big and bad when you’ve got a gun in your hand, alright, but face a real man for once, and suddenly you’ve gone mute!”
“Daddy!” Mary reiterated. “Please! That’s enough. I didn’t bring Arthur here just so you two could start an argument! I brought him here because I wanted you two to start gettin’ along! Is that so hard?”
“He’s got no place in this family, Mary!” Robert exclaimed. “In fact, he’s got no business being on this farm at all. I only let him in because you asked me to. But look at the man! He hasn’t got a single, goddamn clue what any of us are talkin’ about. He’s got no education, no real job, and no real family! The closest thing he’s got to family is a group of dirty, filthy, worthless inbreds!”
Arthur suddenly sprang straight up from his chair and glared at Robert, unable to restrain himself anymore.
Mary jumped at the abrupt motion and held an arm in front of Arthur, desperately attempting to diffuse the situation.
“Arthur! Please, sit down!”
“See?!” Robert accused, pointing a finger at him. “What’d I tell you? The man’s an animal!”
Arthur firmly placed his hands on the table, leaning towards the other man.
“You got somethin’ to say, you say it to my face when you ain’t cowering behind your own daughter. The only reason I agreed to share a meal with you is ‘cause I wanted to smooth things over, but that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna sit here and take this nonsense!”
Robert glowered at Arthur. “...Excuse me?”
The young man tore the napkin from his lap and tossed it down on the table. “No, I’ve excused you enough for one night. I’m done.”
Storming out of the farm at the speed of light, Arthur made a swift exit and left the rest of Mary’s family in a state of shock as the woman herself chased after him, following her fiancé into the cool weather of the night.
“Arthur!” She called out. “Wait!”
But the young man ignored her and simply carried on with his escape, heading towards the hitching posts.
“Arthur!” Mary repeated, desperate to get his attention. “Please! Just... hold on a moment!”
The outlaw stopped in his tracks, letting out a frustrated breath. “What, Mary? What more do you want from me? Look, I tried, okay? I really did. But I can’t go back in there. There’s nothing in this world that could please that sorry excuse of a man.”
The young woman frowned. “That’s my father you’re talkin’ about, Arthur.”
Arthur unhitched Abitha from the post and retrieved his gun belt. “Well, what else d’you want me to say, Mary? That he’s a nice man? That... he’s kind and compassionate?”
Mary sighed. “Whatever you may think of him, he’s still my father. I just want you two to get along. Is that too much to ask?”
The man shook his head. “Listen... I love you, Mary, but your father is never going to accept me. It’s clear that he’s already made up his mind, and there’s nothin’ we can do to change it.”
“Well, your outburst certainly didn’t help things, Arthur.”
The outlaw was perplexed. “What did you expect me to do? Just sit there and take it? You heard the way he was talkin’ about Dutch and Hosea. About these people I consider to be my family. How can you expect me to respect him when he doesn’t respect me?”
Mary crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I know my father did wrong tonight, but all I wanted this evening was for the both of you to put your differences aside. Can you not even do that?”
Arthur mounted his horse, gesturing back to the farm. “Maybe you should ask him that question.”
Falling into silence, the couple took a minute to gather themselves as Mary’s family started cleaning up inside, causing the distant sound of clattering plates to reach their ears.
It had been a long night for the both of them, but Arthur was especially worried about what sort of impact this incident was going to have on their marriage. He couldn’t help but repeat what Benjamin said to him over and over again in his head, and the more he thought about the man’s words, the more he started to think he may’ve had a point.
Perhaps Mary was going to choose Robert over him. It was evident that she still loved the man despite his drunken behavior, and no matter what Arthur did, it always felt like the other man had the upper hand when it came to influencing Mary’s decisions.
Jesus Christ... what kind of hole had Arthur dug himself into this time?
“...Look, Mary,” Arthur said softly, breaking the silence, “I’m sorry for what happened tonight. I didn’t mean for things to turn out like this, but... I just can’t deal with that man anymore. I can’t go back in.”
Mary nodded in an understanding manner and watched sorrowfully as Arthur led Abitha away from the posts, preparing to go home.
“I... I understand, Arthur. Thank you for trying, at least. I know you didn’t want this. I just wish things could’ve gone better.”
Arthur hung his head low. “...Yeah. Me too.”
She walked up to him. “Well... anyways, it’s gettin’ late. You should probably head back to camp now. I reckon Dutch and Hosea might be wondering where you are. Try to stay safe, okay?”
The outlaw gave her a reassuring look. “I will. You take care of yourself too, Mary.”
The woman returned the remark with a caring smile, bidding her fiancé farewell as he disappeared into the night. “I will.”
7 notes · View notes
rosemaidenvixen · 5 years ago
Text
Gruss vom Krampus
One night on patrol Jim experiences a case of mistaken identity.
Ao3
Jim vaulted the fence in a single leap and landed in a crouch in a snowbank, holding as still as he could. Sirens flared briefly before fading into the distance. He let out a sigh of relief, he should really be more careful when hunting down goblins in a suburb, but it looked like he was in the clear.
A soft whimper came from behind him.
Crap, spoke too soon.
Jim froze, the eclipse armor was good as a stealth suit, but only provided he didn’t start jumping around in it. That was pretty hard to miss. Holding the rest of his body perfectly still, Jim slowly turned his head in the direction of the sound.
Two-- no three, kids were huddled against the side of the house, practically shaking in their snow boots, eyes wide with fear.
Jim’s heart sank in a way that had become far too familiar in the past six months. There were obvious cosmetic differences between humans and trolls, and to the unfamiliar the latter could appear...intimidating, and the black-red glow of the eclipse armor didn’t help. 
He tried to swallow the unexpected tightness in his throat. These were just kids, the biggest one of them couldn’t be more than eight years old, and Jim was a seven foot tall, horned intruder in their backyard. There was no reason for him to be upset, it was perfectly natural for them to--
“....please don’t take us away Mr. Krampus…”
Wait, what?
Careful to stay in a crouched position, not wanting to frighten them any more than he already had. Jim turned to face them.
“Hi there,” he hoped his smile came off as friendly rather than bearing his fangs “What was that you just called me?”
They were silent for a few beats before a girl with dark curly hair took a step forward, it looked like she was the oldest of the bunch “You’re Krampus...aren’t you?”
Krampus? What was-- oh yeah, Krampus was the Christmas demon. He’d heard about that before, some kind of reverse Santa, punishing bad kids instead of rewarding good ones. 
Jim let out a sigh of relief. An easy mistake for a kid to make, with the horns and the black armor and all, at least the secret world of trolls wasn’t exposed.
He could work with this.
“Yep,” he sat back on a snow drift, stretching his legs out in front of him “I’m Krampus,”
The kids let out a chorus of wails, whimpering as they pressed themselves even harder against the wall of the house. 
Jim blinked. Oh, that’s right, Krampus punished kids...woops.
“But I’m not here to punish you guys!” he said hurriedly.
“You’re-- you’re not?” one boy sniffled.
“Nope, I’m just in the neighborhood, taking care of some...other naughty people, not any of you,”
“But…” the littlest one peeked past the others, a girl of about four or five, massive afro crushed under her glittery, pink hat “I ate the cookies that were for my grandma,”
“I lied to my mom,”
“I cheated on a test at school,”
“I took my best friend’s necklace without asking,”
Jim sat hunched in the snow while the elementary age group rattled off their ‘sins’ to him. How was he going to fix this? He really wished he was better with kids. 
What would Strickler say to them? Scratch that, what would his mom say?
“Ok...look,” he twisted his hands together “You know why doing those things was bad, right?”
They nodded.
“And,” he gestured toward the afro headed girl that had first confessed “You said sorry to your grandma right?”
She nodded “Yeah, and I helped make more cookies for her,”
Jim looked back towards the other two “And you all said sorry and tried to fix things to, right?”
They all nodded. 
“That’s what’s important, everyone makes mistakes and does bad things, but it’s ok as long as you apologize, help fix things, and try to do better next time,”
The kids whispered among themselves, slowly detaching from the brick wall of the house. 
“So, wait…” the bespeckled boy spoke up “If you don’t punish people for doing that stuff, what do you punish them for?”
Jim’s face went blank, he had not thought that far ahead into his ‘Krampus’ persona.
“You see I….” one of his feet tapped nervously against the ground “Stop people that are naughty...from....hurting other people,”
Seeing as how the kids weren’t screaming, Jim kept going “And if someone’s doing things that would hurt people and doesn’t stop or say sorry or try to fix things, that’s when I come in to stop them,”
Pink hat afro girl scurried up to him, eyes wide and curious “Like who?”
“Well...uh…” Jim struggled to come up with something to tell them, improv was not his strong suit “There was once this really bad guy named Gunmar...”
That was how Jim found himself retelling a heavily edited version of the battle of eternal night to three kids while sitting in a snowbank at nine o clock at night. By the end the kids, whose names he learned were Marisol, Liam, and Veronica, were practically sitting on top of him, Veronica’s pink hat dangling from one of his horns. 
“...and so with my friends helping me we were able to lock Morgana up in Shadow jail,”
“Whoa…” Liam whispered, eyes wide with awe, expressions mirrored by Marisol and Veronica.
“Yep,” Jim said while getting up to his feet “That’s how it happened,” he handed the sparkly pink hat back to Veronica, who wasted no time in shoving her afro into it.
Jim was glad he’d been able to calm them down, but now that he’d thought about it for a while, something was bugging him.
“So what are you guys all doing outside so late at night?”
Marisol sheepishly pointed at a large, but crumbly looking mound of snow “We were trying to build a wall so we could keep you out,” she flushed and looked down at her snow boots “Sorry,”
All Jim could do was stare at the sad looking pile of snow that couldn’t even stop a racoon, much less a troll like him. Maybe things had changed since he was a little kid, but as far as Jim remembered, building snow walls to keep out demons was not a typical holiday activity. 
“Why were you doing that?”
“Emily told us it would work,”
Jim raised an eyebrow at that “Emily?”
“Our babysitter,” Liam held out a small box “She told us about you and showed us the movie,”
Curious, Jim reached out and plucked up the offered box. It was a DVD case titled ‘A Christmas Horror Story’ showing a staff wielding Santa Claus facing off against a tall chain-swinging, horned figure that-- ok the movie actually looked pretty cool, he was definitely going to have to show it to Toby later. But it was rated R, these kids were way too young for that. 
“So Emily, your babysitter, showed you guys this movie and then told you to go outside and build a snow wall to keep Kr-- me out?”
The trio nodded.
Jim frowned “No one’s going to come attack you guys, not me or anyone else, Emily shouldn’t have told you that, and it was really...not nice of her to scare you like this,”
Marisol’s eyes widened “Are you going to...punish her?”
“No,” Jim stepped around the side of the house, looking for the breaker box “I’m just going to have a talk with her,”
*
“Great job getting rid of the rugrats,”
Emily giggled and plopped down on the couch next to Jacob. Scaring the twerps with that movie and sending them outside to build a wall to keep ‘Krampus’ out was the best idea she’d ever had. She’d barely been able to keep from laughing the whole time. Now they were free to make out on the couch while the munchkins were out digging the snow for the rest of the night.
Leaning back, she cuddled even closer to Jacob “So where does your mom think you are?”
He smirked and wrapped an arm around her “In the dorms working on my thesis, that should get me out of any holiday dinners this year,”
Emily grinned “Perfect,” she licked her lips and moved in for a kiss, Jacob puckered up and prepared to meet her.
Suddenly all the lights shut off, plunging the room into darkness and causing them to freeze in their pre kiss. 
“Is this a blackout?” Jacob said while propping them both up into a sitting position.
A quick glance out the window revealed that the sparkling red and green Christmas lights of the houses on either side of them were still lit.
“I don’t think so, none of the other houses are dark,”
Squirming uncomfortably, Emily pushed herself up off the couch “C’mon, there should be some flashlights in the kitchen,”
Jacob stood and followed her as she headed over to the next room. She reached out and was about to turn the knob when she heard a loud clang coming from within. 
Her heart skipped a beat. She whipped back towards Jacob “Did you hear that?”
His wide eyes and pale face told her that he most certainly had. Not saying anything, Jacob slowly reached into the duffle bag behind the couch and pulled out two baseball bats, wood and aluminum. He gripped the wooden one firmly and soundlessly passed the aluminum one to her. 
Emily gave him a quick nod of gratitude before gently grasping the knob and easing the door open. 
“Marisol? Liam? That you in there?”
No reply.
Pulse pounding in her ears, Emily slowly stepped into the kitchen, Jacob on her heels, scanning the room for axe wielding maniacs. 
The room appeared empty, save for the table and chairs swathed in shadows.
No serial killers in sight.
Emily was about to sigh in relief when the door slammed shut behind them. Causing them both to jump and let out a shriek.
“I hear you’ve been talking about me,” a gravelly voice snarled.
An enormous figure stood by the door. It was too dark to see him clearly, but glowing red lines running down his arms and legs pulsed through the shadows and let them know exactly how massive he was. Emily squinted, what was wrong with his he--
“You want to know what’s really naughty?” the figure stalked towards them, moving slowly but with deliberate purpose “Purposefully scaring kids that you’re supposed to be taking care of,” 
Emily felt the blood drain from her face as the figure came into view. He looked different than in the movie and the pictures she’d seen online, but there was no mistaking those horns. 
Krampus. 
The real Krampus.
Instinct took over and she swung the bat at his temple with all her might. 
He caught the bat in his hand without so much as flinching.
A shudder coursed through her as Emily started trembling all over. From the corner of her eye she could see Jacob doing much of the same.
Oh god, she told the kids about Krampus just to scare them and now the real Krampus was here and she and Jacob were going to die here like dumb teenagers in a bad slasher film and--
Krampus snorted and released the bat. It slipped from Emily’s limp grip and fell to the floor with a metallic clang.
“I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, but if you pull something like this again,” he let out a low growl “I won’t be as understanding. Got it?”
Somehow Emily still had enough of her faculties left intact to nod slowly.  
“Good,” Krampus gave them a smile that would have been threatening enough even without exposing his sharp teeth “You all enjoy the rest of your night,”
With that Krampus turned and left, shutting the kitchen door behind him. Emily and Jacob didn’t move an inch the entire time, fear rooting them in place. After a few minutes the lights flicked back on.
Less than ten seconds later Jacob dropped his bat and started bawling. Emily sank to the floor, feeling as hot and limp as an overcooked noodle. The raw terror slowly draining away formed its own kind of numbness, like warm, lumpy oatmeal slogging its way through her veins.
She was faintly aware of Jacob fumbling for his phone while scampering in the direction of the front door.
He punched at the screen with his thumbs and raised it to his ear just before heading out the door “H-- Hello, Mom? I-- I-- I’m sorry, I’m not working on my thesis-- I lied...” 
His words trailed off in a sob as the door shut behind him, leaving Emily alone in the house. Kneeling on the kitchen floor, staring at the four, perfect finger shaped dents in the aluminum bat.
*
Jim flipped the master switch of the breaker box back into place, brightening the dark house.
It looked like things were pretty well taken care of here. But he really had to get back and regroup with the others.
He turned towards the three kids “So remember guys, anytime you think someone is trying to scare you with a story like that, tell your parents. They’ll know for sure if it’s true or not,”
Jim paused, feeling like he should add onto that “And if you see anymore...magic...creatures like me, be careful, not all of us are nice, ok?”
“Uh huh,” 
“Yep,”
“Yes,”
“Good,” he headed back towards the fence “I need to take off now so--”
He was caught off guard by Veronica running up to him and hugging him around the legs. Effectively holding him hostage despite their vast differences in size and strength “Thanks for visiting Mr. Krampus,”
Touched and more than a little flustered, Jim attempted to return the gesture by giving her a soft pat on the back “Happy to help, you guys take care now,”
Veronica released his legs, allowing Jim to jump to the top of the fence, swinging a leg over the top, getting ready to leave.
Marisol, Liam, and Veronica waved goodbye from the snow filled backyard.
“Bye, Merry Christmas,” Marisol shouted out to him, parroted by Liam and Veronica seconds later.
“Merry Christmas,” Jim called back with a wave, with that he turned and leapt off the fence, taking off into the dark, snowy night.
A/N: A Christmas Horror story is a real movie and one I highly recommend, but definitely not for kids.
The scene at the end was based on what happened to me when I helped out with the Christmas party in my mom's kindergarten class. I spent the whole time decorating cookies with them and as I was about to leave, one of the kids ran up and hugged me. It definitely caught me off guard, but I was pretty touched.
36 notes · View notes
roseofithaca · 5 years ago
Text
Witcher thoughts so far
I’ve not read the books or played the games so I don’t have those to compare it to, just going in as a fantasy fan wanting some new fantasy to wash GOT out of my mouth.
Okay, tell a lie, I’ve played about an hour of Witcher 3. It came with my Switch...Lite. Yeah, pretty much the second I started I thought; “Oh my god, this is gorgeous! I can’t play it on a little screen!” I tried anyway but it was too jarring and the combat isn’t the sort I like. I wish I could play it on my PS4 but I’m having some fan troubles with that at the moment which makes any game an annoyance to play right now with what sounds like a vacuum in the background.
But I have seen quite a few cutscenes and know the general gist of the story. And I am really, really interested in this set up and these characters. The whole Found Family trope is my favourite and this core dynamic between Geralt, Yen and Ciri seems to be the heart of the story and interviews that came out before the show seemed to confirm that it would be the heart of the show as well.
So after binging all 8 episodes, how is it? Good.
I can’t say I was massively hyped because, again, I’m going in as a newcomer mostly and I also kept in mind this would be a smaller budget that a HBO show like GOT or HDM. The effects themselves are really hit or miss. The physical fight scenes are impressive and feel very real, as do some of the monsters when Geralt is slaying them. The misses are when there is magic or things being summoned and....oh, those dragons. Those dragons made me cringe. I wasn’t expecting Drogon level of quality but, c’mon, Merlin is about a decade old now (and a BBC budget show) and that’s all it kept reminding me off. Some of the contact lenses looked a bit too bright as well, especially on Yen, but that might have been the point? Like when she walks into a room after she’s been transformed, her face looked almost...Alita-ish. I’m not knocking Alita at all, just saying there was definitely things ‘off’ with Yen’s face with her eyes in certain scenes, but that may have been a way to show how ‘fake’ her surgery/magical make-up whatever was. IDK.
A lot of the dialogue feels uneven. It’s really jarring to hear cliche words about destiny this and destiny that and then have it followed by modernish banter and swearing. A lot of those more cliche lines were just not needed; like the final scene is really sweet and mostly quiet, but then Geralt repeats this line we only heard a few minutes ago and it was just not needed, the audience is smart enough to remember. I was hoping he would just say a name and that would be enough, it would feel natural. There’s quite a lot of ‘tell more than show’ moments and, I get it, it is difficult to get across a lot of lore in fantasy and I never felt too lost but there are a lot of words and names I either forgot or got mixed up so when people are talking politics and wars it’s a struggle to remember who is who.
One thing I know will annoy a lot of people but I actually love is the timelines. I remember reading something in the lead up about how the Witcher was “part mystery” and I assumed it would just mean episodic monster-mysteries with an overarching narrative. And it is, but the mystery also extends to the narrative itself, as it’s told between three points of view and the show isn’t restricted to one timeline for all three characters. It’s not like OUAT where one scene you’re with a character in this time and then next scene you’re with them in the past, that used to really grate on me. I much prefer this because I like seeing how this world and these characters tie together and also getting to work it out ourselves and then get to look back on past episodes and see things like; “oh they were there the whole time?!” I dunno why, I just love things like that. But I get how it’s not for everyone.
I honestly don’t know what to say about the characters so far, even the main leads. The actors are all incredible. I know I’ll get hate for this but I much prefer the voice of this Geralt to the games’ Geralt. Nothing against the voice actor as an actor, because I’ve watched the cutscenes and he is really good, it’s just the voice itself which is too gravelly for me. Maybe it’s described that way more in the books, idk, it’s just not for me. Yennefer I actually prefer in the games but that’s not to knock show!Yen, she’s still really good and has a lot of different emotions to work with in this series alone. It feels really good to see her last moment when compared to how we met her (god I just wish we could see her go back to her stepfather’s home and burn his ass. Same with Zelena in OUAT, don’t show me an anti-hero’s abusive backstory unless I get to see vengeance!). Ciri is....hmm. I need more time with Ciri because I don’t feel she’s had as much to do as Geralt and Yen other than be scared and run. I’d have liked to see more of the playful side we glimpsed in the first episode. I’m assuming they’ve aged her up from the games and books as well? In the first cutscene of Wild Hunt she looks about 8 or 10? Here she’s about twelve / thirteen. I know it’s a small change and I get why they have to age up kid characters (same as they did with the Starks and Dany) but it just would have been nice to see more of Ciri I guess getting to be a real kid. I just instantly fell in love with little Ciri in Wild Hunt. I’m sure when we see her interactions with Geralt and eventually Yen then she’ll get a lot more to do and, again, that is the dynamic I am excited for.
So yeah, it’s nothing that really blew me away, but it definitely kept me hooked enough to binge and I want more. Like. Now!
3 notes · View notes
floralseokjin · 6 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
sometimes it’s best to remember the past is just a memory...
pairing | kim seokjin x reader genre | angst, suggestive content, mention of a miscarriage words | 6,411
inspired by | Haruki Murakami’s short story “A Folklore for my Generation…”
listen to | Epiphany, Autumn outside of the post office and Tonight/This night
Tumblr media
He had not been imagining it.
Your voice had sounded the same last time and it did now. On the phone at half past nine in the evening. Age didn’t change a thing. The slight lilt in your tone, the dreamy murmur that sometimes broke into an accidental whisper, it was the same as all those years ago.
His was not. He was certain.
Stresses and strains from work, and just life in general had surely changed that. His voice was a lot deeper now, gravelly. Maybe even monotone at times. He had forgotten what it felt like to speak with enthusiasm. In fact, he had forgotten that emotion all together over the years.
It wasn’t an immediate thing. Gradual, definitely. Failed employment, then overwork, then failed relationships. These past six years had really taken its toll on him. He wondered if he looked old. You hadn’t said anything upon bumping into him six days ago.
That’s where this had all began. Six days were nothing, gone in the blink of an eye usually. However since seeing you, they had dragged by. He suddenly had more hours to ponder on what ifs and should haves. Torture really. One he thought he’d escaped years ago. He’d told himself to be quiet. To stop acting like he was nineteen again. It was stupid. It was reckless, but it was also impossible to quit. Not now anyway.
It had been six days since he’d last seen you. Six years before that. But here you are now, on the phone. You speak like you’re having a catch up with an old friend. It makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say anything. A part of him doesn’t want to stop you because you sound so happy prattling on. It brings back memories of when you used to call him in the middle of the night back at school. Maybe that’s why your voice falls so naturally into a whisper. Habit. A habit with him.
He wants to ask you how you got his number, but he is also a creature of habit. You know this. He’s had the same cell phone number since he was seventeen. It follows each stupid bit of technology he purchases. Maybe he should have changed it. He would not be having this conversation of he had. But then… Did that mean you’d kept his number after all this time? Saved in your own phone: Seokjin. The thought made his heart feel funny. He had deleted yours the night you’d broken his heart. He’d regretted it immediately. He’d given up the fight.
It also meant you still knew him well. You still knew he was that creature of habit. That was both reassuring and painful at the same time. Sat on his leather sofa, inside the apartment he lived in by himself, listening to your voice, he truly felt pathetic.
You tell him you live just on the outskirts of the city now, a four-bedroom house. One of those new modern ones built just two years ago. He closes his eyes and repeats something he once knew off by heart inside his head. White picket fence, red bricked walls, a slate grey front door. That’s what you’d wanted when you were nineteen. You’d told him too many times to remember exactly. Your dream house with who you’d live in with your husband. It was always husband, never him. At the time he thought you hadn’t wanted to tempt fate, to scare him off even, but no, you really had never been picturing a future with him. It filled him with a warped satisfaction to find you were not living in that dream house. Childish. Stupid, because you probably didn’t even care. You probably didn’t even remember. He was a fool for holding on.
A fool always.
He had been a fool for you ever since that first meeting. You’d gone to different schools. His an all boy, yours an all girl, but he’d grown infatuated the moment you were introduced at one of the soccer games his school held. You were a cousin of a friend. That friend he no longer knew the name of. Funny how some memories stick and others didn’t. You were embedded into his memory. It was only a given after all the times you’d shared.
He was shy and inexperienced when it came to girls. Seventeen years of age and hadn’t even held hands with one. You were much the same, maybe that’s why you worked so well together. Each other’s first in many ways. Until it ended. Even now it was hard to understand where it all went wrong. Was it always supposed to be that fleeting? He guessed in ways you had told him that from day one.
Kissing you really was addictive. It was all you both did, and for a while that was enough, but his body was soon raging with hormones he couldn’t ignore. However, you refused to take things further. Kissing and over the shirt groping, sometimes you even let him see hints of your bra. It was infuriating for his incessant horny mind. You didn’t touch him though. He was left to boil and ache as you kissed for hours on your bed in your room. He was always kicked out ten minutes before your parents were due home from work. He told himself it was okay because at least he got to feel the warm swell of your breasts under his palms. It was okay because he had the privacy of his own bedroom when he got back home…
You were saving yourself for marriage. That’s what you told him, and he accepted your wishes without any whining. He told himself he could wait a few more years. In hindsight he realised how naïve he had been, how in love. He truly thought he’d be the one to marry you. He’d thought you were going to be his forever… In fact, it was just two years. The last two of high school before he went away to college. You were staying home.
Looking back, six years having passed, two is nothing, but he still holds onto it like it’s all he has, or all he had. He remembered he was beyond sick the night before he had to leave. The only thing that made it better had been when you’d invited him to spend the night at your house. Your parents had left on vacation, and he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to lie next to one another and sleep. It was all he wanted. It would get him through this first semester until he could visit and see you again. However, to his surprise, you wanted to do more than lie…
You’d kissed him so hard that night he couldn’t catch his breath, let alone speak, especially with a mantra of I love you’s falling from your tongue between tangled mouths. He felt like he was floating, momentarily distracted from the reality of tomorrow. So he was stunned when he felt your hand touch him. Want in the place of love. I want you, I want you, I want you. You wanted him. He was so thrilled he’d forgotten to ask what made you change your mind.
However quickly, he’d gotten scared, the pressure of the situation sinking in as you lie under him, bare and beautiful. He remembered you’d felt so tiny in his hands, as if he could break you at any given moment. He had been so scared. So scared. But the warmth of your body soon filled him with reassurance and love. It was like he’d been made for this. Made to make you feel good, made to hear his name fall from your lips in breathy whispers.
It seemed a little unfair that you couldn’t repeat such an act. Once was torturous, not now that he’d had a taste of how amazing it was to love you fully, but at least it made his travel a little lighter. Made the distance seem shorter. Now he had a reason to return. It hadn’t crossed his mind that the night could be considered a parting farewell…
Looking back, it probably was in your mind, but because you loved him dearly, you couldn’t give him up just yet. Even though you knew at the time you needed to. He didn’t blame you. He never had. It was just one of those things.
You were together just six more months.
In that time he’d visited during semesters too, unable to stay away for too long. You made love copious amounts, unable to keep your hands off one another for longer than five minutes. He liked that. Making love to you. He never wanted to stop. Back at college he would brag to anyone who would listen. That he had a girlfriend back at home, you’d dated for two years, and he loved you very much. Perhaps he had tempted fate in the end…
That night in his car, parked in an abandoned car lot, the rain pelting down against the glass, he knew it was over before you even opened your mouth. You had been distant for a while before, taking too long to reply to his messages and not picking up when he called you. He knew time had run out, but he still wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t proud of it, but that night he’d begged. It most definitely wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be the man you’d love forever, he wanted to be the man you’d marry, but you were adamant he couldn’t be. When he asked if you’d ever loved him, you had cried. Loudly and messily, fat, chunky tears falling down your face. Of course you’d loved him, you still did, but it had to be over. Why was he making this so difficult? He knew the end had to come soon. He knew, somehow he knew, but he couldn’t let it happen. It was too soon. Then you’d continued, telling him how that first night together was supposed to be the last too, but you were weak. You’d wanted to share your body with him, but in the end couldn’t stop. You’d only caused yourself more heartbreak now.
Your best friend was getting married. You’d heard the news two weeks ago, around the same time you’d stopped replying to his messages. It all made sense. This man was older, he had a job, a house. He was already set and could look after your friend. Seokjin was in his first year at college, no money to his name. He had nothing to give you, bar his love, but that’s wasn’t enough. He’d tried to change your mind, begged you to give him a chance. He’d graduate, and he’d get a well paying job, a house. He’d look after you, all you had to do was wait. He’d clung to your hands, wet with your tears that still fell, while his stayed lodged in his tear ducts, unable to free. They didn’t even fall when you had shaken your head and told him your parents didn’t want that. They didn’t want you to wait.
He’d swallowed tight and respected their wishes that night, driving you home in silence apart from your sobs. When he stopped the car you’d kissed him one last time. It felt different, now a true parting farewell. It tasted different too. Salty from your tears. He never had forgotten that taste, even years later…
Six months later he heard from your cousin, the friend he nor longer remembers the name of, that you were engaged to a man four years older. Already graduated, freshly employed, a house in his name. That was the day he’d finally let the tears fall.
Now here you were, nearly five years into the marriage. A failed degree, now a housewife. No children, no pets. Just you and your husband. Although, maybe just you… To put that modern roof over your head he had to work long hours, often away. That’s what you tell Seokjin on the phone. He half-way listens, lost in thoughts of the past. He wonders if you’re happy. Happier now than you were back then, and as if on cue, you open your mouth to ask a question. He can hear your lips part against his ear as if you’re here in person, a second away from kissing his lobe. He always did like that.
“Don’t you ever feel like you’ve made mistakes in your life?”
That’s a loaded question. He sucks on his breath as he tries to think of an answer. It’s only polite, you are asking him after all. But he still knows you quite well to understand your true intentions. You want to offload. Perhaps you want to confess…
Of course he feels like he’s made mistakes. He tells you about certain jobs he’s taken in the past, how he wishes he’d tried harder, or not at all. He even tells you about failed relationships. He has a lot of them, starting from you, but he misses out that detail. Concentrates on the others. Looking back, he should have paid more attention to the women who let him into their heart. He didn’t know when he’d turned so cold. It was always they who were trying, never him. It was always they who split up with him too. He never felt much afterwards. A little disappointment maybe, but only because his list was growing longer. He should be married by now, or at least engaged. The perfect catch: graduated and employed with a house. That’s what you’d wanted, right? What every girl did…
He picks and chooses what he tells you, most stuck as thoughts in his head. It seems odd to share such depressing realities with someone who has it all. He keeps his biggest mistake to himself. He would never even dream of letting that one out. Sometimes he doesn’t even let himself think of it. It’s not even a direct statement, more like a question.
Should he have tried harder that night in his car? Should he have put up more of a fight? Could you both have been happier together? In some alternative reality maybe he had fought for you, maybe you’d waited for him, finished college too and grown together, like it was supposed to be. You would be married by now, living in that house with the white picket fence, red bricks, slate grey door. Instead he’s living there on his own… Maybe you would have a child already, or maybe you were pregnant. His heart clenches at the thought, so he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing his voice to sound lighter as he moves things to you.
“What about you? Have you made mistakes?”
“Many,” your immediate response is, your laugh tinkering down the line. It sounds shrill, unnatural, forced. He’s silent as he waits for you to explain, unable to make sense of the racing of his heart.
You wonder if life is supposed to be so stagnant. You sleep the same time every night, woken up by your alarm clock, but for what? You’re usually alone, and one person doesn’t make much mess during the day. Your chores are overcome 9am and then you’re free to do what? Each day is the same. No smiling, no laughing, unless it’s the television, and even that doesn’t entertain you anymore. You and your husband have never been on vacation. The revelation shocks Seokjin. You’d always talked about travelling when you were younger. You’d talked about a lot, but your reality seems to be the stark opposite. You’re despondent, perhaps even depressed. Your life seems to be even more mundane than his.
He finds himself sad, frowning up at the ceiling, lost in thoughts once again. When you ask another question, his heart sinks, but not because it’s bad. It’s because he’s weak, and he’ll agree immediately.
“Can I perhaps see you again soon?”
Tumblr media
He comes by your house at 9pm. On the dot. Just like you’d agreed the night before over the phone. You message him your address and surprisingly he finds it easily. The walk is a little bit of a long one from the subway, the bite of autumn very apparent and he pulls up the collar of his jacket as he picks up the pace, knuckles growing red from the cold. He stops a couple feet away from your house when he spots the number, heart thudding slowly in his chest. He’s nervous. His palms are sweating. There’s no vehicle in the driveway, your husband away on business. You wouldn’t have invited him otherwise.
He takes five steps closer, until he’s staring head on with your porch. The bricks aren’t red. They’re white. There’s no picket fence, not even wall. As he knocks on the door, the sound deafening inside his ears, he realises it’s blue. So dark it’s nearly black. Not three seconds later you’re opening up, as if you were waiting on the other side. Neither of you speak as you stare at one another. A silence that isn’t awkward surprisingly. It’s like you both need it to let the situation sink in. You break it first, taking a small breath before his name floats from your mouth.
“Seokjin.”
He can’t help but flutter his eyes closed, letting the sound of it fill not only his ears, but his head. It doesn’t go unnoticed surely, but when he opens them again you’ve stepped back, your arm out in a gesture that tells him to step inside. He hesitates as the sole of his shoe presses against the threshold. He has no clue what will happen once inside, maybe that’s what scares him the most. He shouldn’t be here, his mind screams. He’s weak. You’re weak too. He can tell by the way you look, your eyes sad, already glistening with tears that threaten to fall.
He enters anyway. Makes his way inside the living area as you guide him through the hallway. Your house is empty. Too big for two people. His looks tiny in comparison, but even if on his own, it’s still cosier than this. It’s cold inside here. Plain. Walls white, not even cream. He takes a seat on the linen sofa as you go inside the kitchen to make him a drink. Tea. Milk and one sugar. Like it’s always been. Habit. A creature of habit. The sofa is red. The only pop if colour in this place, but at least it’s comfy. He still feels out of place, afraid to sit back, afraid to relax.
When you hand him the beverage he notices your eyes are now ringed red. As if you’ve just been crying. You’ve done a terrible job at hiding it, but he doesn’t bring it up. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants to know what you’re thinking but he’s scared. This is a mistake, but he’s here now. He can’t leave you. Not yet anyway. He can suddenly taste your salty kiss from that night in your car. It makes his heart ache. He feels nineteen again.
He watches as you take a seat in the adjacent chair. That one is grey. It also looks hard and uncomfortable. You spread a smile across your face, it looks painful. It still doesn’t age you though. You look exactly the same, despite the years that have past. Six—now seven, days ago he hadn’t had a proper chance to notice. Your voice the only thing he’d remembered. He’d been in a rush, late for work because the first train has been too packed. By chance he’d bumped into you. There wasn’t even time for small talk, but the meeting had messed up his entire day, his head full of chaos. It had never cleared, and now he was here. Making awkward small talk in person as opposed to the phone.
It’s his turn tonight. You ask how funny it is that you haven’t bumped in to one another before. He forces a chuckle that definitely doesn’t sound real and explains that he’s only moved back home a few months back. Before then he’d been in the next city working a job he hated (once again). The breaking point had been another failed relationship, where he realised he didn’t need to do this, stick the long hours at a position that made him miserable. The money had been amazing, but it was just lying inside his bank account. He had no interests to spend it on, no lover to spoil. That’s how he’d moved back home. He’d found himself a less stressful job. His savings helped buy him the best little house. White picket fence, red bricked walls, a slate grey front door. He repeats that detail again, knowing how much of a sucker he is, but the memories make him feel better sometimes, and home wasn’t home without you. This was how he would remember. However now here he was…
“Do you know that I spend almost half the year alone in this house?”
You don’t sound bitter, just very sad. Your expression downcast. It’s almost like you feel guilty for bringing up your own misfortunes again. Could he even call them that? You had almost everything. A husband, a large house, wealth… Still lonely though. Lonesome in this giant house all on your own…
“Are you thinking about having children soon?”
As much as the words kill him, he thinks having some type of company may help you. He’d never known you to be so withdrawn like this. This wasn’t the girl he had fallen in love when he was seventeen. She was always happy, smiling, laughing… Your laugh was infectious. It had been so long since he’d last heard it. Something told him he never would again.
“There was an instance a year or so ago…” you begin, trailing off, tapping your wedding ring against your mug. A nervous habit. “Something happened, I didn’t get to carry her to full term…”
Seokjin’s eyes widen, feeling like an idiot immediately. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Please—” He stops himself when he watches you shake your head, a slight smile on your face as you try to reassure him.
“It’s okay, Seokjin. You weren’t to know.”
That doesn’t stop him from feeling guilty. No wonder you act so different now. He can’t begin to image now devastating an event like that can be. He feels sick. He wants to change subjects, to make it all better again, but all he can think of is asking you about friends. That probably won’t be the best idea. What if they’re married with children of their own? Are you reminded of your devastation every time you’re around them?
He sits awkwardly, conversation now stunted. He thinks of how he’s been living his life all this time, trying not to think of you very often, and how you were here, going through your own troubles. Maybe you just need a friend…a friendly face… That’s why you’d invited him here tonight.
“My husband still believes I was a virgin when we met.”
This time Seokjin’s throat grows dry. You chuckle but it’s not the laugh he’d always known. He has no clue where to go from here, not expecting the turn in exchange. It’s falling on uncomfortable territory. The way you look at him now, you’re searching for his reactions. It’ll change the way you continue.
“I could never tell him the truth. He wouldn’t have minded, but I made him believe he was the first and only man I’d ever loved. He doesn’t know about you.” You’re speaking without thinking now. As if you were confessing secrets you’d kept hidden for years. Six. You had no one else to tell them too. Only him. “He doesn’t know what we had…”
Seokjin stares at you for a moment, trying to read what’s going through mind. He can’t make sense of it. Why are you bringing this up? What’s the meaning of all of this? You stare straight back, eyes shiny once again. When he murmurs your name, a gentle warning, he watches you close them, eyelids delicate, much like how he shut his earlier in the night. Your bottom lip quivers. His heart squeezes tight. Still nothing makes sense. Your eyes open once more.
“I need to confess something.”
That fills him with no confidence whatsoever. He’s scared because he has no clue what you could mean. There’s nothing you could not have possibly told him. He hasn’t seen you for six years. So much time has passed. You’re adults now. What could he possibly need to know that’s so important? He waits in silence, patiently, not trusting himself to speak. You finally continue.
“I lied that night.” More silence. This time he doesn’t bear to breathe. For some reason he knows exactly what that night is. “My parents weren’t the ones who didn’t want me to wait. It was me. I’m so sorry.”
Seokjin’s head starts spinning at that precise moment. He now sinks further into the sofa. Two minutes ago he still couldn’t relax. He’s still not relaxed. He’s just afraid he’ll fall forward. You take his silence as a need to continue, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He can’t hear it.
“My parents always loved you. They would have been over the moon if we’d married one day. It was me.” It sounds like you’re crying now. The tears finally escaping. He doesn’t know for sure though, he can’t bring himself to look at your face. “All my friends were getting engaged. I felt pressured. We were only supposed to be high school sweethearts. That’s all.” Your voice breaks, a violent sob rattling your chest. “I was so sure it wouldn’t work out between us, and I didn’t want to get involved further. I didn’t want to get my heart broken even harder. Seokjin, you were always so perfect, so considerate. I knew you’d accept it if my parents disagreed.”
That’s enough. He can’t take anymore. He stands up abruptly, slamming his mug onto the coffee table with accidental force. He hasn’t drunk a drop. It’s cold now, and the milky liquid spills over the brim, landing on the glass underneath it. It’s not fair how such stupid words can fling him back into the past. It’s not right how they can affect him with such power, make him feel like he’s nineteen again, back inside his car, getting his heart broke once more. He’s reliving it, and he doesn’t want to, because it was all a lie. He could’ve fought for you. He could’ve made you see how you were meant to be together, but you’d stopped that. You’d tricked him.
“I think I should go,” he mutters, still unable to make eye contact with you. “This was a mistake.”
“No,” you cry, flying from your chair before he’s even had time to move an inch. “Seokjin, please.” You’re begging, clinging onto the collar of his coat. He hasn’t even removed it. “Please.” You bury your head to his chest, your sobs shaking your chest, and instead of pushing you away he wraps his arms around you, squeezing you tight, comforting you as you cry. You still smell the same, like cherry blossoms. Same perfume, same you. The anger that filled his body moments prior slowly seeps away, just as your cries cease.
When you look up at him, chunky tears stay trapped between your eyelashes. He wipes them away instinctively. Something he didn’t do that night. You stare at one another longer than you should, until you break the quietude.
“Don’t you think it was fate we met again?”
You sound so hopeful he doesn’t want to ruin it for you. It was by chance. Not fate. Never fate, he doesn’t believe in such a thing anymore. But as he nods he can tell you’re clinging onto such a thought. You believe in that fate.
“I missed you so much.”
He goes to hug you again, unsure if he can trust his own voice to speak. His insides feel fragile, and he doesn’t want to cry in front of you. Deep down he’s missed you every day for six years. It feels so good to hear you say the same thing. It feels so good to have you in his arms again. You pull back, desperate to continue. “I missed how you feel, how you sounded. I missed your scent. I missed your body against mine…” Your hands fall inside his coat, palms softly sliding down his chest, and it feel so good he has to close his eyes. He feels like he’s been deprived of touch for too long. It’s not the case, but your touch is the only thing that makes him feel alive.
“I missed how you touch me…” He can feel your breath against his jaw, not sure when he tilted his head. Your hands now slide to his neck, his face, stroking his cheeks. He lets out a shaky exhale and let’s his own hands rub against your back. This is wrong, but he can’t stop. When he opens his eyes, you’re gazing up at him, eyes wide, mouth parted. Time stands still and then he’s kissing you. Finally. It’s salty again, lips wet from your tears. It rips at his heart, but he supposes this makes it even more bittersweet.
It’s not long before that mantra is back. I want you, I want you, I want you. A moan tears at his throat, an alien sound that he hasn’t made in forever. It’s only for you. He clings to your waist as you move to kiss his earlobe. You’re happy when he gives you the exact reaction you’d been after. He can tell by the way a giggle catches in your throat. He loves that sound. Oh, how he’s missed it. How’s he missed you…
“Please Seokjin, please let me have you,” you beg with a whisper. He’s too weak and too far gone to refuse. He wants to have you too.
Your bedroom is white as well. The bedsheets matching. It seems so sterile, not like your room back at your parent’s house. He’s already out of his coat, you’d dropped that to the floor by the stairs. He lies you on the bed, placing himself over you as the kiss deepens. Your hands grow wild and impatient, but somehow they clash with his. You try to unbutton his shirt the same time he tries to do the same to yours. You try to reach for his mouth the same time he tries to kiss your neck. Nothing is running smoothly, and soon it’s hard to ignore.
This should be perfect, he used to know your body so well… It’s meant to all come back to him in an instant, it’s not like he hasn’t dreamt of your body pressed against his again over the years. In reality, he feels like a fumbling idiot, and soon he realises his body isn’t reacting as he thought it would. He wants you, he really does, but not like this. You’re not his anymore. You’re married. This is a betrayal and he thinks you know it too. Your kisses slow down, your hands fall to your side, and then they’re back again, pushing at his chest.
“Stop, please. I’m sorry, please stop.”
He listens immediately, even more so when he hears you’re crying again, words fluctuating as your voice distorts. He watches over, unsure how to comfort you, in the end leaving you bury your face in your hands as you try to control yourself. “I’m so sorry,” you cry quietly, muffled by your palms, but he can make it out. He reaches with one hand to stroke your hair gently. You have nothing to be sorry about. You slowly peek at him, cheeks tinged with distress and embarrassment.
“I can’t hurt my husband like this. I-I thought if I stopped thinking about him, I would-would—
“Shush,” he interrupts you, the sobs in your chest starting up again. “It’s okay. Don’t be sorry, it’s okay.” Comforting soon comes naturally, like a switch had been flicked, and he slowly kisses the top of your head, one hand now stroking your cheek as the other holds him above you.
“I want you so bad, Seokjin,” you whisper, staring him straight in the eyes, and he believes you. Or course he does, because he wants you too, but fate won’t allow it… He rolls over, his side landing on the mattress as he wraps his arm around your middle, holding you to him. You press in close. “If I had a time machine…”
“Don’t be silly,” he tells you, kissing your temple this time. You reach for his lips, pecking them slowly. He can’t help but steal his own kiss. It’s salty again, your tears back. He knows the taste will haunt him for the rest of his life now.
“I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry you couldn’t have me again.”
There’s nothing he can do to soothe you fully, so he kisses you. Deeply, letting his eyes close. Maybe this classes as a betrayal, especially when you’re still chanting I want you’s between tangled mouths, but to him it’s a goodbye. He thinks you understand the same thing. You both need this. You need to let each other go softly, because the first time had failed. Built on lies and regrets. This time no truths are hidden.
“I miss you,” he murmurs, finally pulling away, needing to make that clear.
You bury your head in his chest, falling sleepy, and he holds you close. “Please stay with me tonight,” you ask. He has to agree. He’s a little selfish, and he wants your last night to stretch a little bit longer. “Tell me again, what our house would’ve looked like.”
Our house. Our. You had never said such a thing when talking about it all those years ago. You really hadn’t wanted to tempt fate back then. Now there wasn’t any fate to tempt, so you could be honest. Your house. His house. He quietly recites what you want to hear, agreeing with himself not to disclose that he now lives in such a dream home. White picket fence, red bricked walls, a slate grey front door.
He stays awake as your breathing evens out, sleep coming for you, despite little sobs still rattling your chest every now and then. He prays you’ll feel better tomorrow, but he knows it will take time. In a way, this is your true ending. Just six years too late. He feels out of place on this bed, able to smell the other man despite you hardly sharing a bed together while he works away. He looks to his left and sees a photo frame on your vanity. Seokjin didn’t know if he truly wanted to know what the other man looked like, but oh well, there was no turning back time now. At least you looked happy in the picture, your eyes alive and bright. That eases his mind. He knows that you love your husband.
He knows you miss the past Seokjin. He’s certain because he realises now that he misses the past you. His mind feels oddly clear, despite holding you like this at the dead or night. It’s the past for a reason, but he had held onto it tightly, through years and years of what ifs and should haves.
Your voice, your face, it was all the same, but there was a difference. You both had aged, maybe not physically, but mentally. You’d grown without one another. You’d had your chance back in high school and it just wasn’t meant to be. It had taken some time to understand that, but it was finally clear now. He didn’t regret coming here tonight. Not when he felt this moment of clarity so strong. Not when he could hold you like this and say goodbye properly.
Your alarm sounds at 5:30 in the morning. Like usual he guesses, and somewhere along the line he’d fallen asleep too, arms still tightly wound around you. You rouse slowly, but once awake you both get up. You’re silent for the most part, unable to even make small talk, not now when there’s nothing left to say. However, you do offer him breakfast. He politely declines, knowing he needs to leave now. It’s finally over.
You stay beside the door as he steps outside into the chilly air. It’s still dark out but he doesn’t mind. He’ll be on a train home in no time. Before he leaves he makes you promise that’ll you open up to your husband when he gets back. You’d been though some trauma no doubt, one he couldn’t begin to understand. You were lonely here on your own too, unhappy. You needed your husband, and you needed to let him in.
Seokjin doesn’t look back when he walks away, knowing it will only make his heart hurt, but he feels you watching him until he’s out of sight. He walks leisurely, despite it being colder than last night. It’s like he needs the silence to keep his head clear, just until he gets used to all this.
Five minutes before he hits the subway it begins to rain. One drop, two drops, not a shower, but a downpour, growing torrential quickly and out of the blue. Out of habit he goes to wipe his face but then stops to look up the sky, closing his eyes as he gets soaked. He lets the drops fall against his lips. Salty kisses. He’ll hold onto that. Not with pain, but with love. He touches his mouth, the sensation of yours still there for now, and then he holds the hand out into the air, palm up, feeling the rain hit it furiously.
More clarity.
When you’d left all those years ago you’d taken a part of him with you. He’d done the same. He’d been carrying a part of you around, unable to escape. Last night you’d returned them to one another.
He was slowly going to grow whole again, and so were you.
It would all be okay. He would no longer miss the past.
Tumblr media
923 notes · View notes
maculategiraffe · 6 years ago
Text
won’t you meet me at the gates to the garden
Little snippet: Nora and the gang, at the Castle, Halloween night. ~1500 words, and a lot of that is quotes from The Canterville Ghost. 
Happy Halloween, my darlings.
They can’t celebrate Halloween the way she remembers it, back in Sanctuary Hills, or before that, when she was a kid.  Dressing up in fancy store-bought costumes, based on TV and movie and radio superheroes: Grognak, the Silver Shroud, Mistress of Mystery.  Nora remembers going as a cat, a cowgirl, a witch, a hippie in thrift-store bell-bottom jeans and a peace sign painted on her cheek.  More nervous than excited, holding out a pillowcase or a pail for a neighbor to drop something into.  
She didn’t like how you weren’t supposed to say please.  Trick or treat, as if you might do something bad to people who didn’t placate you with candy.  She didn’t like that idea as a kid.  Still doesn’t.
Now Shaun’s the only kid around of trick-or-treating age, and he’s not the type to enjoy filling a sack with sugary treats at others’ expense, anyway.  He’d rather run around distributing any available treats to his brothers and sisters, and the other settlers at the Castle.
He’s enough like Nora that he doesn’t much like the idea of disguises, either.  Monsters are too real, these days, to take pleasure in the dressing-up of someone dear and familiar as someone, or something, less so.  
And the dead are-- well, Nora doesn't believe in ghosts, not that way, not seasonally.  If Nate can be here with her, and if there isn't a good reason why he shouldn't be, then he's here a lot more often than once a year.  
(She hopes he isn't.  She hopes he's with Shaun-- their first Shaun-- in heaven.  He believed in heaven, completely.  She's about fifty-fifty.  But if there is one, Nate's definitely there, and she can't imagine whoever's in charge wouldn't let him have his son with him.)
This time of year, she thinks more about the war, the bombs falling.  Ghosts, kind of, but not the fun, spooky kind.
But this year they’ve carved jack-o-lanterns, out of gourds and winter melons, scooping out the seeds to roast with a little salt and a little oil, carving cheerful, jagged-toothed moon faces and setting candles inside.  She was just going to show Shaun how, but then everyone else wanted to join in too.  After tonight-- after a night of bright faces all over the courtyard, grinning and spilling light-- she'll gather the gourds and melons and cook them, so the meat of them doesn't go to waste.  
It's Dee's turn to read aloud tonight, and he’s picked Oscar Wilde's "The Canterville Ghost.”  He’s reading outside instead of in the library, so they can all enjoy the jack-o-lanterns, for the little time they last.  The night's cool, but not cold; her kids curl against each other, for warmth and for love.  Shaun sits in her lap. Hancock's arm rests on her shoulders.  A real lantern, not a jack-o- one, lights the page, and Dee's face, in that spooky, atmospheric campfire way.  Dee has such a great voice for reading.  It's low and gravelly and dramatic as he reads,
"Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.
"'My dear sir,' said Mr. Otis"-- Dee's voice switches registers, turns prim and nasal, so that everyone's laughing even before he goes on-- "'I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it.'"
Dee switches back to the dramatic voice to continue, "For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted."
Shaun is having a fit of the giggles in her lap, struggling to breathe.  Everyone's laughing, as Dee keeps reading, about the family that just refuses to be scared.
"He laughed his most horrible laugh," Dee reads, "till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from well,' she said, 'and have brought you a bottle of Doctor Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.''
"Oh my God," says Victoria, laughing.  "It's Mom!"
Even Dee cracks up at that, and loses his place for a second.  Nora laughs, breathless with happiness, with her family around her, in the darkness that makes the flickering golden light so incredibly lovely.
The story takes a sadder, sweeter turn towards the end, when the daughter of the family befriends the ghost.  Dee's voice goes soft, gentle, when he does her voice: 
"'I am so sorry for you,' she said, 'but my brothers are going back to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.'
"'It is absurd asking me to behave myself,' he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.'
"'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked.'"
"That sounds like Emily," says Michael, and everyone laughs again, and the story stays funny for a bit, until Dee's voice, his gruff rusty ghost-voice, changes:
"Far away beyond the pine-woods, there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.
"Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.
"'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.
"'Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.'"
Nora's eyes are stinging, now.  It's Dee's voice, the tenderness and the pain in it, the yearning.  
He reads on, and little Virginia bravely helps the wicked old ghost be laid to rest, and everyone lives-- or dies-- happily ever after, and everyone is quiet for a bit.  Shaun's asleep, slumped on Nora's arm and chest.
Nora's heart is full, overflowing.  He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.
Max says, "Good stuff.  Good pick, Dee."
Dee shuts the book, as everyone murmurs agreement, and says, "Thanks.  I thought, you know-- I kinda forgot about all that heavy stuff, there at the end."
Cog says, "It was funny.  It was good."
"Thank you, Dee," says Danse gravely.  
Dee waves them off.  "Yeah, OK.  Bedtime.  For people that sleep.  Look, 2.0's already out."
The night rustles and creaks with everyone's rising, flashes as they move through light and dark.  
Nora stays still the longest, Shaun breathing in her lap.  Wondering, or imagining.
She isn’t afraid.  If they're here, the beloved dead, called by her longing, or by the thinness of the veil tonight, then they belong here, just outside this circle, making the dark gentle for the living.
And if they're not-- 
(Emily’s voice, remembered: Sleep is a sweetness, so I hear it said.)
Someday she'll be with them, wherever they are.
But no hurry.
"Here, ma'am," says Michael, reaching down.  "I'll carry Shaun to bed."
She shifts, lifts her smallest son towards her tallest, feels her husband's hand on her back, as Michael lifts Shaun's sleepy weight from her, as she begins to rise.
11 notes · View notes
the-jade-mage · 7 years ago
Text
As Bright as the Sun (drabble)
Description: Santana Awakes from his slumber after years of hibernation. Takes place post-DIU.
Warnings for themes of suicide and suicidal idealization. 
It was 10:00 pm and there was a low rumble in the earth, and the ground started to shake.
The few employees working at this hour, inside the Speedwagon facility clung to the walls and some dropped to floor. The earthquake was natural with no supernatural origin, and was an 7.5 on the Richter scale.
The epicenter was a few miles away but this natural disaster still managed to knock out the all the power, including the backup generators. Leaving the whole facility in a state of utter darkness, except the moonlight that shone threw the few windows that dotted the halls.
Once the quake finally halted, the building was mostly in tact. The main mess was furniture and other miscellaneous things that were scattered everywhere.
The lowest level of the complex had the biggest mess and was completely dark, on account it was below ground level and had no windows.
The few employees that were there carefully were picking themselves off the floor and trying to get their eyes to adjust to the pitch black. Stumbling to perhaps find their phones to use as flashlights.
That's when they heard it, the cracking, almost if egg were hatching, if it were made of stone. The sounds of rock crumbling and falling away. Their hearts started to pick up pace, and they went completely stiff from fear. They weren't lucky enough to have the building fall on them, it was too well built for that. No, it was something far worse.
Then was the sound of something groaning, like an animal, and stretching. He had awakened.
The Pillar Man Santana.
After nearly 80 more years of slumber, he awoke once again.
These few workers couldn't do anything but say silent prayers, because there was no way of stopping him, not until someone could get one of the backpack UV lamps and either kill or incapacitate him. They knew with every fiber of their being that they had no chance of survival unless he showed mercy, which they knew he wouldn't. They wouldn't blame him.
The muscular demigod stepped from the box that had contained him for the past 79 years, hardly any time for him in comparison to the rest of his life, but during the duration of those years much had changed.  
He walked through the people who were standing in the halls, fear struck. Devouring, with his entire being not even flinching. Gathering his nutrients, hardly without a second thought.
He made his way to an air vent, the sounds of his wailing victims trailing behind him. He contorted his body shape to squeeze through the open vent and began to work himself through, to make his way to the upper levels.
He arrived at the ground floor and he began to billow out of the vent and started to take humanoid form again.
He began walking, not really having anything to fear. Not a single person he had encountered had even tried to oppose him since waking up.
When the demigod heard a voice coming from a nearby room. "Yes sir. We're sure he's awake. Y-Yes sir."
Santana walking into the room and turning to face a young man on a satellite phone. The young man's eyes widened and grew glassier as he looked over the Pillar Man who seemed to practically glow as the pale moonlight kissed his muscular skin.
There was indistinct chatter from the phone, and the man clutched it tighter, before horsely whimpering in reply, "He's right in front of me."
Santana grunted before turning towards a nearby window, braking it and exiting. Not bothering to listen to what the man was saying. Probably about how he had left the building, and was now free.
Santana walked up the hill said that overlooked the facility, and just stood there, taking in the changes of the world now, thinking.
What was he to do? His original "mission" was to guard the stone masks in his cave in Mexico, until Kars came back for him.
He knew that that prospect of that happening was probably long gone now. He wanted to know how it had happened though.
'No more then a hundred years must have passed.' He mused. The Hamon user Joseph who he had encountered, and no doubt was the one who had also encountered and befelled his brethren should still be youngly and alive. He hoped that he could speak with him, perhaps take revenge if he felt it necessary. He knew if his family had still been alive, they would've came back for him already, or at least taken control of humanity as they planned.
He waited there a few more hours as he watched as people pooled at the bottom of the hill, wondering if he should go somewhere else in the meantime. He very well knew that Jojo was personally attached to Robert Speedwagon, and by extension the Speedwagon foundation so that's perhaps why he stayed put.
Soon a car pulled up, and a door opened up, out filed a handful of people.
He turned his attention elsewhere until he heard an older woman's voice call out, "Jojo, wait!!"
His head snapped back, he heard someone sprinting up the hillside towards him. The feet hitting the ground and the slightly heavy breath headed his way.
the light breaths and quick footsteps he had thought were Joseph's at first, clearly belonged to someone younger and smaller.
Soon there was someone standing no more then 15 feet away, but they were not visible, he could not only smell them, but hear their uneven breaths. Now invisibility wasn't something hamon users were able to do last he remembered, but it wasn't something entirely new to him either, it was an ability his bother Wammu had.
"I can sense you there, show yourself!" Santana demanded in a low voice.  
Then, as if from thin air a young Asian girl appeared. "I'm, sorry, sometimes it just happens when I get stressed, or nervous." There was a slight pause, as he was practically devouring her with his eyes, trying to read and learn everything he could about her. "My name is Shizuka, but I go by Jojo. My dad told me about you, he said your name was Santana."
There was someone else working their way up the hill, much slower and having a more difficult time, with heavy breaths, he listened but payed attention to the girl in front of him.  
"Your father?" Santana stated more then asked.
"Joseph Joestar." She replied. "He told me about told me about you, and the other Pillar Men. He especially respected Whamu even after everything that happened."
Santana subconsciously took a few steps towards Shizuka  "Where is you're father? Where is Joseph Joestar?" he asked slowly.
"I'm right here." A gravelly and exasperated voice breathed from behind Shizuka Santana brought his gaze to meet the eyes of the old man.
"Joseph." The Pillar Man started as he outstretched his arm. "You've aged, you must've stopped practicing Hamon." He tried to form his sentence into a question but it again came out as a statement. It didn't make any sense to have stopped performing any form of his training, Hamon extends the life of the user and even just by breathing he could've corrected any of this.
"Do you come to me completely defenseless? Why would you stop? Was it because you believed the danger had passed?" Santana asked confused, surely the human had to have known that he was kept by the speedwagon foundation.
"I didn't see a point in it anymore." He replied simply leaning on his cane, and putting a hand on his young daughter's arm. "Why should've I continued? I didn't have any reason to, not anymore."
Santana squinted, he could easily read situations and learn very quickly. He had met Joseph before he had any formal training, he knew since then he had definitely had some sort of time when he learned more. His life had already been prolonged, though his age clearly showed.
Had Joseph been foolish enough to think that he, the last survivor of an ancient spices of demigods no longer posed a viable threat? Perhaps.
"I wanted to put everything behind me." Joseph started. "I wanted my own life, my own family. As does anyone I would think. I asked you then to become a friend because I did not believe that we were all that different." He said with a sincere chuckle.
He was starting to catch on there was more to why he had stopped, as if the reason to continue had no longer been a factor, but he no longer believed that it was the danger of him or the other Pillar Men. Perhaps a close companion or even multiple had perished at the hands of his family, but he couldn't detect even the hint of anger or resentment.
"You've lost friends." Santana stated, trying hard to gage  Joseph's reaction and gain some more insight.
He could see the hurt in his eyes, the way his pupils dilated and his eyes grew wet, he knew. "Yet, you do not intend to fight unless I instigate it."
He could also read from Joseph that this too was the truth.
Santana shook his head. "Why? It isn't logical."
"Had I struck you as someone logical the first time we met?" Joseph laughed.  
Santana furrowed his brow.
"I've met many people throughout my life. You were the first one who did not see me and immediately think that I needed to be used or killed. Honestly you are one of the only things I have a difficult time reading." He said clenching his jaw.
Joseph laughed, this startled the Pillar Man. "I will take it as a compliment." He said stepping closer to Santana, so he now stood between  him and Shizuka. "But what about you?" Joseph asked.
"What about me? I had hoped that at least my brother Whamu was alive, or that Kars had just forgotten about me. Or perhaps you would still be a worthy adversary to fight again. But, there's nothing left at all. Perhaps there's no point for me either." Santana growled. "Everyone I knew, aside from you, is gone. I failed my only mission Kars had entrusted to me and they-" Santana swiftly brought down his arm to strike Joseph. Breathing in Joseph conducted Hamon and brought his arm up to sheild himself. Still the sheer force of it knocked over the old man.
Shizuka readied her pose to fight. Santana could sense that her fighting spirit had even increased. But Joseph stretched back his arm, telling his daughter not to do anything.
"They left me alone, again." Santana said kneeling in front of Joseph "I should've taken your offer back then, instead of believing that Kars intended to return for me. He was my father but he had his own ambitions."
Santana looked at his own wounded arm glowing like embers as it began to heal.
"I know that whatever you had to do was because you had no other choice, I know because the way you had treated me then and the way you are still treating me."
The next few hours pass, and Santana had asked questions about his family and how things had transpired. Joseph answered him, letting him know how how honorable Esidisi and Whamu had fought and acted during battle. He tried to embellish Kars, but Santana knew better that Joseph tried too hard. And it hadn't surprised him that Kars had cheated his way through his fight.
"Why don't you come back inside, and we can figure out what we can do next. I wish uncle Speedwagon were alive he would've loved this." Joseph chuckled, trying to stand up.
Santana guided him, helping the elderly man to his feet. "I don't think so Jojo."
Joseph looked up at the Pillar Man in shock. "What? Why?"
Santana remained as expressionless as he could. "There isn't any point in it anymore. Is there?"
Joseph got angry, and the fire that his eyes held when he was young could practically be seen again. He griped Santana's arm as tightly as he could, which in all honesty wasn't that tight.
"Don't use my words against me." Joseph growled, trying not to sound like he was pleading.
"My family is gone, I am the only living Pillar Man left. Why else should I continue?"
"Because, that's who've you've been as long as I've known you, a survivor. whatever the circumstances."Joseph said sternly.
"Jojo, I have survived for a very long time, but now I am done. I want to be with my family, I want to be at peace. Stay with me and watch the sunrise."
Joseph was quiet for a moment looking into Santana's solemn eyes, before quietly replying. "Sure, I will do that."
Shizuka had left them awhile ago. Leaving the two of them standing side by side, facing east in silence knowing that dawn would soon arrive.
The sky on the horizon began to glow. "This would be the time we would have to go inside, underground, until the sun set. I always thought the sky looked beautiful at this time, and imagined that the sun would be as well." Santana had always stollen glimpses of the sky when he could, and when he hid inside people he had to stay where it was safe, in the dark. Kars had similar feelings about the sun. Except his father wished to transcend the sun. He chuckled to himself thinking that he guessed his father did actually fulfill his dream, even if it was short lived.
The sun began to crest over the horizon line, and he felt his skin began to burn. "It is beautiful. Thank you Jojo." he said as the burning grew more intense, he thought about how bright and beautiful it was, It almost reminded him of the harmon user beside him, when they had first met. Santana welcomed the brightness and warmth, as his body started to give way and disintegrate into a pile of burning ash.
Joseph silently wept for the god and hung his head.
24 notes · View notes
fanta-ceo · 7 years ago
Text
What Works
Tumblr media
Pairing: Yoongi x Reader
Genre: romance, hurt/comfort, college au, badboy!yoongi, friendship au, fluff
Word count: 6277
Description: “‘Does that really work on girls?’ ‘Depends on what you want from them,’ Yoongi drawls. You try not to gag.“ He only seems to admit he wants you when he’s drunk, and you’re too far in denial to even notice it’s happening. 
a/n: this is based off a prompt request that’s a quote. I’ll stick it at the bottom (you’ll notice it pretty fast tho tbh). Ill be writing bts living together at college till i die. --Baekbek
He’s hungover.
“Hyung,” Jungkook says. It’s impossible to tell if Yoongi’s eyes are actually open through the dark shades, and the weird way he’s slumped to the side in his armchair could either be masking his slumber or a new creative way of sitting. Jungkook seems to believe he’s awake. You’re pretty sure he’s asleep. 
You turn the page in your textbook because your roommates coming home late from a party last night doesn’t have to affect your study schedule. Even if the idea of Yoongi doing his classic bad boy routine on some girl at the party makes you feel sick.
You don’t care at all. You’re completely focused on your Physics exam tomorrow. Completely. 
 “Hyung,” Jungkook repeats. Somehow, while Yoongi looks like he died last night, Jungkook looks bright and peaceful after a night out. Probably because Yoongi got completely wasted and Jungkook doesn't drink much with his athletic scholarship on the line. Jungkook always takes his health too seriously. “I have a question.”
Yoongi’s bending his neck at an awkward angle. It looks really uncomfortable. Is he really sleeping? You don’t know why he’s down here instead of locked in his room, sleeping off last night. You turn a page noisily without looking up, asserting that you are not paying attention because you don’t care. Yoongi was supposed to help you last night and he ditched you for a party when he doesn’t even like going out, and that’s what really bothers you. It’s that he ditched you, definitely not what he did at that party, what he always does at parties, the reason he goes to parties in the first place—
It's just that he was supposed to help you. ...Right.
“Hyung,” Jungkook repeats. You glance up at him, but he doesn’t look bothered at all by the lack of response. He looks rather hopeful, actually. Like any second now, Yoongi will magically respond.
You pale. Damn. He’s going to keep asking until Yoongi answers. And that distraction would not be conducive to good study habits. “Yoongi,” you quip, reaching out with your foot to poke his calf with your toes. Yoongi jerks, then groans, head dropping before he lifts it begrudgingly and runs his hand through his already messy blonde hair. “Your son is asking you a question. Don’t just ignore him.” 
Jungkook is everyone’s son, as far as you’re concerned. Yesterday it was Taehyung. The day before, Seokjin. Jin probably made the most sense—
Yoongi pulls down his sunglasses to squint miserably at Jungkook. “What.” He croaks. Then he pushes his sunglasses back up and he shifts back into his armchair. He looks worn and annoyed, but not much different from an old man. Part of his charm—one moment, he’s sexy and charismatic and the next, he’s a stiff and grumpy 23-going-on-70 year old. 
“How do you ask a girl out?” Jungkook asks, completely innocent. You balk, giving up on pretending to study. Yoongi doesn't seem to react, but his black shades make it hard to tell. You’re not really sure there is one. Yoongi is so hungover and miserable, he would sit without flinching through an earthquake. But he moves when you kick his leg... You suppose that has something to do with his gentlemanly nature he tries to pretend doesn't exist.
You almost think he’s not going to answer. What was Jungkook thinking? And what will he do if Yoongi doesn’t answer? You wouldn’t put it past him, to completely ignore something he saw as stupid. But wouldn’t Jungkook just keep asking? 
Yoongi saves you from finding out; he shifts in his seat again, making it clear he hadn’t died in the last minute. “That’s easy,” he says, neck bent at that awkward angle with his head lolled to the side. His voice sounded gravelly and dry, husky from his hangover. “You open the door and you tell her to get out. It helps to tell her she’s annoying.”
Jungkook blinks. You laugh. You stop quickly, surprised at your lack of control, and clear your throat as you force your eyes back to your textbook. You didn't look away fast enough, of course. The quirk of one side of Yoongi’s lips was definitely a smirk, and it frustrates you even more. Not like you knew why, of course. You laughed at his joke, of course he’d feel smug—so why should you feel irritated? But you burrow deeper in your chair, pulling the textbook up to shield your face.
“Is that how you’d do it?” Jungkook asks, continuing his weird game. “You’re the aggressive type, hyung. Does that really work on girls?”
“Depends on what you want from them,” Yoongi drawls. You feel like gagging, scowling into the text and bringing your textbook higher to hide your expression. 
“So if you wanted a date, you’d just tell her to get out? And then follow her? That’s really a strange method, but maybe you can make it work,” Jungkook offers.
“Mm,” Yoongi hums noncommittally, probably losing interest in the conversation.
“Hyung should show me how it’s done,” Jungkook says, all innocence that you don't believe at all.
Oh you can’t handle this. You set down your textbook, frustrated that you can’t concentrate and even more frustrated that you’re amused and so fond of these boys, despite your feelings. “Jungkook,” you say. “You don’t need help picking up girls. What is this about?”
“I wanted to know Yoongi-hyung’s plan,” Jungkook says with a pure expression. “He says he likes a girl—" 
What?
"—but he hasn’t made a move, so—“ 
“Ya!” Yoongi shouts, diving for one of Seokjin’s dense magazines and flinging it at Jungkook, but he easily bats it away with a laugh. Your fingers begin to shake, so you clasp them tightly in your lap. “Brat,” Yoongi seethes. “Why are you bothering y/n with this nonsense? Go play outside with your friends,” he grumps.
He says he likes a girl? So Yoongi, last night—
“You should have heard him last night,” Jungkook turns to you with a grin. “He was—“
—last night, he ditched you, escaped you, to tell the boys all about the girl he likes?
“Jeon Jungkook!” Yoongi hurls another magazine at him. “I covered your utilities last month and this is how you repay me, you cheeky sack of shit—“
He didn't even consider you someone he could confide in, he had to run away to a party so he could tell everyone. And he's mad Jungkook's brought it up even now. You try to swallow, but it feels impossible with how tight your throat is.
“I’m helping,” Jungkook whines with eyes that sparkle, trying to pout.
He says he likes a girl. Fuck, does it really have to hurt this bad? It had felt like there had been something there, but maybe it was only your own delusions and feelings filling the gap between you. He'd been so gentle, especially recently, and there had been times when you'd talk on this couch late at night together and it would get quiet and Yoongi would stare into your eyes and wet his lips and look like he wanted to say something and you'd thought—you'd thought—
“I told you to go play outside!” Yoongi snips.
“I thought you were joking,” Jungkook says.
“I wasn’t,” Yoongi shoots back, scowling.
There was so little connecting you two. You'd tried so hard to find reasons and excuses to be in his life, but if he liked someone, then that was all over. That meant you guys were barely friends. That meant everything would change. He'd be out with some perfect girl, with long legs and a sweet presence and confidence, and he'd kiss her but he wouldn't stop the way he had with you, and he wouldn't apologize with shitty apology coffee for two weeks. He'd probably wear that cocky little smirk and he'd whisper things in her ear and—
And maybe he'd still stop by your room to make sure you weren't studying too hard, forcing you to take a break when you were stressed and overworked and exhausted. And maybe he'd still cook breakfast on your exam days, even though you went crazy trying to hide it from him to prevent that kindness and he always figured it out anyway. 
But you can't imagine that he'll stay back from parties anymore on Friday nights to watch a scary show with you, and throw pillows at you when you start getting scared, and laughing at you when you jump at the scary parts, and talking with you for hours when it's over, moving closer and closer towards each other unconsciously till things grew quiet and it felt like speaking would break the spell and Yoongi looked almost nervous... And then he'd say, voice soft yet rough that maybe you both should get some rest. And your face would feel flushed and you'd hide it because you felt embarrassed by your own reaction, and when you'd glance at Yoongi you'd find he was avoiding your eyes as well. 
That wouldn't happen again. Yoongi wasn't that type of guy, to confuse a girl like you while dating someone else. 
Jungkook has a way of following orders as if they were his idea in the first place. He stands and stretches languidly, grinning to himself sunnily. “I’m going to go play outside with my friends like my dad recommends,” he announces.
“Ya, who are you talking to?” Yoongi gets chatty when he's angry: one of his many charms. “Y/n is studying for her exam and you’ve been bothering her this whole time. Only I’m here to listen and I already gave my orders so obey in silence you little shit.” 
Jungkook salutes him on his way out, completely unbothered, but not before he tosses you a wink. 
He says he likes a girl. You smile depsite the feeling that the ground has been pulled out from beneath you. Yoongi sighs, ruffled and ill at ease like a cat resettling after the dog has left the vicinity. You want to maintain your smile because he really is cute, even though he’s trying not to be—but your heart is beating so heavily yet so dully in your chest. He says he likes a girl.
It had been painful enough, knowing what he was doing out there with any girl warm and willing, pretty enough to catch his eye. What hurt even more was that one night, you were that girl. Over eight months ago, he'd pulled you into a drunken, sloppy kiss, and there was no hesitancy, no questions, just desire and Yoongi's classic intensity and the feeling that your knees were going to buckle. Yoongi's kisses said you're mine and you felt it and you wanted that.
And just as you'd begun to kiss back, he seemed to come to his senses. His lips slowed, his hands froze, and then he'd jumped off of you like he'd been burned. He said sorry, over and over, before staggering off and disappearing the rest of the night.
You don't know what hurts more. That strangers get the kind of scraps you beg for, that you could have been one of them if it weren't for your personal relationship with him, or that even if you were close enough to make kissing wrong, you'd never be close enough to make kissing right. 
It was painful enough like that. And you tried not to take that personally—Yoongi had said a few times over the past year that no way in hell was he getting a girlfriend, he liked his freedom a lot thanks, he didn't need anything else. But it felt personal. Other girls got to have him fuck them, and you got apology coffee for two weeks because he felt so guilty about accidentally kissing you.
It hurt to be something but never more and now, now Yoongi's found someone he wants to surrender his precious freedom for. Now, Yoongi actually likes someone. He spilled it all while he was drunk. And that makes what's left between you—absolutely nothing.
“Cheeky little bastard,” Yoongi mutters, and when you look up at him, he looks a little flustered. Of course, he did go to a party just to avoid a moment like this, so maybe it really was embarrassing to him. He clears his throat. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, looking off pointedly.
You realize, belatedly, that he wants a reaction. You force yourself to smile. “It’s not,” you say, eyes going to your textbook like you're hardly interested. Your vision is blurring. “Why didn’t I know about this mystery girl?” you ask from behind your textbook, trying to sound normal. You wonder if he can hear the desperation, the desolation, in your voice as clearly as you can.
Yoongi doesn't answer at first. When he does, he sounds thoughtful. “I wasn’t hiding it. I was waiting for the right time to tell people. But Kim Taehyung got me fucking wasted, and I started bragging."
Yoongi would be the type, wouldn't he? Whoever he liked would be the type to brag about. "Oh," you say weakly. Damn it I'm about to lose it. You clear your throat, praying that will be enough. "But why would you wait for the right time on something like that?"
“Impulsive confessions can be really hurtful,” Yoongi responds immediately, as if reciting from the Book of Min Yoongi, which houses many proverbs and rules that he adheres to strictly. He mainly pulls it out to lecture the young ones in the house. “A girl deserves a really thoughtful and meaningful confession when you like her as much as I do. Otherwise she might not take you seriously."
You guess hearing it from someone else counts as accidental. "So you're not just going to ask her to leave?” You ask, your weak attempt at humor. And that's when you feel a tear on your eyelashes and you know you've lost your insignificant battle. You jump to your feet and throw your textbook in your bag with desperate speed, keeping your face hidden from him.
“Of course not,” he says. 
“I’m going to study in the library,” you say. You pull on your shoes so quickly you almost trip, your trembling fingers struggling to tie a knot so you give up after a second.
Yoongi doesn't answer for a moment. “Good idea,” he finally says, looking off. “There are no noisy bastards to distract you there.”
“Jungkook isn’t that bad,” you say, barely thinking as you reach for your backpack and cram your textbook in. Yoongi mutters something under his breath. "What?" you say, not looking at him.
“Nothing,” he waves a hand. “Have fun. I’ll see you later.”
“Sleep it off,” you call over your shoulder. He grumps in response. 
Your brain is fuzzy and woolen from hours of ingraining foreign concepts into your mind. And still, you can feel the hurt stabbing at the back of your heart, unwilling to be forgotten. You lay your face on the cool wood of the desk and stare off. The library is closing in a little bit, so you know you have to go home and face whatever's waiting for you.
You don't understand Yoongi. You want to, but you can't. You just know you really like him, whether he's being cocky and overconfident or awkwardly shy and hardworking and kind. When you'd first moved in, he'd really scared you. He had a bad reputation from yelling at a professor in freshman year, and he wore a lot of leather. But as the days had gone by, you'd realized he wasn't anything like people said. He acted tough, but in reality he was sweet. He cared a lot. Even though his mouth was sharp, he'd do anything to help others. It melted your heart to see the way he was always nagging Jungkook and Taehyung, but even when you felt like you deserved the same tough love approach, he had nothing but gentle things to say to you...
You hate that when remembering the conversation this morning, you want to laugh at how flustered he'd been by Jungkook. Who are you talking to? Y/n is studying for her exam and you've been bothering her this whole time. He always acted like your time was so precious...
If only he didn’t have to be so cute, like sitting in the living room with sunglasses on in broad daylight when he was so hungover. Why does he have this effect on you? You drag your finger along the desk, tracing patterns lazily as you blink slowly, feeling your exhaustion press on you like a heavy blanket. You wanted to sleep, but the walk home was twenty minutes in icy wind and bitter cold. You want to stay inside a little longer and think about things that don't hurt.
Of course, everything hurts right now. You really, really don't want to face the fact that Yoongi likes a girl. Because that means you've crossed the line from just a friend to jealous and overlooked and second best. You'll have to be okay with the idea of someone else seeing Yoongi's softer sides, that someone else will get to hear Yoongi speak in that quiet, slow voice in the early hours of morning, contemplative and peaceful at a time when dreams could almost become reality.
You'll have to find a way to stop loving him. You're not sure that's possible.
Your phone begins to buzz. You blink, listening to the vibrations through the desk, before forcing yourself up with a sigh. You answer it without looking. "Hello?" you mumble, voice thick from lack of use.
"Ahhh, I knew it." Yoongi's voice on the other end makes you jump. You straighten and look around, as if he might appear behind a bookcase. "You're at the library still, right?"
"Sorry, um," you say haltingly because you really do hate talking in the library when a quiet voice carries so far, even if it's deserted before closing. "What's up?"
"I'm parked by the Harrison," he says. "That's a short walk for you, right?"
"Yeah," you say dumbly.
"Come on, I'll give you a ride," he says. "The car is hot and toasty."
You're flustered because your first instinct is to reject unnecessary kindnesses, but he's already arrived, he's already waiting. All you have to do is go outside. So instead, you melt. "Thank you so much," you practically sob with relief. "You've saved me. I didn't want to walk through the cold."
"It's no problem," Yoongi says, a note of smug satisfaction in his voice and you know you made the right choice in flattery. You stand up and begin to pack up your notes and textbooks. You're a little distracted as he continues. "You've been studying since early. Did you think to eat?" he drawls.
Your stomach clenches with hunger. You're tempted to lie, but starvation is apart of this great new study diet you've been working on... And you honestly forgot. "Sorry," you hiss quietly, wary of the guy three tables away still scribbling away in a notebook. 
"Mmm," Yoongi hums knowingly. "Jin-hyung made pizza. I protected yours from the wolves."
You laugh, then clap a hand over your mouth when the poor fellow student shoots you a look. Your cheeks begin to burn. "Thank youuu," you praise him quietly. "I'll be to your truck in a little, okay? I've got to hang up."
"Okay," Yoongi says, and he hangs up first with a click. You immediately stuff your phone in your pocket and haul your backpack onto your shoulders, wincing at the weight, and begin the trek to the back of the Harrison lot. After going down two flights and through the library, you nod to the security guard who probably knows you by name at this point, and you push open the doors to outside. The cold is unbearable knowing warmth is so close, and you walk quickly, cutting through a lawn with a dusting of snow, feet crunching through the ice-coated blades. Your nose burns from the cold air, your breath coming out in fluffy puffs of white. it doesn't take long before you can see where he's waiting, but it feels like an eternity before you reach him. His old truck is running, chugging pollution into the wintry night, but at least its heater is blessedly hot and functional. Your relief makes your body feel like jelly.
You're saying thank you before you've even got the door open. "Thank you so much," you say as you try to haul yourself into the seat. "I was going to stay in there forever. You're amazing. You're heaven sent." 
"It's dangerous to walk home so late at night," Yoongi says, helping you with your struggle to untangle yourself from your backpack, chuckling quietly. "I would have come for you no matter what. Don't stay out so late."
"I know," you admit, only a little whiny. "I didn't realize so much time had passed." That wasn't strictly true. You'd known. You just hadn't cared, which was about the same thing. "Really, thank you so much. I hate the walk."
"It's not a big deal," Yoongi says. "Buckle up. This thing could die anytime now."
"Okay," you say, strapping yourself in. It's not like you ever don't. He's just running on autopilot because Taehyung has a habit of forgetting and that kind of thing ticks Yoongi off. 
Yoongi turns up his music as he pulls out. It's something calming, some piano piece, and you feel yourself melting into the comfortable seat. You feel warm and cozy, the gentle music lulling you into a state of total relaxation. You know he was probably listening to heavy rap and put in this CD just to calm you. And for awhile, you float. It doesn't matter, whatever has upset you today. In this moment, it feels like none of that really matters. 
Yoongi's chuckle brings you back down to planet earth. "You're really tired, aren't you?" he asks. "You're like Taehyung. You don't even realize you're tired until you're almost asleep."
"Sorry," you mumble, blinking drowsily. "Today was long."
He's quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Hey, I want to go out tomorrow," he says after a moment. 
You don't react for a moment—until god-like inspiration strikes you. "Woah—is it the end of the world?" You tease with a broad grin."Min Yoongi? Going out on Sunday morning?"
He scoffs. "You really think that's funny?"
You snicker to yourself tiredly, falling back against your seat with a lazy smile. "Yeah."
"It's not funny at all," he retorts firmly.
"I'm a little funny," you say, pinching the air to show how little you are funny. He snorts, but he chuckles. 
"Yeah, you're a little funny," he admits softly, looking out his window for a second before staring straight ahead again.
"Ha," you smile dreamily before you turn to stare out the window. You're at a stoplight, only a minute from home now. "I'm so tired. What are you going to do tomorrow?"
"I want to go out with you," he says.
"Oh," you say. "That sounds fun. What do you want to do?"
"Hm, yeah," Yoongi scoffs with a self deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry, I want to allow you to misunderstand because that's easier, but you need to know what I really mean so you can reject me properly. I'm a gentleman like that." Sounds like another rule from the Book of Min Yoongi.
You sit up, feeling more alert. "What do you mean?" you ask.
"Jungkook is an ass," Yoongi says, looking ahead deliberately. "He made me do this more quickly than I wanted, and I really don't like to be rushed."
"You don't have to rush," you assure automatically. "Is this about what he said this morning? Do you need my help with something?"
Yoongi glances at you, eyes unreadable. "You're really dense, aren't you." He states it, not a question at all.
"I think I'm pretty perceptive," you say defensively.
Yoongi laughs. The light turns green, and Yoongi begins to drive. "You're smart, but you're definitely dense."
If you're dense, you like to think it's deliberate on your part. It makes it easier not to feel hurt, unless it's so obvious not even you can ignore it. Like when someone like Jeon Jungkook slams it in your face that the guy you like doesn't feel the same. At that point, your pitiful self defenses don't amount to much. "I think that's a compliment," you joke. Badly.
He snorts, so maybe it wasn't all bad. "I'm describing you. Of course it's a compliment."
"Everything you say about me is a compliment?" You check.
"Sorry, I'm stalling," he admits. "I want to look at you when I say this. Is that okay?"
You fall back into your seat, confused. He starts a conversation that he wants to finish once you're home? "Okay, sure," you say, nonplussed. "Like I said. You don't have to rush anything."
Yoongi is quiet for a long time. "I'm starting to think I do," he says softly. You don't respond, honoring his request for more time, so you look out the window. You're beginning to feel stupidly hopeful, even while you can feel the ghost aches of hurt build inside you, waiting for the unexpected blow of his words. You've been hurt before, and you're not going to let this catch you off guard. You're not going to expect anything good, even if his laugh is warm and his eyes gentle and he looks so soft in that flannel. 
He pulls up to your apartment and parks behind Jimin's car. He turns off the ignition, but you don't move, following his lead with trepidation as he stares sightlessly at his steering wheel. Without the music, atmosphere feels muted and hushed but not deafening, like the quiet of snowfall.
He hums to himself, voice unnervingly loud after the quiet. "I'm really nervous," he confesses, turning to look at you. He looks utterly solemn, and he doesn't look the Yoongi you're used to—he's neither gentle nor confident. He looks like he's about to face some tragic doom but he's squaring himself and forcing himself regardless. "I got wasted last night," Yoongi says. "And I blurted out something I barely wanted to admit to myself, let alone everyone."
"It's okay to like someone, Yoongi," you say. "Are you acting like this because you didn't tell me and I heard about it from Jungkook?"
His eyebrows raise, disappearing in his fringe. "A little," he says. "But not really. You should have been the first to know, but there's nothing I can do about it now. But I think it's different from what you're thinking. You're being really stubborn right now," he chuckles.
"Then explain," you say, looking down and hugging your waist. 
"Yeah, I should get on with it before it gets too cold in here," Yoongi muses, eyes following the movement. The temperature is fast plummeting, but that's not why you're hugging yourself. But you don't explain; you just look at him, waiting.
He clears his throat. "I told myself I didn't need anyone," Yoongi mumbles. "But then I met people who actually gave a shit about me, and they wouldn't let me pretend I didn't feel the same way. I really started to care about them, after a long time of isolating myself from everyone. I was a really shitty person." You want to protest, but something about the way he's looking off convinces you to hear him out.
"And then you moved in, and I don't like meeting new people. But I started noticing how much you do for others, and how little you do for yourself, and I started to worry. And then we really talked one night, and I realized the sound of your voice is really calming. And when I tell you things, I don't feel so..." he pauses, clearing his throat. "I started making excuses to be around you, but then I started holding myself back. It felt wrong to get close to you."
He looks down, running his thumb along the bottom edge of his steering wheel. "And then I got drunk and I gave in. And I kissed you. And I'm really, really sorry about that."
You sigh immediately. "Come on, Yoongi, that was ages ago, and I wasn't even mad—”
"I feel really bad because I kissed you for the wrong reasons," Yoongi says, looking at you for the first time, and his eyes are blazing with intensity. "I did it because I wanted you, really badly. But I should have been kissing you because I had feelings for you."
Your throat feels tight. Always so close, but just out of reach. He really knows how to torture you. "I didn't care, Yoongi."
"Because I did have feelings for you, y/n. I do have feelings for you." Yoongi says, firm and distinct. "But I was fucking scared, and I felt so ashamed. I've never felt like this before, I've never dated anyone. I don't know how to be... a good guy," he says, looking away again like these words are difficult to admit. "I've tried to be a good friend, but it's hard when I have feelings like this. I want so much more. I'm constantly holding myself back. It's so... frustrating," he laughs roughly, raking his hands through his bleached hair. "It's never enough. Always so scared that I'm going to give myself away."
Your heart is in your throat, feeling so shy. Why is he saying all of this? You just want to scream that you feel the same way, but he's a hell of a lot better with words than you are. "Then what's changed?" you prompt quietly instead.
"Of course our housemates did," he says, lips twitching. "Taehyung and Jungkook wouldn't get off my back, and then everyone else piled on. And after this morning, I just felt like an asshole. It was cowardly, to hide my feelings for so long when they weren't going away. But... I know how burdensome this all can be, so I'm prepared to—"
"I feel the same," you interrupt, unable to bear him going on. "I've been in love with you for a year." Wait did I just— "I mean—not, like, love love, I've just been—um," you falter after tripping over your words, mortified at your slip of tongue, no matter how true.
Yoongi looks at you, quiet but eyes scorching with intensity. "Yeah?" he asks, voice husky. "Really?"
You nod, not trusting yourself not to blurt out anything else completely stupid if you opened your mouth again.
Yoongi's lips twitch, like he was fighting a smile, but he looked happy enough to ease a little of your embarrassment. Your face still felt so hot, especially knowing he could tell. "Okay," he says quietly, leaning towards you. "That makes me happy," he says, voice growing huskier as his eyes darken, one of his hands going to your chin to tip your head up to look at him. "Then I want to ask you out for tomorrow," he says. "Like a date. I really want to take you out."
"We don't have to go out," you say, barely coherent with him so close. You can feel his breath, and your eyes keep stopping on his lips before you force them back to his eyes, only for them to fall again. "It doesn't have to be anything fancy, just because of—”
"I want to be alone with you," he interrupts, his thumb dragging across your cheek tenderly, his eyes on your lips as he speaks. You swallow, your stomach tightening with unfamiliar desire. This is the sweetest kind of torture, your nerves building inside of you. "We'll never be alone if we stay home."
He's completely right. The joy of six roommates. You try to nod, until you realize he's holding you, and you swallow again as his other hand cups your head and slides into your hair. Your breath feels very short and fast. Don't let me hyperventilate and pass out on him. His eyes meet your eyes, and your eyes drop to his lips. 
He closes the distance and presses his lips to yours, a soft brush you can barely feel, and your eyes drift shut as he brushes your lips again, lingering then firm, again. Your heart is beating so loudly you feel like he must be able to feel it, and your mind is racing with anxiety—you're so nervous, you know you're not going to handle much more like this—your hands are sitting stupidly in your lap—but with one last chaste, plush kiss, Yoongi leans back with eyes hooded with heated, controlled emotion.
"That's the way I should have kissed you the first time," he says softly.
You're not thinking very clearly, dizzy and very much lovestruck. "I was okay with the other kiss," you say honestly.
His lips twitch. "I'll kiss you like that later. But not right now. I wouldn't be able to stop." He strokes your cheek again with his thumb, so tender your heart explodes inside you, but then he leans back and his hands fall, stealing all your warmth and leaving you disoriented. "Don't get out," he says, opening his door. The chilled car fills with a gust of wind, and you shiver. "I'll get your door."
Your brow furrows, but he's slammed his door shut before you can protest.You watch him cross around the car in bewilderment, and he opens your door with a self-satisfied little smirk. "I don't like chivalry," you say firmly, trying to hide your own anxiety. "It's really unnecessary."
"Bear it a little," he says with a smirk, eyes soft. "I'm really happy right now," he says, holding out a hand. You grip it and clumsily step out, knees almost buckling. He holds you firmly without teasing you—now that's chivalry—and then reaches for your long forgotten backpack and swings it over his shoulder without comment. You feel extremely flustered. 
"That's heavy," you protest weakly. "I can carry it—” You can barely support your own weight.
He scoffs. "I have pride."
You go to the gym way more than Yoongi ever does, but he shows no sign that it’s heavy at all. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, especially when he knits his fingers with yours and effectively distracts you. He shuts your door with this free hand and begins to lead you to the apartment.
"I've had to hold myself back a lot," he says conversationally. "I don't want to hold back right now. So even if it's a little embarrassing, try to be understanding."
You bite your lip. How can you fight it when hearing those words make you so happy? "You're going to spoil me," you grumble. "And when you get lazy, I'll get angry. You know that's how to really piss a girl off, right?"
"I'm not going to get lazy," Yoongi says confidently.
You silently promise yourself you won't let him feel burdened enough to slack off. You'll fight every step of this weird chivalry dance. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, after all. 
When you enter the apartment, it's noisy and chaotic like most Saturday nights. Everyone has recovered from the night before, it seems. Seokjin is loudly fighting for a romantic comedy while Namjoon and Taehyung insisting on their own suggestions, and Jungkook and Hoseok are throwing cushions around, making Jin turn around to yell at them, and Jimin is just sitting back and laughing, a bowl of untouched popcorn waiting for the movie. No one notices you guys walk in at first—not until Namjoon turns, and then grins broadly at seeing your linked hands.
"Wow! You guys talked, right?" Namjoon asks, giving you guys the thumbs up.
Seokjin glances over his shoulder distractedly, but when he sees you both, his eyes widen comically as his jaw drops. "I knew it!" He explodes. "I told you—ya, I told you that she liked you—“
Jimin begins to clap for you guys from the couch, cheering enthusiastically, and Hoseok energetically joins in. "So sweet!" he croons shrilly. Your face begins to heat up.
"I finally told her," Yoongi says, dropping your hand to hook his arm around your waist, holding you tightly. He sounds a little too smug. "And she feels the same way." 
"I'm so happy for you guys," Taehyung steps forward to wrap you both in a hug, squeezing you both before stepping back with a big grin.
"It was all me," Jungkook confides to Jimin who laughs, not taking him seriously at all, but unfortunately, his voice carries to Yoongi's ears.
"Ya, Jeon Jungkook," Yoongi calls, loud and obstinate. "You're a little asshole who got off too easy this morning. I'm going to shave your head, you stupid ass. You really stressed her out. I'm kind of pissed right now," he drawls, arm dropping from your waist.
"I just wanted advice," Jungkook protests, grinning goofily. 
"Advice?" Yoongi scoffs. Then without warning, he rips his shoe off and chucks it at Jungkook. Jungkook dodges with a masculine shriek, dissolving into hysterical laughter as he grabs a pillow to throw right back.
Hoseok reacts instantly, ripping off his house slipper and throwing it at Seokjin. "Shoe fight!" Hoseok explodes with a manic grin.
"A shoe fight? Let's use pillows!" Seokjin yells, but he's laughing as well. And somehow, the news of your relationship is lost amidst a spontaneous fight of throwing anything moderately soft around the room, yells and shrieks of laughter drowning out any protests of Jimin and Namjoon. 
a/n: Yoongi rlly is a badboy he was just so soft for the reader lol. One day I’ll write a good badboy yoongi.
Quote: JK: “how do you ask a girl out?” YG: “Easy. You open the door and say, ‘Get out, you are bothering me.’” 
969 notes · View notes
yumikkaku · 7 years ago
Text
oh so many warnings.  sugar daddy yoongi & sugar baby jimin wip.  dubcon associated with the power imbalance that goes along with that.  having sex with strangers and other generally risky behaviors.  yoongi is kind of pushy in the face of jimin expressing discomfort.  also yoongi is drunk, and jimin...doesn’t really seem to care? bad things all around.  2.5k
"That's right," Yoongi mutters as he leans back on the heels of his palms, thighs spread and lips popped ever so slightly open.  "Strip."
Jimin sucks in a sharp breath, fingers toying with the bottom hem of his shirt.  Yoongi continues to sit there, staring at him, gaze sliding from the tips of Jimin's toes to the top of his head but lingering for a long, long moment around his hips.
All at once, Jimin's heart rate picks up.  Something like fear slithers through the pit of his belly.  "Um -- " he starts.
"Come on."  Yoongi's voice is deep and gravelly, rumbling almost like a purr as he stares at Jimin.  He leans even further back, shoulders relaxing into a slouch.  "You didn't put in all that effort just to chicken out, did you?"
Jimin clenches his fingers into fists.  Yoongi's right, he hadn't -- hadn't gone through the trouble of making that profile and spending two weeks flirting with Yoongi even when he was garbage about responding messages, hadn't spent hours in the bathroom trying to get the right damn angle so his dick looked good, hadn't spent the twenty-minute cab ride over here worrying about whether Yoongi's dick would be weird before ultimately decided it didn't really matter -- just to chicken out.
But nevertheless, Jimin's voice comes out small when he opens his mouth.  "No."
Yoongi grins.  "Then get on with it."
Jimin swallows.
He tilts his head to the side.  "Do you not want to?"
"No," Jimin says, again.  His heart hammers against the inside of his chest.  There are probably lots of things he should be worrying about -- like what kind of rich dude can't get a date naturally in his own socio-economic status, wants to use his wealth to attract pretty young people, how emotionally damaged /is he/.  But all that flickers through Jimin's head is pure nerves, his stomach fluttering and his neck breaking out in a cold sweat.  "I want to."
"Then do it," Yoongi mutters.  His eyes slide half-shut, narrowing into thin lines.  
But still, Jimin hesitates -- something about this feels off in a way he can't quite place.  Jimin had spent ages trying to track someone like Yoongi down, had fantasized over and over again about being fucked hard and roughed up and compensated with pretty, expensive things.  The thought of it makes Jimin's fingers tingle, his toes curl into the cool hardwood beneath his socks.  But something about this situation feels almost -- anticlimactic.
"Is it the money?" Yoongi asks.  "Do you wanna talk about that?"
Jimin starts.  "I --"
"I'll give you five hundred," Yoongi says.  His voice is still low, his heels digging into the floor at the base of his bed, which lies low to the ground and is covered in a satin-smooth blue comforter.  The air conditioning kicks on quietly in the background somewhere, sending a cool breeze that ruffles the open sleeves of Jimin's muscle shirt.  His eyeliner is thick, and his jeans are tight.  He looks like a slut.  He'd wanted to look like a slut.
Jimin's lips pop open.  "Oh, that's -- "
"A thousand," Yoongi says.  Like it's nothing.  Something hot and slimy coils in the base of Jimin's stomach, that makes him tingle from his very core to the tips of his fingertips, but it's still --
"Isn't it supposed to be like..."  Jimin trails off, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.  Yoongi raises his eyebrows.  "I dunno.  Like, a gift?  Or something?"
"Supposed to be?" Yoongi asks.  Jimin lets his eyes slide from Yoongi's face -- the barely present-wrinkles hardly evident in the dim lighting of his bedroom, since he is after all not nearly as old as many of the other people Jimin had stumbled across -- down his chest.  He notices, with something scalding-hot and visceral rising up in his throat, that Yoongi's cock is hard in his pants.
"Yes," Jimin says.  He clasps his hands behind his back like a nervous schoolchild, all the bravado he told himself he had completely lost to the way his stomach twists and turns with nerves.  "That's -- what I want."
Yoongi's lips pucker up into something that looks almost like a frown, his eyebrows furrowed.  "A gift..." he says, looking side to side, squinting in the low lighting.  A tight, suffocating coil wraps itself around Jimin's lungs and squeezes as his face flushes with embarrassment.  This is so awkward.  He should have just taken the money.
"A thing...an object...something I could give...."  Yoongi frowns a little more, glancing upwards, downwards, before pushing himself up into an upright position.  "Ah!" he says.  His lips open wide, and it isn't until that moment that Jimin notices the way his body sways just slightly too loose, his grip tight in the comforter like he's trying to use it to hold himself steady.  "Like a watch."
"Yeah," Jimin says, hesitantly.  "Like a watch."
Yoongi hums, then pulls both hands in front of him.  For a long moment, it doesn't quite occur to Jimin what he's doing until one glistening strap of the watch Yoongi is currently wearing falls limp from his wrist.
"Here," Yoongi says, holding the watch out to Jimin.  An upside-down Rolex logo catches in the light as it swings back and forth in Yoongi's fingers.  "Good?"
Jimin swears his eyeballs nearly fall out of his head.  "Um," he says, reaching out grabbing it in his chubby little fingers before Yoongi can change his mind.  But once he has it -- Yoongi still hasn't let go -- he pauses.  "That's worth way more than a thousand dollars.
With a shrug, Yoongi releases it.  The strap of the watch falls against Jimin's fingers, and it's so -- so smooth, so weighty.  It feels fucking /expensive/ in Jimin's hand, and it gets him -- it gets him fucking hard.  Jimin doesn't know what could possibly be more climactic.
His breath comes in short little bursts, his pupils dilating.  "Okay," Jimin says.  Wordlessly, Yoongi reaches forward and helps Jimin put it on, fumbling to flick the fastener closed while Jimin's heart pounds against his sternum, his knees wobbling ever so slightly, his cock plumping up until he can feel it pressing uncomfortably tight against the zipper of his jeans even through hsi underwear.  "Alright."
Yoongi smiles.  "You're going to wear this," he says, sliding his fingers along Jimin's forearm before adjusting the watch so it sits comfortably on his wrist.  When he breathes out, Jimin can make out the scent of alcohol on his breath.  "And you're going to strip for me."
"Yes," Jimin says.
His voice shakes as he speaks, quietly taking a step back from Yoongi.
"Good," Yoongi mutters, settling back onto the heels of his palms again.  He hums.  "Very good."
"Okay," Jimin says.  The watch remains heavy against his wrist as he slides his fingers underneath the edge of his shirt, cool against his skin as he reveals a few inches of his stomach.  Yoongi makes a noise that sounds more like a grunt than a hum, and Jimin goes quickly, lifting the shirt up over his head and revealing the flat plane of his chest.
Yoongi sighs.  Jimin tosses the shirt onto the floor beside him.
"What's your name again?" Yoongi asks, tilting his head to the side.
Jimin pauses, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans.  Something about that makes him feel -- dirty.  "Jimin."  But it's definitely a good kind of dirty.
He's about to fuck this rich stranger who barely knows his name.  For an expensive watch.
Something about it turns Jimin on so much he feels like he can barely breathe through it.
"Jimin," Yoongi says.  Slowly, Jimin slips the button of his jeans free from the hole.  "You're a dancer, right?"
Mouth suddenly dry, Jimin pauses.  "Yeah," he says.  "I am."
Yoongi tilts his head to the side.
"You want me to dance?" Jimin asks.
A moment passes before Yoongi answers.  "No," he says, voice halfway distracted.  He sways slightly to the side, and for a moment Jimin wonders exactly how drunk this guy is -- he hadn't seemed especially inebriated when he'd answered the door, guided Jimin back into his bedroom.  "Just wondering about your -- hips."
"My what?" Jimin asks.  A nervous smile pulls at the edges of his lips.
"What they do.  You know, that thing that dancers do, with the -- "
"This?" Jimin asks, curling his shoulders in before rolling his hips, button of his jeans undone and chest slick with nervous sweat.  He slides his hands up his body -- he's no stranger to sexy dancing, had a few boyfriends who always asked him for things like that.
"Fuck, yes," Yoongi mutters, sliding his palm down to the bulge of his cock.  "Just like that."
Jimin feels dirty.  He raises a hand to comb through his bangs and the gold of the watch flashes in the dim orange light that radiates from overhead.  Yoongi slides his fat-knuckled fingers down the length of his cock through his jeans, knees kicked haphazardly open, the scent of alcohol strong on his breath aftering buying Jimin a cab here from halfway across the city.  It's hot.  It's dirty and it makes Jimin feel a little used, a little disposable, but his fingers tingle with it as he rips open the button of his jeans and hooks his fingers in the waistband, tugging it down until --
"Are you not wearing any underwear?"
Breathless, Jimin shakes his head.  "No," he says.
Yoongi laughs.  "Jesus," he says.  "You're funny."
Jimin blushes — he isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or not.  But regardless, he ducks his chin down and begins to peel his jeans down his thighs, his shins, before kicking them off his feet and — fuck, he clasping his hands in the small of his back again, breath quick and cock hard, in nothing but the watch and his socks.
“Fuck, baby,” Yoongi mutters.  He reaches one hand out, curling his fingers like he wants Jimin to come closer.  “So gorgeous, come here.”
Jimin sucks in a deep breath and takes a few hesitant steps forward.  He’s nervous, lower half of his lip bitten in between his teeth, but he’s also — excited.  His breath catches in his throat as Yoongi reaches out and runs his palms down the curves of Jimin’s hip, over his thighs, before eventually wrapping his palm around the base of Jimin’s cock.
“Oh!” Jimin starts, reaching out and reflexively grabbing Yoongi’s shoulders.  The smooth, heavy fabric of his shirt surprises Jimin — it hadn’t looked all that fancy when he’d let Jimin in, but it feels fancy, so incredibly soft against his fingers that Jimin lets out a sigh.
“Still,” Yoongi says.  His breath ghosts across Jimin’s chest, pink lips folding around the word.  “Be still.”
He goes slow as he drags his palm up Jimin’s cock.  With a gasp, Jimin clutches at Yoongi’s shoulders — can’t remember the last time he felt so fucking hot, so dirty, Yoongi’s touch coursing through him like electricity.  Yoongi slides his fingers over the head of Jimin’s cock, smearing them slick with Jimin’s precome before giving him a few more strokes, tracing his thumb along the most prominent vein and pulling the foreskin all the way back.
Yoongi hums.  "Good dick," he says.
Jimin laughs.  "Um," he says.  He sort of wonders why it matters if he's going to be getting fucked, but he's flattered nonetheless.  "Thank you."
Yoongi grunts in response.
It's only at that particular moment, staring at Yoongi from above, finally close enough and comfortable enough that he can take a good look, that Jimin notices he's -- not ugly.  Not even neutral-looking, like Jimin would have expected.  He's pretty, with a strong jawline and small but charming triangle-shaped eyes.  His lips pucker out into an attractive pout.  He looks a bit twinkish, actually, if Jimin were going to try to place the way that he looks.  
It's surprising.  Jimin would have expected some creepy older dude trying to sleep with young people for favors would be -- not attractive.  Wouldn't need to be doing this if he were attractive.
"Pretty fucking cock," Yoongi says.  His voice is deep, sends little tingles running up Jimin's spine.  "Looks even better in fucking person, shit."
"Th--yeah."  Jimin shifts his hand, running his fingers through Yoongi's hair -- he can't remember how long he's been fantasizing about something like this.  Whenever he moves his hand, the weight of the watch shifts and reminds him of the situation, sends a little jolt of arousal shuddering down Jimin's spine.  In the back of his mind, he toys around with the idea -- would he have done this if not for the compensation?  The idea of the answer being no makes him bite his lip and curl his toes.  The idea of Yoongi being a gross old man who just wants Jimin because he's young and pretty and easy enough to be bought makes him want to come on the spot, and Jimin -- he can see his cock jump in Yoongi's hand, a bead of precome gushing from the slit, and Jimin --
"Fuck," Yoongi mutters.
Jimin doesn't have time to process what's happening before he ducks his head forward and presses his lips to the head of Jimin's cock.  He gasps, knotting his fingers in Yoongi's hair without meaning to, processing the sensation of his tongue against the underside of Jimin's cock, warm and wet and --
"No," Yoongi mutters, just barely pulling off and smacking Jimin's hands away.
The watch slides down Jimin's wrist as he pulls away, not quite tight enough.  "Sorry," he says, quietly, as he places his hands back on Yoongi's shoulders.
"'S fine."  Yoongi's voice comes out slurred, but Jimin can't quite tell if it's from the alcohol or just because he's in a rush, because in the next moment he slides Jimin's cock in between his lips once again and sinks halfway down the shaft and Jimin gasps, fingers digging ever so slightly into Yoongi's shoulders, and --
Yoongi pulls off only a moment later with a gasp.  "Get on your knees."
Jimin's never dropped so fast in his life.
"Good," Yoongi says.  He reaches out and touches Jimin's cheek, and his touch feels -- dirty.  He runs his palm along Jimin's cheek, through his hair, down his chest.  "You're gonna suck me off."
It's not a question.  It doesn't sound quite like an order -- a little more polite than that, not as authoritative as Jimin would expect for an order to be.  But it's still not a question, just an expectation, and it's so -- it's hot.  God, it's hot.  The idea that Jimin can be bought is so fucking hot.  He's no better than a fucking whore.
He spreads his knees and grabs at Yoongi's belt.  His breath slides past his lips in quick little bursts, his mouth dry, his fingers trembling as he tugs the strap of the belt free of the buckle, struggling to yank the prong out from the hole.  Yoongi laughs at him, sliding Jimin's bangs from his forehead.  When Jimin glances up, his head is tilted back.  All Jimin can see is his chin.
He's a stranger.  That thought pangs hard in Jimin's chest -- stranger who just gave him a watch probably worth multiple thousands of dollars in exchange for a fuck.  He yanks Yoongi's belt open as quickly as he can manage, sighing out through his nose when he feels Yoongi's fingers twist in his hair, tugs the button and zipper open and presses his tongue flat up against Yoongi's cock through his underwear, breathing in the scent of sweat and musk, pressing his lips against the column and laving his tongue against the fabric.
"Get on with it," Yoongi mutters.  He tugs at Jimin's hair and -- normally Jimin would find that incredibly obnoxious.  That Yoongi is allowed to pull at his hair but Jimin isn't allowed to return the favor, but in this context it's different.  It's a power imbalance.  Jimin's been bought, and it's not like he can't say no -- knows he can say no, knows he could probably snap this man's arm like a twig -- but it's the idea.  The rules are different.  There's a power imbalance.  It makes Jimin's mouth water.
10 notes · View notes
themalicealyce · 7 years ago
Text
Sarcasm and Puns: Chapter 3
You’re an introverted person, have been all of your life but it wasn’t as if you were shy, you were just content to have your only friends be your brother and your roommate. Though when your brother’s young daughter makes friends with the human ambassador of monsters you open up to the idea of having a larger group of friends.
Everything seems much slower in autumn, the chill in the air causes the world to screech to a crawl as the leaves change, even the city seemed less lively. You always thought this was true but over the course of the last couple of years you discovered there was an exception to the hushed state that this time of year brought. This break from the lull of dreary, sluggish afternoons came in the form of a hyper six year old, fresh out of school, tugging you towards the playground with the single minded determination of a freight train.
Slow burn, like really slow and lots of friendship with the whole group. Originally posted on AO3.
The sun rose, sluggishly peeking out above the horizon, muddled through the dull grey mess of muted colors that made up the city. Rays of its glaring white-gold light streamed persistently even through the thin drapes that were haphazardly closed to cover your window. The light that poured in from the gaps striped across the room blindingly, hitting your eyes. Any noise that you would have heard, from birds outside to the sounds of neighbors drifting through the walls of your apartment building were drowned out by your phone alarm that blared loudly from the pocket of last night's jeans. The combination of stimuli forcibly pulled you from sleep. Morning came all too quickly, as you knew it would considering you had only given yourself a couple hours to sleep, still you groaned groggily pulling the blanket over your head in a vain attempt to will it away so you could stay cocooned in your warm nest of a bed.
The shrill, digital chirps of your alarm won out and you couldn't listen to them any longer. You forced yourself to get up and silence its insistent beeping, your sudden movement waking Hemlock. You spared him an apologetic look as you grabbed the pants, prying the phone out of the pocket to glare at the time. You loved your job, the only drawback was having to start at such an early hour. You used to work the afternoon shift but switched over so you could leave around the same time your niece got out of school. It was definitely helpful since your brother's hours were much more sporadic than your own. There was no doubt you weren't the type of person that rose with the sun, more like a night owl, and now you had to get to work shortly after the mall opened every morning. You had never gone through more coffee than you have since starting the morning shift. The thought of coffee was what got you moving, if you were quick you could make coffee on your way to the studio.
You showered and rushed through your morning routine tying your hair back in a messy ponytail and getting dressed in the closest clean work clothes you could find. Quickly checking yourself in the mirror, straightening the white button up and black vest you wore for you job before throwing a heavy jacket on over them and tossing on a pair of boots. You slid your phone into your pocket and grabbed your messenger bag, slinging it over one shoulder before leaving your room to feed Hemlock and grab your keys from the counter. Glancing across the counter you found the coffee maker a huge mess and you scrunched your nose up in distaste. You had neither the time nor willpower to clean that and brew yourself coffee. You sighed, deciding if you hurried maybe you could stop at that little café you liked on the way to the mall.
Making your way through the living room you saw Vincent curled up on the sofa after having finally crashed, sleeping with his laptop abandoned nearby. The tv still flickered, but long since forgotten. You switched it off and went through the mental checklist in your head one last time before heading off in search of a good cup of coffee.
With the sun rising a little higher and the world around you slowly waking up, you stopped at the small brick coffee house that had quickly become your favorite. Briefly checking the time, you pushed the door open and saw the place was predictably scarce, just barely beginning to pick up traffic of people heading to work. You did however see a small monster with orange skin and incredibly large eyes that stared intensely down at the floor. They were in a chair that was pressed up against the wall by the door, you looked at them for a moment in curiosity because they looked so lost and troubled.
When you first heard them mumble you thought you'd been caught looking and offended them until you registered the words "I came in here for a coffee but I forgot my wallet... So, I'm just going to sit in this corner and pretend I'm waiting for someone." Your first instinct was to laugh even though you sympathized with the awkwardness of their situation, but they seemed to be talking more to themselves than you so you kept quiet and walked over to the counter, hurried to place your order. You briefly considered buying the small monster a cup as well, but you shrugged it off, you didn’t have the time or money this morning. As you waited you felt your phone vibrate, alerting you of a text. You checked it as your name was called by the barista, seeing your brother's photo light up your screen. You grabbed your cup and nodded at the worker as you headed out of the shop. You pulled up the message managing to navigate the sidewalk that grew more crowded as you read.
'Lunch? Gotta ask you something.'
You quickly responded, telling him to meet you in the food court at noon before you put your phone away so you wouldn't be late. Entering the mall, you lamented your own bad habit of once again starting the work week with barely any sleep. Luckily the caffeine coursing through your veins had so far kept you pleasantly awake and distracted.
"Hey man over here!" You were pulled out of your thoughts by the greeting and searched for the source of the airy voice.
You scanned the long, nearly empty hallway and your eyes quickly landed on her. Chandler was waving you over, making sure you knew she was the one who called out to you. Chandler worked at that trendy record store across from your studio and she gave off this breezy, bohemian vibe in everything she did. It still amazes you that you've never seen her get mad or even impatient. She was tall and curvy with short chestnut brown hair that framed her freckled face and her hazel eyes were wide and as round as her face. She stood with Nathan who was pretty much the only other person who worked at the mall that you knew well enough to eat lunch in the food court with. Nathan's dirty blonde hair poked out from his dark grey beanie in a way that was probably purposefully messy and his ice blue eyes were framed by his thick black glasses. He was lanky and angular, he had stubble that was kept neat and short and the left side of his bottom lip was pierced with a simple black ring. As you got closer you saw she was also talking to that cat guy you sometimes saw smoking outside; you didn't really know much about him or when that they had started to hang out. He was slumped up against the wall toying with the pack of cigarettes in his hands. You don't think you have ever seen that guy stand up straight without leaning lazily against something, and honestly you were kind of impressed with his dedication.
"Hey, dude," Chandler greeted as you joined the group; Nathan nodded in acknowledgment, and the orange furred cat monster gave a half-hearted wave. "you coming to game night? Nathan needs to know how much taco stuff to make."
Nathan nodded again, but remained quiet as usual; he always paid attention, even if he rarely spoke up. When he did his voice was gravelly and pleasant, he worked at the game store and kept you busy with great puzzle games, his recommendations never failing to be challenging and fun. You swore under your breath, you had forgotten that you agreed to hang out with them. You felt bad for turning them down, though you didn’t promise, and the shrug you gave in response came all too naturally. You know you haven’t really made a habit of hanging out with them often, and lately you've been too busy to see them outside of work.
"Can't tonight, you know how it is."
Chandler chuckled softly. "Man, don’t worry about it." She waved off your apology.
You nodded with a sleepy smile on your face. “Rain check?”
“Totally.” Chandler answered immediately and Nathan made a matching expression of agreement.
“I really am sorry but I’ve just been really busy with my brother’s kid being around, so I spend most days I don’t spend with her sleeping." Your work friends gave you understanding looks; however, the cat monster's fur puffed out like Hemlock's does when he's upset. "Kids weird me out, man, one second they're begging for those meals with the toys in 'em, the next they're bawling so hard you have to mop up after 'em." he said with a shudder.
"Yeah, now imagine you have to get them to sit still and smile for a family photo, it's my favorite part of the job." you quipped with an eye roll.
"See, you get it buddy." the cat monster flashed you a quick approving smile; the genuine grin looked somewhat unnatural on his face, like he didn't use it often.
Nathan broke his silence as he collapsed into light giggles. You hid your amused smile behind your coffee cup and gulped down what was left. Looking up to check the large wall clock in the hallway, you suddenly realized how little time you had left to get to work. "Well that's about as long as I can hold a conversation this early in the morning, so I better go before I dissolve into gibberish." you grumbled out for emphasis, lazily waving as you departed from their small group and continued on towards the studio tossing the empty paper cup in the trash along the way.
You spent the majority of your morning just hanging out in the studio keeping things tidy and talking to curious mall goers, overall it was a fairly slow morning. You loved photography and the fact that mornings were usually dead, but you really wished you could be doing more with your passion than posed family portraits. You sighed and stared at the clock waiting for lunch.
When you were finally able to, after a period of time that felt like forever, you stepped out of the studio for lunch. You wandered off and stood in the middle of the food court trying to decide what to eat. You were lost in thought when you were ambushed from behind and pulled into a tight hug. You would never admit to the squeak you made in surprise. Pulling away, you spun around to be greeted with your brother's smiling face. He gave you a small smirk at your surprised reaction. "Gabriel! You're going to be the fucking death of me." you sighed and clutched your chest.
He crossed his arms, the tattoos on them showing from where he had rolled up his sleeves. "Yeah well maybe if you were more used to hugs you wouldn't have a panic attack every time I stop by." Gabriel rolled his eyes, smirk betraying the annoyed tone he used. "If you didn't insist on sneaking up on me it would be fine." you crossed your arms mimicking his action, trying to look affronted. He laughed, waving off your comment "Burgers?" he asked instead.
"Yes please, I am starving!" you agreed whole heartedly, having not eaten all day.
You ate with your brother, both of you scarfing down your food like ravenous wolves which left you with more time in your break than you thought. Gabe wandered with you through the mall eventually ending up in the outdoor plaza area in the center of the mall before you remembered the text he sent you earlier.
"So, what's this big mysterious question?" you asked when your conversation lulled.
"You're off on Saturday, right?" it was a question, but he said it like a statement. He was just leading you along his train of thought until he got to the point he wanted to make.
"Yeah?" you asked, drawing out the word to urge him to continue.
"Well how about dinner?" there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that was slightly worrying, but you chose to ignore it. "Sure thing, when?" You answered easily.
"Five, I'll text you the address." He offered casually leading you down a winding trail around the plaza.
You glared at him suspiciously "Did you spontaneously change address or do you really think my direction skills are that poor?" you intoned.
"Well, it’s not at my place.” He shrugged. “And, you don't know where Toriel lives." His voice was casual, but the look on his face was one someone would use when dealing with a particularly dense person who wasn't following simple logic.
"Toriel?” You paused a moment in thought trying to remember why you recognized that name. “You mean that uh kid…” You struggled trying to think of the name. “Frisk's mom?" you questioned trying to slowly piece together what he was telling you.
"Yep." he popped the 'p' sound and nodded encouragingly as you worked through what he meant.
You glared, knowing he was being deliberately vague to fuck with you "Why am I supposed to have dinner with Toriel?"
"Because," he sighed in an exaggerated manner as if he was extremely disappointed in your deductive skills. "it's going to be a kind of 'getting to know your kid's new friend's family' type thing and she invited you. Oh, look ice cream!"
Gabriel distracted you from trying to process the information, or maybe he was legitimately excited by the small food vendor cart with the bright yellow and red striped umbrella that he pointed at. There was really no underestimating his sweet tooth.
"Isn't it getting a bit too cold for ice cream?" you complained even as he dragged you by your wrist toward the cart manned by a pastel blue bunny man in a shirt that matched the cart’s umbrella.
He was leaned up against it amenably chatting with that cat monster you spoke to earlier. You don’t think you caught his name, but you recognized him propped up against the wall nearby with the cigarette in between his lips. The fact that he was smoking and wearing an overly tacky fast food uniform you figured he was probably on his own lunch break.
"C'mon, live a little, will you?" Gabriel chided you teasingly.
You shrugged now close enough to read 'Nice Cream' on the side of the trolley, "Yeah, sure fine."
"Oh, by the way I said you would make dessert." he added quickly before getting the bunny's attention.
You groaned and slapped his arm, you had no clue what he had gotten you into now. “Ugh, go to hell Gabe.”
“I’m trying my best, sister dearest.” He quipped back quickly with a smirk and wink before returning his full attention back to his ice cream order, you didn’t order one of your own.
Soon Gabe left on his way to pick Morrigan up from school and you went back to work, but for the rest of the day your mind kept drifting back to the conversation.
On your way home that day you easily thought of ways you could get out of going to this dinner. Ideas ranging from reasonable and realistic to dramatically unbelievable stories you could weave, but ultimately you didn't even know if you wanted to avoid going. You liked Toriel, from what you remembered of meeting her, and she had asked you to come so you guessed she didn't mind you either. Frisk was also a good kid and your niece really seemed to like to her. You didn't want to ruin the first friendship she developed since moving here, so how much could one dinner party really hurt? You would have Gabriel there with you and he always made it easier to deal with people, just like when you were kids. These thoughts kept looping in your mind for the whole walk back to your apartment and by the time you got there you were surprised to find you were actually excited by the idea.
Sticking your hand into your jacket pocket for your keys your nose scrunched up in confusion as you were met with something you didn’t remember putting there. You pulled it out of your pocket to examine it only to be filled with more confusion. It was a wrapper, was this the wrapper from Gabriel’s ice cream thing? Did he just shove his trash in your pocket while you weren’t paying attention? You sighed and shook your head ready to throw it away when you saw writing on the inside of the wrapper. Uncrinkling the weird not quite paper, not quite plastic material you read the message ‘You have a really nice smile, you should use it more!’. You could feel yourself starting to smile just from reading it. You rolled your eyes half-heartedly at the thought of Gabriel sneaking the wrapper into your jacket and held it in your hand as you went fishing in your pocket again, this time actually managing to grab your keys.
4 notes · View notes
hetmusic · 9 years ago
Photo
Tumblr media
Interview | Albin Lee Medlau | HumanHuman
First appearing eight months ago with a demo version of viral single “Lou Lou”, the gravelly voiced Albin Lee Meldau was discovered by Hillydilly.com with this glowing recommendation: “Having a unique voice is such a big factor in music today, and when you've the kind of vocals that Sweden's Albin Lee Meldau has, standing out and making a good impression isn't too hard at all” (via Hillydilly). Since making his official debut one month ago, this Swedish singer-songwriter has blown up with over 1.5 million monthly listeners on Spotify and racking up 38k listens to “Lou Lou” on SoundCloud, and he is currently jet-setting across the globe to play live for a new throng of adoring fans.
What you’ll find in this interview is that beneath the raw emotion and folk-pop aesthetic is an honest-to-a-fault individual who quite simply wants to makes the best music he can. Here, we discuss what it means to go solo, an appreciation for imperfection, a love for retro pop music and a few things that don’t quite gel with one of Scandinavia’s fastest rising artists.
First of all, can you tell me a little about yourself and your musical background?
Okay, I’m a 28-year-old musician from Gothenburg in Sweden. I play pop music, straight from the heart. For me, the essential part is the story, so I try to keep myself as broad as possible. My background comes from playing on the street, playing in churches, weddings, funerals, all kinds of places. I’ve played soul for six years, I had a band called Magnolia, and so one year ago I started doing my own thing. That’s basically it, I’ve been playing a lot and busking a lot. Oh, and my parents are both singers, so I come from a musical family. I also used to play the trumpet.
Oh, do you ever play the trumpet now?
No, it’s really hard. It’s something you need to practice like all the time, so it’s not something that you can do when you feel like it. Now, I play the guitar, sing and produce.
You said you made the switch from soul to pop?
Yeah, I used to play quite old-school 60s/70s music and now I try to do more of a pop, indie thing. It’s more modern, because I don’t want to do that retro music anymore. I wanted to do my own thing.
Is there anything that influenced that change?
Well, it’s two different things: this is a diary that I’m in control of and a band is a relationship between people. It’s just a different thing. I guess it’s life that has influenced this change. I want to do things with my life, I can’t be waiting for six other people, and it’s very hard for bands also these days. No one wants to sign bands these days unless they’re 100% sure. I started this one year ago and now to be where I am today, it’s very well done, and if I had to do that as a band, I don’t think I would have managed to get this far; it’s very hard to break bands. That’s probably why, and I don’t really like waiting around or sharing or having to listen to people as well [laughs]. No, no, I just mean I’m not a very good team player in that sense. I like to be the one in charge, thus the interviews and being the front of the whole project. I’ve been the back-up singer and the singer in that band [Magnolia] for a long time, I played all kinds of instruments with them, and back-up singing is really what I used to do. I wanted to be a solo singer-songwriter.
You described this project then as your “diary”?
Basically, yes. I’m a young, diligent artist and it is about love and it is a diary. It doesn’t have to be about myself, it can be about any sort of story, but it’s definitely my diary, yeah. It’s just what it is. Most people live their lives and all people can express emotion, but this is my way of doing it. It’s a lot of emotion in one little diary, and hopefully I can release it as soon as possible. I released a little video on Mahogany Sessions the other day for “Darling”, for the next tune that’s coming, and there will be lots more songs in the near future.
Well, I’ll look forward to that, but the song we’ve been listening to a lot recently is “Lou Lou”. It’s a very emotional song, what does it mean to you?
That’s a very dark love story about a girl I used to know when I was young, it’s really… well I will leave it up to the listener to decide what it’s about. It’s filled with emotion as something people could probably relate to. It’s a short, dark, obscure, Scandic-noir love story. Horrible song for me, personally, I don’t like it one bit, because it’s so sad and I hear it all the time! Just wait, I want to release the next song, and the next one, and then the album so there will be plenty of stories.
“It’s a short, dark, obscure, Scandic-noir love story.”
Is “Lou Lou” one that you’d perhaps struggle to play live?
Look, I love all my babies. The worst thing I know is when you don’t want to listen to a song, but if you skipped one song on [Marvin Gaye’s album] Let’s Get It On then you miss the whole story. But no, don’t worry about that. This is the first song, the first one I ever recorded, and I recorded that version for two hundred quid in a cellar, that’s just how we did it. There will be more songs coming up with fantastic producers like Jimmy Napes, Justin Koch, Bjorn Yttling Rich Cooper, Ben Burrows, Bastian Langebaek, Eg White - these are fantastic producers, grammy winners, and Justin even wrote video games. These are great people and so there will be great songs.
I would say that one thing that bloggers and listeners have picked up on is your unique vocal, is that something that came naturally to you or has it been developed over time?
I’ve been singing my whole life. I sang in choirs and I’ve been a backup singer in reggae, blues and soul bands my whole life. I’m not saying I’ve got a unique vocal, but yes I do have a voice that sounds a certain way, and you can hear that it’s me straight away, which is something I’m very proud of, but am I a fantastic singer?! There’s so many fantastic singers today, it’s ridiculous, but for me it’s what the story is all about. I’m a really big Bob Dylan fan, and a fan of people who can’t really sing, at least that’s what other people say, but that’s not what it’s about for me. The voice itself, the sound of it, is obviously something I’ve been working on, obviously, it’s my instrument. I get quite bored of listening to Beyonce and Aretha [Franklin], but yeah the singing is a big part, but some songs that whisper, those might be the good ones. Big vocals don’t really interest me, it’s the message and emotion. Perfection is not attractive at all. You need to find some kind of scar, there needs to be some weird little thing that makes it interesting. That’s probably what I think about when I sing, that it shouldn’t be perfect, it shouldn’t too much.
I completely agree, I much prefer an emotional performance, it’s not about whether it’s technically correct.
Yeah, but then you see someone like Elvis, who I think is the best singer ever, because he could combine the two - perfection and emotion. It’s really a very hard question, I’ve done this a long time, I’m a singer. I wish I could be a poet instead, and maybe a model, maybe a blogger in fashion, and I want to be a producer!
Well we often talk about how artists self-produce and how there’s more producers than ever now, would that be a goal of yours?
Well, I worked with Bjorn Yttling on the first track, “Lou Lou”. Some songs have been produced by others and some I’ve worked on. It doesn’t really matter, whatever the song becomes is the most important thing. If I do a better job then I’ll pick my version and if someone else does the better job I’ll pick their version. I would never say that I’m not open-minded to working with geniuses like them.
Obviously, you’re from Sweden, a country synonymous with pop music, do you think that’s still true today?
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Are there any contemporary Swedish artists that you look to or take note of?
First Aid Kit are great singers and “My Silver Lining” is a fantastic song. Lykke Li is fantastic, a fantastic woman. Earlier this year I was a support act for Aurora, she’s a fantastic singer and artist. Basically, everyone is very good! But what do I listen to? I listen to Bob Marley, The Wailers, Elvis Presley, The Temptations, but I don’t really listen to that other stuff.
So, you’re not really a modern pop fan?
Yes, some songs are fantastic, but when it comes down to it, I don’t really have time for anyone else’s music really but my own. When I have the time I’ll listen to Bach or somethin I’ve been really longing for, I don’t have the time to search for new music since this year has been so hectic. I do like First Aid Kit however, I think they’re very good. The new Kendrick [Lamar] album, I thought that was good. Some things that come up like the Drake thing with Rihanna [referencing “Work”], you go out and you can’t really avoid it, I think it’s hilarious, but it’s not what I would listen to. Hmmm… what do I listen to. The Tallest Man On Earth is very good, Leon Bridges had a really good song, Alabama Shakes was fine. I can’t really remember! There’s millions of songs that come every week and it’s just… stuff. I can’t keep up with it. I just concentrate on writing good music. Oh, recently I found this mix of Elvis Presley’s “Crying in the Chapel” with The Wailers. I like weird stuff.
Oh wow, a little bit obscure, but cool.
Obscure, yes. Most things I would listen to right now aren’t on playlists. I don’t like doing my own playlists, I can’t be bothered, like going to one artist and changing. I also can’t understand the idea of someone else doing the playlist for you, so I just go to an artists and press shuffle! Then it has to be an artists where all the songs are good, so Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Bob Marley, Buena Vista Social Club. I want my albums to be like that. No one should press skip or swipe to the next one because they feel the story is not good enough.
Moving on from music that you listen to, to your own career. In your opinion, what’s the best thing about being a musician? Is it writing, recording, touring?
Oh, I haven’t been touring, this is very new this thing. It’s not what you’d picture it to be, of course it’s nice not to worry as much as I used to, but it’s not nice having to get up really early every morning [laughs]. It’s not too bad, that’s probably the worst thing about being a professional musician. This is my fifth year of being a professional musician, but I’ve been busking and playing music for a long time. I mean, what is the best thing about work? And that’s when you work! I like performing, I love writing music, I like working. It’s also very nice when people listen to your song and when people all around the world want to tell you that they love your thing, that is of course fantastic. It was a very big honour for me when Quentin Tarantino said it was good and requested a mixtape. Stuff like that happens to me now. It’s the feeling that anything could happen. I love football and sports in general, and this is a sport for me, something that I need to evolve. I can’t stand people who don’t work hard, I hate lazy people. As long as I’m working, I’m happy.
“It was a very big honour for me when Quentin Tarantino said it was good and requested a mixtape.”
That’s great. So, from everything that’ you’ve been writing over the past year, do you have a favourite song?
No! That might change from week to day, and you never know which one it’s going to be. Sometimes you think “this is my favourite song” and then you just hate it. Also, all the songs have got different stories about them, some songs might be brilliant, but it’s such a sad story that you don’t really want to listen to it.
You’ve given us lots of hints that more music is coming soon, so what’s the next release going to sound like? What’s the story behind it?
I don’t know... I’m with Sony Music here in the Nordics, so we’ll see what they say and we’ll see how the streams are going and what sort of plan they’ve got for me. I’m playing a few festivals here, I’m going to The Great Escape, and I’m going to Cape Town to work with fashion. I’m going to London, New York, L.A. and all kinds of places in the next few weeks.
A lot to look forward to this year then?
Oh, I hope so! I mean we’re doing a good job. I’ve got a fantastic team, a brilliant band and a good song. I’m very, very happy that people like it and just being able to survive on doing music, I feel like a fraud here! You pinch yourself and wonder when you’re going to wake up.
https://humanhuman.com/articles/interiew-albin-lee-meldau
0 notes