#how dare you exist if he thinks that you are ugly??? women all should look pleasing and hot and be available always

[irascible-iridescent]

People hate women who don't look desirable for them so much, especially if its a woman who dared to be seen on the internet bc she is a singer or a streamer or a sportswoman or any other job that makes you visible for thousands of ppl.

Leave her alone!!! Get a job. Get a hobby. Get out

[mistress-of-vos]

I'd make a longer post (and maybe one day I will) but since Lore Olympus, the story that introduced me to webtoons is coming to an end I'd like to say something:

I can't believe it is considered problematic. It has to be one of the sweetest, fluffiest, simplest stories I have read (hence why I still like it, it's a relaxing read before bed) and somehow it got too "kinky" for mainstream. It's laughable.

Everytime I dare to click on their tag or look for the # on Twitter or FB I see people clutching their pearls as if Lore Olympus were brainwashing teenagers into marrying a non existent God of the dead and have babies with him. What the hell?

The fact that people think LO is too dark makes me laugh. A single episode of Rick&Morty, BoJack Horseman or HQS has way more explicit content and dialogue. In fact!!! If it were up to me LO would have gotten genuinely kinky!!! All it does is have some surface spicy tropes that get sugar coated to not make puritans awkward and tbh that's sad. LO and the author get terribly hated anyway for daring to portray the most common female fantasy.

And this all makes me laugh but also mad because you'd think LO at least has some genuine dark themes but no? At most we have Persephone's trauma due to Apollo's abuse and yet that topic is treated as a therapy pamphlet because people couldn't handle an imperfect victim. Hades is a wife guy who shows little to no anger. Hera was re written to be sort of a feminist so that people stopped being annoying about women having emotions.

LO is a sweet, simple story with tiny spicy things here and there that were eventually pushed aside because people couldn't handle it. I wonder how Rachel feels about this, because at the beginning the story was extremely spicy and the only crime was being published in a platform as webtoon, full of people who can't differentiate reality from fiction.

Is LO a masterpiece? Idk! I enjoy the story, it's very self indulgent for me, but I won't go and analyze every detail to see how it should be labeled as it's not meant to be a perfect media. It's meant to be an entertaining, nice story of romance and it does that job very well. This need to demand perfect writing while also crucifying authors over "dark" themes is ridiculous and contradictory.

And I keep wondering, if these people loathe LO so much, why dedicate all that time to the infinte posts they make about how they would have told the story? And all those re tellings are boring! It's always "So Persephone and Hades won't ever kiss here because she's a lesbian. Also he doesn't appear at all. And Demeter isn't an abusive mom! Oh and everyone is ugly because gods shouldn't be beautiful! And Apollo isn't evil he's uwu baby. And no toxic relationships here, Zeus is a good husband!"

Sweet Gaia, you guys wouldn't handle Saint Seiya having Athena in the body of a teenage girl with big tits and who's constantly in the edge of breaking her virginity vows. This attitude screams of jealousy and puritanism and both are disgusting.

TLDR: LO being too problematic for people is both funny and annoying. I wished it actually were as kinky and dark as people insist it is. I'd pay for a toxic romance, but that being said, I LOVE it very much as it is and it's nice to have a re telling that, while not pretending to be loyal to mythology, didn't go for a route of sanitizing all the myths. I hope that once it ends haters will move on and let real fans and the author alone. 🙏

[reifromrfa]

Short fic: Mafia AU | Jumin

I saw this artwork by @ranartinart and got inspired to write something short for my love, Jumin Han ;w; Thank you for your lovely art! :)

Reposted with permission from @ranartinart <3 Check it out here!

Wrote this fic while listening to this playlist ♪( ´θ｀)ノ

Trigger Warning: Violence

Story under the cut! This was purely self-indulgent haha! I feel as though I'm a little rusty with mysme so apologies in advance if it feels ooc ^^;; Enjoy~

★・・・・・・★

His precise steps against the marbled floor echo through the hallway. He isn't in a hurry; in fact, he takes his time, allowing the rage to bubble up inside him. He keeps his expression composed though, his head held high, his cold, steely eyes staring straight ahead, at the door on the end of the hallway.

Men and women bow to him as he passes, all of them avoiding his gaze. Finally, he reaches the door and his men open the door for him. Assistant Kang sees the man kneeling in the middle of the room, a few bruises already visible on his face and arms. She feels no pity for him, especially after he'd attempted to kidnap MC. Though MC was unharmed, Jaehee knows that this man will probably die here tonight. Honestly, he had a far better chance of surviving had he attempted to kill her boss, the mafia king of South Korea. But attacking his wife? His queen?

Jaehee looks at him with disdain as Jumin hands her his coat.

"Good riddance," she thinks to herself, turning on her heel. She makes a small gesture and the guards in the room follow her out, leaving Jumin alone with the man.

Jumin carefully folds his sleeves up, watching the man with cold, calculating eyes. The man glares at him, his hands bound behind his back.

"You motherfucker. You can't keep me here! They're gonna come lookin' for me! And when they do, they're gonna take you down, you bastard! You'll see. You're gonna be fucking sorry!" the man spits out, staring hatefully at Jumin.

Jumin arches a brow, continuing to fold his sleeves on his other arm. His voice is calm, low, as though he's having a casual conversation and not being threatened by this piece of scum. "Oh? I'd like to see them try."

The man becomes angrier, as though Jumin’s calm facade is somehow an insult to him. “Don’t you fucking know who I am, huh? I am—”

“You are irrelevant to me,” Jumin interrupts, crossing his arms as he looks down on the man. His expression darkens as he studies the lowlife who dared to touch his MC. Who dared to even breathe the same air as her. “I do not need to know your name, I do not need to know who you are, what you’re worth. All I need to know is this:

You meant to harm my wife.”

Jumin watches as a small smile appears on the man’s face. His jaw clenches as he holds himself back. Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet.

“Your wife? MC? Yeah, she’s a real beauty. I remember those scared cries she made when I grabbed her. I bet she sounds real good in bed, huh? I bet—”

The man never gets to finish his sentence. Instead, he has a split second to widen his eyes before Jumin’s fist collides with his jaw. The man hears a crack but it’s quickly forgotten as pain shoots up his cheek, his jaw. His head whips harshly to one side and he tastes blood in his mouth.

Jumin grits his teeth and grabs the man by his hair, forcing him to face Jumin again.

“How dare you talk about my wife that way. How dare you even utter her name with that filthy mouth of yours. You have no right to even walk in the places her feet have touched. You have no right to breathe the air she breathes. You have no right at all to LIVE in the world she exists in.”

The man attempts to scowl but it turns into an ugly grimace, his jaw throbbing. “When I get outta here, I’m gonna fuck her and make you watch, you sonovabitch!” He’s about to spit at Jumin Han’s face when Jumin releases his hair and hits him with an uppercut, effectively slamming his teeth together. Jumin steps back and watches as the man chokes on his own spit, violent coughs making his shoulders heave. Blood starts to trickle down the side of his lips, down his chin; to Jumin, that vermin’s blood is like coal that fuels the deep loathing he feels towards said vermin. He wants more, more of the man’s blood to spill until he is on the brink of death.

“What makes you think you’re getting out of here? Do you think that highly of your comrades? Do you think they would come for you…at the risk of becoming my enemy?” Jumin lets out a mirthless chuckle.

“You’re sorely mistaken.

No one is coming to save you.”

“Think of it like this…” Jumin yanks on the man’s hair again, pulling him to his feet. He leans closer. In a low, soft voice, he speaks to the man —like Death’s whisper to a dying soul.

“You’re dead to them. In fact…you’re dead to everyone. There’s not a person who would want to be affiliated with you now. There’s not a single soul who will even speak your name anymore. Because if they do, I will not only obliterate every trace of their existence from the world, I will also ensure that their life becomes a living hell. They will spend every waking moment in a dark cell, suffering, praying they were dead, and every time they close their eyes they will be plagued with nightmares of the pitiful, painful, pathetic life ahead of them.”

The man struggles to remain upright, his hands still bound behind his back as blood starts to soak the front of his shirt. A muscle in Jumin’s jaw twitches as he stares at the hideous expression on the man’s face.

“You asked me if I knew who you are? Yes, I know who you are. I also know where you parents are, your sister and her family, even the bastard son you’re hiding from your employer.” At his words, Jumin sees the man’s face pale. “Here, we place a high value on family. That’s why I sought to learn about your family.”

“If you fucking touch them, I fucking swear I’ll—”

“You’ll…what? Kill me?” Jumin’s eyes flash and his lips curl in a small, taunting smirk. “That’s what you should have done. You should have killed me instead of going after my wife.”

Jumin approaches the man and now, he sees the man take a small step back.

“You’re only fucking cocky ‘coz you’re beating up a defenseless man! You think this is a fair fight?!”

“Fair?” Jumin’s eyebrow arches. “Fair?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, looking at the man in disbelief.

“Why would I stoop to your level and make this fair?”

He takes another step towards the man and the man’s eyes widen as he takes a step back.

“I was born with every advantage…why wouldn’t I use them? To, as you put it, ‘make this fair’? Why? You certainly thought it was fair to take advantage of a woman who’s smaller than you…and now you call me ‘cocky’ for beating you while your hands are bound?”

Jumin closes the gap between them and delivers a swift punch to the man’s solar plexus. The man chokes and gasps for air, wheezing as Jumin throws another punch…and then another.

The man feels his knees buckle as his body topples forward. But before he can even fall, Jumin grabs his shoulders and pushes the man down at the same time raising his knee and driving it further on the same spot.

“Get this through your thick head,” Jumin says vehemently, now letting his anger take over. Gone is his composure, all he can see now is this man stalking his wife, touching her, laughing at her horrified expression, thinking about the terrible things he’d do to MC…all because she’s Jumin’s queen.

“Life will never be fair.” Jumin keeps his grip on the man, not giving him a chance to straighten. He slams his knee against the man’s abdomen and now he can hear the man wheezing hard, his gasps turning raspy, desperate.

“You and I will never be on the same level.”

“P-lea—”

Jumin scowls at the man. He dares try to interrupt Jumin? Jumin takes a slight step back before slamming the man’s face down on his knee.

“Shut up. You don’t even deserve to be talking. I’ll have your tongue cut out…eventually.”

Jumin releases the man and he falls to the ground like a pathetic rag doll. The man is still wheezing, taking in short, quick breaths. Jumin watches him struggle to breathe, a rush of satisfaction filling him as he sees the man’s bloody face, his nose broken, his lip busted, his eyes swollen and drooping.

But still, this will never be enough. There’s never a good enough punishment for someone who has ill intentions towards Jumin Han’s family. Especially his Queen.

Jumin uses the front of his shoe to push the man onto his back. The man’s wide eyes dart to Jumin as he starts to choke on his own blood. But Jumin merely places a foot on his chest and leans forward, putting all his weight on the foot that’s right over the man’s lungs.

“Now…I’ve established that I know you. But…

Do you know who I am?”

Jumin’s steely gaze never leaves the man’s face, his icy expression showing no hints of mercy. In fact, he leans forward more, pressing his foot deeper.

”I am Jumin Han. I am the most powerful man in Asia.

From now on, your life is in MY hands. If you breathe it is because I’m letting you breathe. But don’t worry, I assure you, breathing will be a luxury for you. Like I said before, I was born with every advantage at my fingertips.

I intend to use my power to make your life into something far worse than the hell you’ve imagined.

About your family…I won’t hurt them. Yet. It all depends on whether you cooperate or not. You may think this is a sick, cruel game…I want to assure you yet again that yes, this is my sick, twisted game for simpletons with a death wish.”

The man’s face is turning purple as he desperately opens his mouth to try to get air into his lungs. Jumin just stares at him for a few seconds, watching the red lines creeping into the man’s eyes. Jumin eases his foot over the man’s lungs and he waits until the man intakes a couple of short breaths before pushing against his chest again.

“You’ve made a grave mistake, turning me into your enemy…but now I’ll be more than that. I’ll be the demon that haunts your every move. I’ll be your personal Grim Reaper, collecting blood and instilling fear in you.

Every day.

For the rest of your meaningless existence.”

Jumin lifts his foot from the man’s chest and he gazes down at his work. The man has tears flowing down the sides of his face, bruises and cuts all over his body —at least, the parts that Jumin can see. Jumin is sure the man has a cracked rib or two as well.

To him, this punishment is still nothing compared to the trauma this pathetic idiot instilled in MC. But he’ll have to stop for now; he doesn’t want the man to die that same night. No…Jumin wants him to live a long, miserable life.

Without another word, Jumin heads for the door, where Assistant Kang is already waiting with a towel in her hands. Jumin takes it, wiping away the man’s blood from his hands.

“I want him looked at but make sure he’s bound tightly. Only patch up the wounds that are fatal. Then transfer him to our warehouse, put him in a coffin and make him think he’s going to be buried alive; I trust you’ll oversee this, Assistant Kang?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll send you a recording afterwards.”

“Good. He can stay there for the evening, but make sure to check the CCTVs in the coffin every now and then. I want him to live for a long time. In the morning, move him to a cell and only give him water. No food, no lights, no toilets, no requests. I’ll call you with further instructions tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

The guards around Jaehee reply in a rush, the menacing aura Jumin is exuding, scaring even them. Jaehee waves the guards towards the man and they get to work.

“Oh, and Assistant Kang?”

Jaehee turns to her boss, watching him holding the blood-stained towel. She never thought she’d be working for the most powerful man in the continent, but she’s also grateful that she is. There’s no mercy in Jaehee’s heart towards the man who could have taken someone precious from them, and she’s glad her boss can inflict the most damning punishment onto that man.

“Yes, Mr. Han?”

“Make sure that man or anyone affiliated with him will never get anywhere close to my wife. If they do, kill them. I want all our men to know that.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. I’ll leave this to you, then. Have a pleasant evening, Assistant Kang.”

Jaehee watches him go, as though he didn’t just nearly beat a man to death. But at the end of the day, they’re all just pawns on Jumin’s chessboard.

She pities any fool who dares to take on the king and his queen.

★・・・・・・★

I hope you liked it! Thank you for reading <3 Don't forget to follow @ranartinart too <3

Check out my other Mysme writings here!

Mango Shake/Ko-fi is always very much appreciated (ᵔᴥᵔ)

[malachiexists13]

Would I Punch This Character?: [KNY] Uppermoon Edition

These are based on the little info I have so, maybe update post sometime in the future. Also I know I didn’t do Nakime but shhhhhhhhhh. 

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

Uppermoon 6: Kaigaku 

Opinion: Apparently the male demons are meant to be ugly but this dude proves that wrong. But also loserr lmaoo. Imagine challenging Koku to a fight and then LOSING and then deciding to serve under grandpa mcgee over there. He’s also the reason Zenitsu doesn’t HAVE a grandpa anymore! 

Conclusion: Yes. Beat his bitch ass. 

Uppermoon 6: Daki 

Opinion: You can just TELL she’s mean by the way she smiles. Annoying as fuck too. Like, spoiled brat much? AND SHALLOW TOO- Not a fan, especially of how I’ve seen some people take the way she dresses as the cue to sexualize her. Ya’ll do realize that she’s still mentally a 13yr old girl, right? 

Conclusion: I am not above punching a child. Especially if that child annoys me. Just don’t tell Gyutaro.  

Uppermoon 6 (real): Gyutaro 

Opinion: I know he’s meant to be ugly. And he is, don’t get me wrong. But like, it just works for him. He’s ugly, but he’s so ugly that he’s attractive, you feel me? But also everytime I look at him, all I can think of is that one scene in the Entertainment District when he’s petting Tanjiro’s hand and without any context or dialogue, it seems kinda sweet, but then Gyutaro reaches down, grabs Tanjiro’s hand and just fucking snaps two of his fingers and start maniacally laughing. Like bro, you ruined the moment!!

 Conclusion: Bro, he’ll break my fucking hand. I need that to draw and write. 

Uppermoon 5: Gyokko 

Opinion: I don’t know what the fuck I just looked at. Put it back in the pot. He’s the supporting argument to the “male demons in kny are hideous” claim, what the fuck. WHY ARE THERE MOUTHS WHERE HIS EYES SHOULD BE?? WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE A TERRIFYING MERMAID?? 

Conclusion: I do not want to touch that with a 100ft pole. Burn it. 

Uppermoon 4: Hantengu 

Opinion: Idk much about him? He has like, split personality or something. 

Conclusion: Eh. Sure, why not. Might die in the process but at least I’ll get to say I punched upper 4 for no reason. 

Uppermoon 3: Akaza 

Opinion: Basketball lookin’ ass. Like cool, he respects women, he has a wife, he looks like a basketball, he killed Rengoku, anything else? He hates Doma? He refuses to eat women and exclusively eats men? Sounds kinda gay to me /j 

Conclusion: He’d punch me back and then I’d die. 

Uppermoon 2: Doma 

Opinion: Imma get flammed but I don’t hate Doma, nor do I love him. Like, I do not give a fuck that he eats women or lacks emotion. Like cool, he’s a sociopath, he grew up in a fucking cult what do you expect? Also Daki and the swamp demon eat women too so if we gonna judge Doma, judge them too. The swamp demon SPECIFICALLY eats 16yr olds. But yeah. Equality. Don’t judge someone for the circumstances of their childhood. And if you judge one demon for eating women, judge all who dared to eat a woman. 

Conclusion: He’d call me a bully but.. Sure. Gotta test out the new metal bat (with nails!) on someone, right? 

Uppermoon 1: Kokushibo 

Opinion: He’s the prettiest one, out of the men. But also, a cannibal. Like, (dunno if this is true or not, but I’ve heard it enough times to joke about it-) apparently (hear that? apparently. IT MIGHT NOT BE TRUE AND I AM NOT SAYING IT IS.) Kokushibo will eat the demons who dare to challenge him for his position after beating them. Like bro, wtf, first you destroy their pride, then you take their life?? Nom nom I guess. But I also like to headcanon that he has multiple eyes covering his face because Muzan didn’t wanna be reminded of Yoriichi in any way. And I use him as an example against Muzan’s shit behavior. So thank you, Koku, for existing. 

Conclusion: The fuck? I think he’s pretty but I don’t simp hard to want him to EAT ME. BECAUSE HE PROBABLY WOULD IF I HIT HIM. 

Demon King: Muzan Kibutsuji 

Opinion: Ya’ll, it’s the ultimate Grandpa! Grandpa McGee!!!! Haha.. I hate him. I don’t like people who take advantage of others for their own selfish gain. Especially when they’re emotionally vulnerable. Fuck you, Muzan. 

Conclusion: I MIGHT HAVE TO GO MEET GOD BUT I DON’T FEAR THE CONSEQUENCES. BEAT HIS BITCH ASS. JUSTICE FOR LITERALLY EVERYONE HE KILLED, EVEN IF THEY DESERVED IT. THEY HAD TO SEE HIS FACE BEFORE THEY DIED, HOW UNFORTUNATE. 

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

[bigpharmesan]

Does Sneako smell bad? Annoying podcasters suck and are ugly.

This is way late to the game but fuckit

Watching a Sneako video, Andrew Tate, Fresh and Fit, I get the waft of axe body spray in my nose. It smells like undertones of B.O, due to sitting in a chair for hours and getting angry for no reason. Their body doesn’t understand they’re on a podcast talking about beta males, all it knows is that they are highly agitated. Axe body spray and B.O sounds familiar. That’s because it is. You know this man. With love to these men, those who are kind and decent, we can picture them. Middle school boys in basketball shorts, the dishwasher you work with who isn’t just stoned on thc, I think chalked up they are the masculine individuals before their blossom, or who never got to, who may in the future. None of these podcasters are kind and decent though, and the men who are know the following statements do not apply to them.

These people are insecure, and insecurity makes you sweat. To identify an insecure individual within these lookmaxxing losers you should watch out for loud yelling, smiling while saying weird sadistic shit, and the classic “pulling on her ponytail and then running away” except with the entire internet.

I’m sick of tiptoeing around the real issue. Feminism, respecting women’s rights to, like, exist as fully fleshed out human beings with tangible brains and feelings, these have been discussed endlessly. It’s obvious what the real answer is: these men are equivalent to political McDonalds for those brainwashed by conservatism.

What everyone seems too polite to say, these guys are not fucking hot. They’re all mediocre looking men. That’s right. Andrew Tate? Mid. Sneako? Mid. Fish and Fuck? Mid. Maybe below mid. Beauty is up to opinion, but if every big, beautiful, voluptuous woman is unattractive, then these guys are shit swirled in a toilet bowl. You know it. I know it, they know it, so why can’t we just squash the beef.

The power of personal hype is underrated. These dudes don’t do manual labor, or nurse people back to health, or create less harm in the word. The problem is that these dudes understand how marketing works. Balding, slovenly, unfortunate as they are if they hype themselves up, and through extension their viewers, they will continue to have a flow of money. If they can be these hot pimp studs who fuck everything and don’t give a shit about morals or rules, so can the people who watch them. Dare I say, false idols?

People need someone to identify with, a goal or ideology to look towards. Where we used to have Clint Eastwoods and classic men in ties, now we have YouTube streamers. Prior masculine figures or idols at least had some PR, something to tiptoe around. Maybe a moral code of “men must protect women,” something dudebro podcasters dismiss in favor of hedonism. Formerly these role models taught values and morals to boys, reminders to men. Except, these dudes simply exist without direction and shout concepts they have after jerking off to tentacle porn. They put down their Xbox controller, having previously been screaming slurs at their CoD buddy, and begin talking to millions of people.

The message sent at its core is one of empowerment. Feel good, be strong, get what you want, and what you want, you need. They are not the first or last to speak this message, it can even be found in Mr. Rogers, a symbol of kind, honest, vulnerable masculinity. They do however twist it into digestible toxicity. Toxicity in the way that it can lead to self-hatred, destructive behavior, and further othering from community. A slow and welcomed poisoning.

A middle school boy watches Sneako, and he hears that he has value inherently. It’s explained to him, where he may not hear it otherwise, that he deserves to have his pleasure and role in society prioritized. Which is true for every human, or at least wanted, to some degree. That boy does deserve as much, but not at the harm of others. That’s where Sneako and others of his kind drop the ball. Mr. Rogers would have said the same thing, but then did a soft regulation to the ego, to remind that others also deserve this, and that our role in a successful society is to balance our pleasure and our sacrifice so that others can feel their pleasure. That way we can all max out our total joy.

No, these “Chad” podcasters instead twist it into a monologue on why you should be selfish to an evil degree. They trick these boys into funneling their own desires into the podcasters end goal, which is money and power. Leaving these boys and men empty handed, lonelier than ever, and at times actually dangerous. Snake oil peddlers to the desperate and young. You can see this when these idols meet their followers, leading to the children saying hateful, outlandish shit they don’t understand just to appease said idol.

It’s important to note, I ultimately want people who watch these podcasters to feel joy. That won’t be found living the life these podcasters advise, therefore I want them to examine what they hear, how the act on what they hear. They don’t have to be less masculine or watch people who are less boy-y. Men are beautiful, they are interesting, cool, strong, and I want them to be surrounded by similar things.

Andrew Tate is not beautiful. Sneako is not cool. Fish and Fret are certainly not interesting. The backbone of redpill podcasting is to prey on people in their times of weakness, ultimately being the most pathetic thing of all; a parasite.

So… Like, does Sneako smell bad? I’m certain of it. While Andrew Tate might have chosen more elevated perfume choices before the law got involved, he still isn’t attractive. None of the women and girls who fuck on him, fuck for him, or fuck with him find him attractive, they perform a job in exchange for clout, money, or survival. At times they aren’t even performing a job, they’re victims in a crime.

Bursting the bubble of their “cool factor” is essential to helping people stop watching them. Not to say you should go bully little boys for their scent choices and natural ignorance, that’s not how people grow. It’s simply that when we address these people, it’s essential to destroy any narrative that they are in control, confident, or have valuables. Podcast bros don’t have control, that’s why they resort to rage. They lack confidence; therefore, they rip down others to seem better. Despite any riches or social currency, they have, they don’t have valuables, an expensive car owned by an asshole is just owned by an asshole. And these dudes are major assholes.

[horizon-verizon]

Just because some people like this fictional character doesnt mean they have the same view as them *they were rise as royalty in medieval world that they think they were better than everyone else* if someone else still turn out good, well good for them people should not explaining this, George books is for adult, everyone with working braincells know racism is bad and i don't have to excuse Rhaenyra for that but the way this people thinking that Daemon is better than her is CONCERNING, Daemon also the one who calling baby Baelon as "the heir of the day" wtf did you thing a BABY did to Daemon? Existing? so they dont have the same rage with this because the baby didnt have character to talk about they even makes a joke of it just like Daemon was, he also constantly insulting his wife, the main characters in this story said fucked up thing Alicent also calling Rhaenyra's children "Bastards seeds of war"? Aemond constantly calling rhaenyra "whore" for sleeping with a man she likes and have children with harwin instead rap3 her gay husband or chosing some sex worker who have similar looks with her how dare her! And still want an iron throne?, she should keep her legs closed and lonely on her castle like good obidient women was, people killing children and their own sibling, rapng woman but this people draw the line at racism? Wow even Maegor wish he gets the same hate as her and treat as one of the most hated character in the entire franchise, but he's only a man everyone have excuse for a man's crime (he's just silly boy who decapitating kittens) unlike whore rhaenyra who raise taxes and insultingsomeone by their skin color

did you know celebrating a child death or insulting your wife is not real its only fiction when it was Daemon who did it? See Daemon is not racist at all when he calls women in the vale ugly than the sheeps This is not Racist he just saying truth because women in the vale is white (you could never be racist if they are white according to American logic) and according to people who see them they actually ugly so we didnt hate him for it, why people so hard to except the truth? So how dare people accuse him for racist? I could never! he defintly better than His racist niece, i still dont understand why Rhaenyra even chose man who looks "common" as lover she maybe drunk you know she's racist and Valyrian supremacist unlike Daemon (shakes my head)

I watch a movie called The return of the witch when the main character like Rhaenyra was, and there was a knight who being bothered by this witch thank god someone save his ass from her

Anon's probably responding to this post.

The anon of that posts said [excerpt]:

I am not here for any Rhaenyra’s stan trying to excuse or downplay a white woman’s misogynoir and classism because her sons died. Grief doesn’t make you suddenly racist, or compel you to say racist things. You were always that way. The grief just brought out the racism and supremacism that was always simmering beneath the surface.

You didn't need to move away from Rhaenyra's racism into the misogyny levied against her to argue against that past anon's words. That anon was expressing that they don't respect those who do stan her refusal to acknowledge her misogynoir against Nettles, that it came from Rhaenyra's will even under all those stresses, and that it is as serious as it should be seen.

A)

Anonymous, Daemon says the "heir for a day" in the context of wanting the throne but not actually having the biggest claim to it as the nephew or Rhaenyra would, bc he is not Viserys' child. It is a localized infraction, personal, against Viserys AND it was offhand. However, if someone calls me a racial epithet or does as that writer who almost got published did and tried to leave bad reviews of Black and PoC authors to establish dominance, then they are attempting to promote systematic suffering so they can come out on top. There is an intention to destroy a person's life AND to have socio-political privilege over others based on their socialized identity conditioned to be as immutable as possible. Like many said, you don't get to be racist because you had a bad day, are mentally ill, an alcoholic, your parents died, etc. as that writer tried to reason.

Racism is not this personal moral failing or symptomatic result of a racist facing oppression like hating on babies. It comes from systematic privilege given to the racist that allows them to see the oppressed as lesser than & historical, generational violence against said oppressed group. Hating on babies for one moment out of jealousy does not have that scope, level, depth, etc. racism does and never will. People may say often that "oh, they're being racist bc they have envy", and yes people default to their racism or sexism or classism bc they are envious...but their envy is the kind where they feel that the person they are envious of shouldn't have what they have bc what they have is something the racist/sexist/etc has learned they should have by "default" bc of their social class/race, etc. Key word is "systematic".

This reveals, anon, that you either are white or you are a PoC/Black person with a lot of internalized racism and a lack of understanding of racist history.

B)

You: "See Daemon is not racist at all when he calls women in the vale ugly than the sheeps This is not Racist he just saying truth because women in the vale is white (you could never be racist if they are white according to American logic) and according to people who see them they actually ugly so we didnt hate him for it, why people so hard to except the truth?"

Anon, what are you on about? Who said that Daemon was racist here? Who said anything about the Vale or that his comments to Rhea Royce were racist? Who is it that made Daemons' opinion about Rhea Royce's looks a racial thing? It certainly wasn't the past anon or me and I have never seen someone try until you just did.

You're making large leaps of logic here to justify and derail away from examining Rhaenyra's actions, as I already mentioned, to the point your words are incoherent. You are both trying to run away from race talk and flinging it at another character...

You: "So how dare people accuse him for racist? I could never! he defintly better than His racist niece, i still dont understand why Rhaenyra even chose man who looks "common" as lover she maybe drunk you know she's racist and Valyrian supremacist unlike Daemon (shakes my head)"

?! (incoherent)

[letarasstuff]

One kind of intern

(A/N): This was requested by @greenslifestuff :) It took me a week or two because I had to interact with my friends in order to get the inspiration I needed 😅 Summary: The team gets to work with a gen z teenager. Let’s see how that goes.

Warnings: Swearing and gen z humour

Wordcount: 2k

✨Masterlist✨

___________________________________

“Team, this is (Y/N) (L/N). She will be interning for the upcoming three months alongside this team. (Y/N), these are Agents Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi, Derek Morgan and Doctor Spencer Reid and our Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia”, Hotch introduces a teenage girl to his team like this happens every day.

“Wait Hotch, we don’t get interns. What is she going to do, no offense, but getting us coffee or what?” Morgan eyes her suspiciously. She looks like any teenager grabbed from the street. A band t-shirt, a torn pair of jeans and a cup from starbucks in her hands. Nothing you would expect to even enter a federal building.

“No offence taken, Agent Morgan. I know having an ugly pickly bitch working with professionals seems weird. It’s just I have summer break and I thought it would be a good thing on my resumé if I already interned in the FBI, because I just graduated and I wanted to go to the academy this fall. But if you wanna do a vibe check with me first, that’s fine by me. Whatever floats your boat.”

The room falls silent. Then out of all sudden everyone turns to Garcia, who puts her arms up in defense. “I don’t even know half the things she said, ask her yourself.”

That’s how the BAU gets their first contact with Gen Z culture and let me tell you it is a wild ride, so buckle up your seats, drink your tea up because we aren’t going to make any stops.

“(Y/N), I need you to come with me. We are going to the M.E. getting the latest reports from our last case”, Morgan tells her while passing her desk. In the blink of an eye the teenager is ready, putting her denim jacket with various pins and bits of patches on.

“Derek, can we get starbucks on the way back? The pumpkin spiced latte is back on their menu and I am on withdrawal. Pleaaaaaasseeee”, she looks at him with a pouty face. Morgan smiles. “Ok, under one condition: We both get one, take awesome pictures and send them to the group chat and then we act like we didn’t get them anything, but we actually buy them their usual.” He got the hang of it pretty fast. “Deal, Sis.”

While they are in the car on their way to the M.E. the agent groans. “Ugh, road work ahead.” “Uh yeah, I sure hope it does!” Morgan eyes her from the side. His whole demeanor says ‘old and confused’.

“What was that, kid?” But (Y/N) begins to laugh. “Don’t you know vines? Short dumb and funny clips people made?” It’s safe to say that this afternoon he learns to speak in vines, getting on Rossi’s nerves because nothing makes sense anymore.

“Ok, I heard you wanted to become a profiler. So I thought I would show you some old cases and then you try to figure out the profile. I’ll present them to you like I do to the team, alright?” JJ and (Y/N) sit in her office, safe from curious eyes. “As right as the law, Ma’am.” 

“Good, this is a case from several years ago. It happened here in D.C. Three men were murdered execution style in the middle of the night in an alleyway. They were all from different backgrounds. The only connection between them was that they were evicted for some form of sexual harassment or assault. The UnSub also had a signature: A shot into their groin while the men were alive.”

Unfaced by the presented facts (Y/N) pops a piece of gum into her mouth. “It do be like that.”

“What?” “I mean, it’s obviously a woman. She experienced any harassment or assault herself. She also has excess to the files, I assume she works as a paralegal, since most of them are women. Female serial killers are extremely rare, but they are better organized. The only thing left to say is good for her getting revenge.” The blonde looks at the teenager with wide eyes.

“I-I guess but you know you can’t say anything like that to Hotch, do you?” She asks concerned. “JJ, I’m dead inside, not dumb. I know this.” But the agent shrugs. “Good. Though I really want to see his face.” “Mood.”

Penelope Garcia is the closest one to relate to Gen Z culture, since a great part of her time is spent on the internet. She happily learns about all the phrases and their meanings as well as the newest trends and hypes.

“Purp is sus, I tell you”, is heard from the lair into the hallway. Spencer and Derek look at each other with concern on their faces. “Do you think they are alright or do we have to-” “IT’S A SELF REPORT I SWEAR PENNY! YOU WORK WITH PROFILERS IN GANDALF’S NAME!” Spencer’s question is answered by that.

“Baby girl, crazy girl, are you doing good? Do you need help or something?” The older one asks warily. But it’s drowned in another screaming match. “I TOLD YOU PURP WAS THE IMPOSTER BUT YOU HAVE TO TELL THEM I VENTED WHEN I DIDN’T! I WANT ALL TIKTOKS I SENT YOU BACK!” “YOU DON’T DARE TO REVOKE MY TIKTOK PRIVILEGES!” “WATCH ME GARCIA!”

“Whoa girls, what about taking a break?” Morgan tries to diffuse the situation. “Yes, I think JJ got new pictures of Henry and Emily brought cookies this morning”, Spencer adds.

The girls, who mere seconds ago were ready to jump each other's throats, look at the other one. “You get the cookies and I go to JJ, deal?” (Y/N) asks. “Deal!” Without sparing the boys another glance they run out of the lair. Their devices are still lit up. A red figure shines into their faces. ‘AMONG US’ is written underneath it. “I think we get too old for this stuff, don’t we Reid?”

Spencer always thought he was young. Of course, his mind is older, but physically he is not that old. But the intern proves him wrong. And boy is he wrong.

“Spencer, is there anything interesting to know today?” (Y/N) takes a seat on his desk, distracting the genius from his paperwork. It is a common occurrence for her to go to him to ask for a fun fact.

“Do you wanna learn something about sloths?” His knowledge (or the writer’s) on this subject is astonishingly big.

“Spill the tea, sis.” “Did you kn- What? But I don’t have tea to spill. And I don’t wanna spill anything, I-” Reid rambles in confusion.

“It’s just a saying, Spencer. There is no deeper meaning to it then ‘Tell me everything about it’. You know, it’s mostly used for gossiping, but I don’t really like to gossip. That’s why I use it in a different context. You got it?” (Y/N) explains it to him in a soft manner, knowing her generation can be complex.

“Yeah, I think I do. Thank you for telling me. I really like the phrase. It has a nice ring. What about you spill the tea about all the phrases you know and I tell you some things from my knowledge?” “I think you got yourself a teacher, genius. But now tell me about the sloths, I love them.”

A few days later Rossi catches her doing some weird moves. “Are you having a seizure or what is your problem, youngster?” Even though he tries not to show it, David took a great liking to (Y/N), thinking of her like a granddaughter. Still, most of her actions confuse the hell out of him.

“I’m practising a dance for tiktok. My friends and I worked on a choreo we wanted to film later. Come here, I can show you.” And that’s what she does in the conference room. The teenager walks him through every move of the choreo, explaining the meaning to it and how it correlates with the song.

“And then you move your arm like that. Exactly like that! You did a great job, David! Are you sure you don’t want to come with me later? We can make you your own account and name it ‘Grandpa-on-tiktok’. You can promote your books over there and it’s a way to float with the trend!”

Seeing her this excited Rossi can’t do anything but agree to the idea. Also, he secretly liked doing the dance thing. It made him feel young again.

“(Y/N), you said you graduated this summer. But your file said you are 16?” Emily asks her one boring day filled with paperwork and countless cups of coffee. “It is what it is”, she mindlessly answers, too focused on filling out the work in front of her.

“I mean yes but how?”

“Emily, smart people exist. I know, coming from me hits different, but here we are.” Finally (Y/N) puts her pen away looking at the raven haired woman.

“What are you talking about? I can’t really follow you.” The more the intern says the more confused gets Emily.

She sighs. “I don’t want to leave you on read here. I kind of am smart somehow. Apparently I was smart enough to skip a grade or two. But it’s no biggie. Many peeps do this, so I don’t sweat it.”

“Even though I feel like you are selling yourself short here, I know you are an incredibly intelligent person. Someday you will be an awesome profiler and any team will be lucky to have you. I really hope we will be the lucky team. But I’m still not sure if this is what I should say in this context.”

“Emily, you are goals. This fam is squad goals. I really hope to be a part of this someday”, (Y/N) admits. “I’m sure Hotch will do his best to get you on the team, you became a great part of it. I can’t imagine a future without you.”

Sadly Prentiss has to get used to a time without the team’s beloved intern. On her last day (Y/N) knocks at Hotch’s door.

“Hey, I wanted to say thank you. The time with you and all the others was amazing and I learned so many useful things for not only the academy but also for my daily life. I really had a glow-up here”, she says after coming in.

Hotch motions towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat, (Y/N). I got something for you. See it as a compensation for not getting paid for your internship. You really did great work and a better job than some agents, who are doing theirs for many years already but don’t know half the stuff you do. You are a valuable member to the team.”

“Wait, you speak in presence tense. I leave you all this afternoon, you know that, do you?” But the Unit Chief only gestures to a white envelope on his desk. Quickly the teenager takes it and reads it.

“Are you serious Hotchner? Because I will cry you a river if you joke”, she threatens him.

“I’m dead serious, (Y/N). Even though half of your talks are difficult to understand, the other half is twice as useful and important. Additionally to that, you are like a fresh breath of air that the team needed. That’s why a place here will be available for you as soon as you graduate from the academy. I trust you that you will pass with flying colors, I had to promise that to Strauss.”

“Of course, Hotch. I swear on my Animal Crossing Island that I will do my best and more. Thank you so much”, she leaps into his arms.

The others watch the interaction from the bullpen, pretending to not get teary eyed. Their favorite Gen Z Kid will come back to them after all.

Taglist:

Spencer Reid

@calm-and-doctor

[fandomlovingfreak]

Glacial Passion (1/?)

Regulus Black/Reader

Rating: Mature / Explicit (Lemon) 18+ Readers ONLY

Word Count: 3931

MasterList Link I AO3 Link I Wattpad Link 

Summary: Glacial, cold, icy... all words that described Regulus Black's grey eyes. Was there truly no emotion behind those eyes, or did a caring man exist beneath? Could she defrost those glacial eyes?

Disclaimer: Regulus Black (Walburga Black, Orion Black, and Sirius Black) is a character from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Reader or y/n is not owned by Rowling. This work has not been created for profit or financial compensation, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

Notes: Should be maybe 2-3 chapters. It’s a mini series! I’ve never even thought to write Regulus content so I hope this is good! I enjoyed writing it. I want him to go from cold pureblood quiet boy to a more “loving” person. I hope that translates in the next few chapters.

Enjoy

"(Y/n) Raynott will be your bride," Walburga says matter-a-factly. Having been used to his parents making decisions for him his entire life, Regulus doesn't argue with the announcement. The indifference he wears well masks the annoyance he feels.

"We will arrange for the ceremony to take place soon."

His eyes dart up to his mother, "I have not met miss Raynott."

Walburga waves her hand dismissively, "dear, that is not  necessary  for a wedding."

It sort of is , he thinks to himself. He doesn't dare vocalize his displeasure. Orion looks between the two, too disinterested in the whole affair to give his opinion. Hell, he probably had something to do with the match.

"You'll have plenty of time to acquaint yourself with your wife when you are married."

Regulus looks towards the parlor window. The sky is grey, with storms passing over since the morning. A perfect reflection of his mood.

***

Mother fusses over my dress. "You need to look presentable. The Black family is respectable; they want a proper young woman,  who has been raised as you have , to be the perfect wife for their son."

The sudden betrothal has me in a state of shock. I hadn't thought my parents would do this without my permission... without telling me! 

"We will solidify the engagement tonight and choose the date." Mother continues to prattle on. "Probably in the next months. How exciting, isn't it (y/n)?"

"Yes, ma'am."  Lies.

***

Regulus straightens his shirt collar in his bedroom mirror. Grey eyes stare back at him, devoid of emotion. 

It'll be fine.

"Regulus!" His mother's shrill voice echoes through the house, "come down this instant! The Raynott's will be here soon."

Regulus takes another look at himself in the mirror before making his way down to stand by his parents. His mother nitpicks his person for a minute before she restrains herself. Not pleased with him completely but satisfied enough to let it go for now.

A knock sounds on the door, causing Kreacher to make a mad dash to the door to greet the guests. The house-elf leads the family of three towards them.

The first glimpse of the woman he'll be tethered to… He could admit she was pretty. She probably was very pretty. All he could focus on is the anxious tightness of her lips.

***

Dinner is a quiet affair. I don't talk, not to Regulus, or my parents, or the couple who will soon be my in-laws. I don't know if I could talk if I tried.

Walburga and Orion look pleased. Probably enthralled to have picked out such a meek and obedient wife for their son.

Their son , who has stolen glances at me the entire dinner but hasn't let a word fall from his lips.  His rather shapely lips.

He was handsome; I could acknowledge that. Not that it helped in the situation I've found myself in. No, his good looks  did not  make me happy to be stuck with him.

"Have we thought about potential dates?" Orion asks, taking a sip of his wine.

Father looks at mother, "Possibly in the next few months--" Mother is interrupted by Mistress Black, who makes a disapproving noise in the back of her throat.

"Nonsense. Next Tuesday will do just fine."

I nearly choke on my wine.  Next Tuesday?

"That could work as well," Father looks at me, "how does that sound, Sweetheart." I want to roll my eyes. How dare he call me some loving pet name as he was marrying me off.

"That-- It is fine." I look up at Regulus. Unreadable as ever.

"What do you think, Regulus?" Mistress Black turns her attention to her son.

Regulus glances my way, blinking slowly, "the sooner, the better."

**

Days fly by, finally arriving at the day he was to be married.

Married.

It didn't sound quite like it should be a word that describes him. Regulus never assumed his parents would find him a match at his age. Nearly twenty now, his parents had suddenly decided he had his fair share of bachelorhood. 

Orion had taken him to his first brothel at the age of seventeen, intentions being his son would learn the art of procreation early on and get any foolish actions out of the way. Some of his best and worst moments had been in his father's favorite whorehouse. 

Orion clearly believed his education in whoring should be satisfactory by now. The bloodline was to be his mission next.

'Mission' was harsh. He didn't want his wife to feel like the women he had slept with were in preparation for this match. He wasn't the perfect man, he could admit that, but the last thing he wanted to do was make this girl believe she was being used for his pleasure and creating the next heir.

There was truth in her being the vessel for his line, but he hoped she could see he did not intend on treating her like such. Regulus did not know (y/n), doubted he could ever love her,  even with time , but she was to be his wife. The next Mistress Black. She should be happy. If they could not share mutual happiness like a couple ought to, he would try to make her happy in  different  ways.

Merlin knew his presence alone would not make her happy. Regulus was a cold man; he didn't share sweet moments or loving smiles. He would never promise to kiss her goodnight or hold her hand in public. It just wasn't who he was. But he could try not to make her completely miserable. And he hoped that would be enough for (y/n). 

It would have to be enough.

***

I feel numb as I stand in front of the long mirror in the white dress I didn't want. It wasn't ugly; I just wasn't the one to choose it. Which fits perfectly with the day's mood. Wearing the dress I didn't pick to marry the man I didn't pick.

Poetry.

I sigh loudly as mother walks into the room. She squawks about how beautiful I look in the dress  she picked.

"Thank you," my voice is so quiet I can barely hear myself.

"Where is that veil..." mother searches around my packed things for the long organza veil. Finally, she locates it. 

"Come sit so I can place it in your hair. Hurry now. We're nearly late." I obey, sitting down on my bed so she can fuss with the damn veil.

"Perfect. Let's scurry now. It would be very embarrassing for me if we were late for your wedding."

Would it be mother? 

***

"Who is giving this woman to be married to this man?" The older wizard officiating looks to my father.

"Her mother and I do." Regulus doesn't show a pinch of emotion; his face as inscrutable as ever. 

When I had dreamed about this moment, I had imagined the man who was to be my husband would have shed a tear or at least smiled at me as I walked down the aisle... Regulus regards me like I'm a chore as he takes my hand from my father.

"The ceremony of pureblood marriage in which you come to be united in values is one of the first and oldest ceremonies of our kind. Marriage is a gift in that we give ourselves totally to one another. Marriage is a gift given to comfort the sorrows of life and to magnify life's joys." The wizard continues spewing lies of a happy marriage to come. 

"Pureblood marriage is that of traditions, where two families come together to strengthen our convictions. The ultimate union, a blending of blood." I grimace, happy the veil hid my face well. It gave me no joy to think of a  blending of blood  between Regulus and me.

"Regulus Arcturus Black," the wizard turns towards him, "Do you take this witch as your wife? Do you promise to provide for, protect her, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do." He says the words with such ease. The wizard turns to me, reciting the words once again.

I pause. Maybe longer than what is appropriate, surely an embarrassing pause compared to Regulus's swift one. His grey eyes stare into mine. He doesn't look angry or alarmed that I've taken nearly half a century to reply. 

"I do." The words slip from my lips. I stare back through the wall of organza between us. 

"Master Black, you may kiss your bride." 

Surprisingly, Regulus hesitates for a moment before he lifts the veil from my face. The kiss is nothing more than a quick brush of lips. His hand wraps around my wrist as he pulls away. Without appearing to drag me, he pulls us through the dining room doors away from the crowd.

Letting go of my wrist, Regulus sits down on one of the velvet couches of the parlor. From a decorative box, he plucks a cigarette, lighting it without a word to me. The drag of the cigarette is long, the smoke billowing from his lips, expanding throughout the room. 

I have half a mind to tell him to extinguish the cigarette at once. Instead, I walk to the other side of the room and sit on a different couch.

The feeling of his eyes on my person can't be ignored, but I cannot make myself meet his eye. I want to wallow away in my misery, if only for a moment. Long stretches of misery are what I expect most of all from this union.

"Come," he stands from the couch, beckoning me like a lap dog towards his awaiting arm. I frown but obey, seeing no other option at the moment. He'll be surprised when he tries this again when I'm not expected to be with him. 

Regulus pulls out something from his dress robes pocket. Taking my left hand in his, Regulus slides a purple jewel on my finger.

"What--?"

"A wedding present. From me."

I look down at the large jewel. It looks expensive.  Hell , it probably is expensive. It's a massive ring, for Merlin's sake.

I remember myself quickly, "thank you."

Regulus nods. "They'll be waiting."

***

Regulus sits on the bed, watching as I pace around, searching for my clothing and personal items. Where the hell did all of my stuff go?

I huff, hating that I must ask Regulus, "Where are my things?" 

"They have been appropriately placed in our room."

"Yes, but  appropriately placed where in the room ?"

Regulus looks at me for a moment. His eyes are cold as he stands, walking towards a door. I follow close behind, finding my clothing has all been hung within the large closet. He glances at me before walking away.

I exhale, beginning to rifle around my side of the expansive closet. I pick a nightdress from the large collection, intending to remove this ridiculous dress...

Damn it!

The only buttons I can successfully reach on the back of the bodice are the top two. There's at least a dozen down the back, and the last thing I want to do is ask for Regulus's help… but if I don't, I'll be trapped in this damned dress for the rest of eternity.

With nightgown in hand, I shyly walk back out into the bedroom. Regulus now stands near the lit fireplace, staring into the flames. He's still dressed in his wedding robes.

"Regulus," I say quietly. He turns towards my voice. The light from the flames flutters against his dark curls.

"Yes?"

My face scrunches up. I hate to do this. "Can you help me? With the buttons, that is?" I turn my back towards him, waiting.

His feet make the lightest of noise against the wooden floor as he approaches me. "You'll need to move your hair." Slender fingers lightly touch my neck as he gathers my hair. I oblige, moving my hair out of the way as his nimble fingers loosen me from this trap of a dress.

When his task is complete, he doesn't move away. Instead, Regulus stays put, his breath fanning gently over my naked shoulders.

He stinks of cigarettes, and I wonder if he had somehow snuck another when I was occupied in the closet.

"Did you smoke?"

He's quiet for a moment before chuckling softly. "I did." 

I would have maybe pestered him about the habit, but I'm so caught off guard by his laughter. 

"Do you not like that?" He whispers in my ear. 

Turning around does nothing for my flustered state as I end up nearly nose to nose with Regulus. He doesn't move, his eyes never leaving mine.

Finally, I find my words, "no."

"No?"

"No, I do not like that you smoke."

He studies me, eyes flickering across my face. I find myself wanting to know what he's thinking. His face betrays nothing.

I don't know what to do with this, his body so close, eyes glued to my face. It unnerves me the way he hasn't said a thing back.

"Regulus..." his name comes out as barely a whisper.

Suddenly, Regulus is leaning in closer. There's no time to react before he's kissing me tenderly. It's not much more than the kiss we shared in obligation earlier, but now his fingers caress my neck and jaw. I get lost in the kiss, my body unconsciously pressing in closer to his. 

"Regulus--" I sigh as he presses kisses down my throat, his fingers beginning to move my sleeves off of my shoulders.

His nose brushes against mine before he mutters a low, "come." 

The nightdress in my hand drops to the floor, forgotten as my body seems to move by its own volition. Willingly letting him situate me on the bed has me in perfect shock. Only a few soft touches and gentle kisses have me so pliant under his touch.

"Do you want this?" he asks curiously, moving ever so slightly away from me.

I pause, unsure. I'm certainly attracted to him. I would be a fool to deny that. And... well, there's the pressure from this sort of relationship to complete the bond of marriage. In pureblood marriages, an extra spell was placed upon the couple specifically to encourage coupling. It was meant to bring a couple together, an artificial sort of attraction. The bond only strengthened with intimacy. Most couples liked to complete the initial bond on their wedding night because it gave a stable foundation for something  like love  to blossom from arranged marriages.

I stare up into his cold eyes, "yes."

"You're sure?" 

I nod. Deep down, a girlish fantasy still burns within me. That this artificial attraction that was placed upon us will grow into something other than comfortable civility.  I wanted Regulus to love me . I want to love him back in turn. I didn't wish to live in civility with children and an overbearing mother-in-law. I wanted romantic, passionate love. I wanted his glacial eyes to thaw. Wanted those eyes to be filled with warmth  specifically for me.

Regulus kisses my neck again, his fingers moving down the front of my dress.

"Can I?" His eyes flit up to mine. Fingers move across the neckline of my dress. 

I feel dizzy as I nod. Regulus gently pulls me up to a sitting position, moving the dress up and off my body. I want to cover myself up as he inspects my naked body.

"Don't cover yourself," his tone is alarmingly smooth. He seems to notice the way my eyes widen at his words. He rephrases himself, "please do not cover yourself."

"Are you going to get undressed?" I ask, trying to figure out where to put my arms.

A small smile jumps on his lips. He almost looks amused. I squirm as he begins to loosen the silk scarf from his neck. 

Slowly, he strips out of the rest of his clothing. Before I can get a good look at his physique, he's moved back onto the bed.

"Have you done this before?" He leans down, whispering into my ear.

My mouth opens and closes slowly before I shake my head. No, I had not. But, what was he expecting? Of course, I hadn't. No one like us--  like me  would even dream of this before this specific moment. Like Mother had said,  I was raised for this life. 

He stares down at me for an unnervingly long beat. Much too long for my liking before leaning in to kiss me. The kiss is deeper this time and full of something  more  than the last two we had shared. Courage comes over me, and I tangle my fingers in his curly hair. A low moan escapes his lips as he moves to press open-mouthed kisses to my neck.

His hand moves down my body, stopping to cup my breast. My fingers grip his shoulders as I press up against his palm.

Pupils blown wide, Regulus pulls away to situate between my legs. His long delicate fingers run across my skin, spreading my legs further.

Trying to breathe normally and push the sudden embarrassment that comes over, I focus on his face, ignoring the light brush of his fingers as they move up my inner thigh.

"It's going to hurt a little bit." His thumb moves slowly against my clit, as he watches my face with interest.

"What are you doing?" 

"Getting you ready for me." He gives me a small smile.

I frown, turning my face away from him again.

"Don't be that way," he gently moves my face back towards him, "there's no need to be embarrassed with me."

"I have no idea what I'm doing." Admitting this shouldn't make me so... self-conscious.

He looks amused, "I'll keep that in mind."

Regulus presses my knees closer to my chest. Maintaining eye contact, he presses kisses down my abdomen to my thighs. 

"Relax, (y/n)."

"Regulus--" I squirm as Regulus's thumb moves from my clit, dipping into my sex. 

"Relax." Regulus replaces his thumb with his finger, slowly easing it in to his knuckle. 

He watches my face as he moves his finger gently, "how does that feel?"

"Odd."

I catch his smile before it disappears from his face.

"Not exactly what I wanted you to say" He presses a kiss to my clit before lightly sucking. 

"Oh!" My fingers find his hair again. I hadn't expected this to feel good...  for me , at least.

A second finger joins the first as Regulus continues to please me with his mouth. 

It feels like electricity flowing through my veins. Small jolts pulse through my nerves with each swipe of his tongue or movement of his thumb. I want to close my legs, the feeling becoming too much too quickly. 

"No," he moves my thigh back towards the comforter.

"But--"

"No." Regulus continues the dance of his tongue against my sensitive clit, his grey eyes locking with mine as I writhed under the hypnotic movement of his mouth on me.

The pleasure crashes over me in waves. My fingers dig into his hair, pushing his mouth closer. My fingers relax as the aftershocks take over. I feel like I'm melting into the bed, satisfied and pulsing with dull electricity.

Regulus sits up, leaning over my body. His right-hand plants down by my head, his left moving my leg up towards his waist.

"Are you ready?" 

Suddenly, I'm shy again. I nod.

"I need you to tell me you are ready, (y/n)." His hand smoothes over my upper thigh as he waits for me to give consent.

"Yes, I am ready."

Regulus nods, hand pumping his cock slowly, "I'll be gentle, as gentle as possible." 

I stare up at Regulus, watching him focus as he brushes the head of his cock against my slit before pressing in slowly.

"Relax. The pain will subside in a moment. Relax." His voice is surprisingly gentle as his thumb brushes the sun under my eye, moving down my cheek. 

As he continues to press into me, I try to do as he asks. 

Regulus bottoms out, his eyes staying glued to mine. For a moment, I think I see a flicker of something in those grey eyes. 

I open my lips to say something, but the words don't come. His eyes flicker to my lips. Slowly, he leans down, kissing me tenderly. 

"You can touch me if you want," he whispers. His nose brushes against mine as his hips begin to move.

"I--" I inhale shakily as he presses forwards, "Where?"

"Anywhere you want to. I don't mind." He continues to watch my face as I reach for his hair.

"Do you actually like this?" I laugh, raking my fingers through his curls. 

He huffs out his own version of a chuckle before replying, "I do."

"Oh--" I was expecting him to tell me I was giving him a headache with all the hairpulling. 

He continues the slow pace of his hips rocking against mine, watching my face.

"What are you looking at?" I ask quietly.

"You." 

I squirm uncomfortably. "Well... don't?"

Regulus stops, "don't look at you when we're doing this?"

"You're making me self-conscious!" 

He rolls his eyes, " I'm inside of you.  There's no room to be self-conscious."

"That..." I frown, "does not make me feel any less self-conscious."

I wiggle, sitting up slightly on my forearms. I look down where he's buried deep inside of me.

Regulus sighs, "There's no reason to feel self-conscious with me."

"But--"

"No." Regulus stops me from rambling on, "no more talking unless you want me to stop or you want something specific from me. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"Good," Regulus looks like he's collecting his thoughts before he restarts his pace. "Touch yourself."

"What?" 

"Touch yourself," he presses his lips against mine, "touch your clit."

Hesitantly, I move my hand between our bodies.

"Just like that. Trust me."

My fingers press against my sensitive clit. I shudder beneath him, feeling overwhelmed by the push and pull of his cock as I press deeper against the nerves.

I look up at him, "Will you kiss me again?"

Regulus doesn't give me an answer, leaning in to kiss me hungrily as he chases his release.

Without warning, he moves my hand out of the way, replacing it with his own, more skilled digits. 

"Cum for me," the snap of his hips quickens as his fingers move rapidly. My world shatters as I cum for the second time tonight.

"Fuck." He buries his face in my neck as he releases.

I feel lightheaded as he rolls away from me. Slowly, I turn my head to look at him. His hair's splayed across the pillow, jaw relaxed as he catches his breath. I study his side profile with interest.

The question sits at the tip of my tongue. What happens next? He hasn't tried to... cast anything, a charm to end the chances of a pregnancy. Unless this was his plan?

"What... what about the possibility of a baby?"

"Don't worry about it."

"But there's a possibility, or maybe you wanted--"

"No," with a flick of his wrist, Regulus stops any chance of that.

I turn my body towards him, "are you tired?"

Regulus glances over, "Yes. I am."

***

He holds her as she falls asleep. It's nice, he supposes.

But dangerous.

It couldn't hurt to hold her when she's sleeping. He just can't let her catch him holding her when she wakes up.

She can't get the wrong idea about their relationship.

[symphonyofthewrite]

If These Walls Could Talk 

Freaking GORGEOUS cover art by Junki Sakuraba on Instagram and Deviantart!! Definitely go check him out!! His art is incredible, and from what I can tell he’s really nice dude. He absolutely went above and beyond with this prompt. 10/10 would commission again. (And probably will once I save up enough money XD)

The wonderful art later in the chaper is by niuan_ on instagram!!

It wasn’t made/commissioned for this fic--(though I’ve since commissioned her to make cover art for me, so stay tuned for those!)--but when I saw it I couldn’t believe it!! That’s one of my favorite images in this chapter, and I couldn’t believe another artist made a piece for the same idea independently!!

I'll put the links to their profiles either in the replies or a reblog (since tumblr is dumb about links)!!

Also, FYI, I'll be using this post as my "reblog post" meaning I'll reblog this post with the later chapters of this fic, so they're all in one place. So if you want to read more of this fic, check the reblogs on this post, chances are more chapters will be there!!

Comments and reblogs are MORE than appreciated!! If you have a spare minute you will really make my week, and motivate me to keep writing!!

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary:

“My mother’s name was Lisa, and she was mortal…She actually showed up at his front door. She found the castle and banged the door with the pommel of her knife…She was remarkable. She beat on the door until my father let her in, and then demanded he teach her how to be a doctor.”

Chapter 1: "Lisa”

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

The castle doesn’t like children.

Well, maybe that’s too strong to say. It simply isn’t the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: leave me alone. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—they provided no snug space to curl up on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother’s nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

Its master isn’t the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child’s mouth, and worlds too dark for a child’s heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men’s hearts, from piercing a child’s—his child’s…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle’s halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot deny anyone entry. Unlike the humans’ doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn’t there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn’t crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called ‘ugly’, and ‘monstrous,’ and ‘grotesque,’ looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon’s castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she’d been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle’s floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard: stories. But not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses, the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the other stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes.

But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn’t that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won’t leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at the foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

‘Devoid of life’ was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don’t usually come with the brochure ‘teeming with life’, or ‘great place to take your kids!’. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn’t actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king’s attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time. The gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don’t reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn’t a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle’s bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. Looking for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle’s corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren’t dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought that’s where I’ll learn to heal people. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn’t shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn’t scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she’d teach him to be more human. Lisa, who’s life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there was a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula’s immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the alone does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it’s the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you’re the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are all you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: ‘you’re the only one I can trust.’

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn’t mean anything’s changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child’s arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not stand for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire’s world, cementing on the walls themselves You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania. The castle doesn’t know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn’t use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle’s walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They often walk outside the castle walls, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations. They want their child to be able to do the same, to watch the stars, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that’s Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

[2tired2study]

hi! i’ve recently finished the picture of dorian gray so let’s go over my favorite quotes (in order from the ones that appear in the book first to last)

if they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat

being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose i know

and as for believing things, i can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible

when our eyes met, i felt that i was growing pale. a curious sensation of terror came over me. i knew that i had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself

he, too, felt that we were destined to know each other

laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is by far the best ending for one

a man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies

i like persons better than principles, and i like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world

every day. i couldn’t be happy if i didn’t see him every day. he is absolutely necessary to me

he is all my art to me now

it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue

and the mind of a thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing

there is no such thing as a good influence, mr gray. all influence is immoral; immoral from the scientific point of view

he becomes an echo of someone else’s music

but the bravest man among us is afraid of himself

nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul

some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires,you will feel it, you will feel it terribly

man is many things, but he is not rational

examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. if a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him

behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic

there was something fascinating in this son of love and death

really! and where do bad americans go to when they die?... they go to america

well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth

all i want now is to look at life. you may come and look at it with me, if you care to

punctuality is the thief of time

it is only the sacred things that are worth touching

when one is in love, one always begins by deceiving ones self, and one always ends by deceiving others

there is always something infinitely mean about other peoples tragedies

how different he was now than the shy frightened boy he had met in basil hallwards studio! his nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way

it is personalities, not principles, that move the age

people are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves

he lives the poetry that he cannot write. the others write the poetry that they dare not realize

human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating

to note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to observe where they had met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a delight in that! what matter was the cost? one could never pay too high a price for any sensation

with his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. it was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir ones sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses

the senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade

all that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sun we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy

it often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves

the joy of a caged bird was in her voice

she was free in her prison of passion

i love him because he is like what love himself should be.

he was like a common gardener walking with a rose

he had the dislike of being stared at, which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace

to be in love is to surpass ones self

my wonderful lover, my god of graces

i wish i had, for as sure as there is a god in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, i shall kill him

whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives

i don’t want to see dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect

we are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices

and unselfish people are colourless. they lack individuality

you are much better than you pretend to be

of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are

he is not like other men. he would never bring misery upon any one. his nature is too fine for that

but i am afraid i cannot claim my theory as my own. it belongs to nature, not to me

no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is

there was a gloom over him

he felt that dorian gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the past

any one you love must be marvellous

it is not good for ones morals to see bad acting

there are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing

you taught me what reality really is

you had made me understand what love really is

you are more to me than all art can ever be

there is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love

a faint echo of his love came back to him

we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities

when we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us

i cant bear the idea of my soul being hideous

one can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing

nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner

it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion

you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world

of you wish me never to look at your picture again, i am content. i have always you to look at

from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. i was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you

i grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. i wanted to have you all to myself. i was only happy when i was with you

i only knew that i had seen perfection face to face

i grew more and more absorbed in you

you are made to be worshipped

in every pleasure, cruelty has its place

but it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of life that is itself but a moment

out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. we have to resume it where we left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it nat be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance of even joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain

yet, as had been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself

he saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart

art, like nature, has her monsters

is insincerity such a terrible thing? i think not. it is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities

and mind you don’t talk about anything serious. nothing is serious nowadays. at least nothing should be

i am tired of myself tonight. i should like to be someone else

sin is a thing that writes itself across a mans face

you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite

that is the reason why i want you to be fine. you have not been fine

you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil

i wonder do i know you? before i could answer that, i should have to see your soul

my god! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful

so you think it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will see mine

each of us has heaven and hell in him, basil

you are the one man who is able to save me

don’t speak about those days, dorian—they are dead... the dead linger sometimes

lord henry, i am not at all surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked

life is a great disappointment

i like men who have a future and women who have a past

moderation is a fatal thing. enough is as bad as a meal. more than enough is as good as a feast

you always want to know what one has been doing. i always want to forget what i have been doing

his soul, certainly, was sick to death

he was prisoned in thought. memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away

ones days were too brief to take the burden of another’s errors on ones shoulders

it is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things

to define is to limit

to be popular one must be a mediocrity

romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art

i am searching for peace

the appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists

sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself

horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart

how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms

he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art

when you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist

if a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart

art has a soul, but that man had not

the soul is a terrible reality

to get back my youth i would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable

but a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play—i tell you, dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend

life has been your art

the books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world it’s own shame

the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history

it was the living death of his own soul that troubled him

as it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painters work, and all that that meant. it would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free

[trekkie-in-space]

Request : Berlin flirt with OC/Reader and Marsella/Marseille is jealous - La Casa de Papel / Money Heist

Title : To envy the sun

Author :JackB

Resume : Berlin flirt with OC/Reader and Marsella is displeased/hates it.

Requested by : @ahsxual

Warning : Some violence against women (mild), slur

Word : 4929

____

For how perceptive and clever Andrès is, he can be terribly oblivious to some things which can make it very frustrating. It’s not intentional on his part, Marsella knows, it’s just how Andrès is. He is one to take a lot of places in a room, to take the center like a sun, and he does that with such a natural that few people can compete with him. His confidence radiates around and sometimes it feels like you can exist only because he has more than proper manners or because he wants something from you. Most of the time at least. He never knew Andrès to be beyond or shy to go dirty if he feels it’s required in one way or another. But it’s not the case here.

“How are things going with Tatiana ?” He asks as Andrès serve him coffee.

The morning is warm with a gentle sunbeam that promise to become something to endure later that day. If their meeting around breakfast today is supposed to be to talk about some details for their current ‘business’ partnership, Marsella know Andrès likes to initiate the matter himself. So, in the meantime, it’s just friendly conversation or debate.

“Fabulous !” He answers with a warm smile. “She is amazing, things are going above and beyond. Why ?” His question is asked with this peculiar tone Marsella know to be careful around.

“Just thought, you’ve been flirting quite obviously with Athena last night, I believe Tatiana is not one to appreciate such gesture.” Andrès breaks into a laugh.

“I was hardly flirting.”

“Would you ask anybody at that party, they would say you were flirting.”

“Okay, maybe I was flirting.” He admits he bit too proud of himself. Marsella is thankful to takes a sip of his coffee at this moment, hiding any expression he could be making hearing that. “But it’s all in good friendliness. Tatiana knows I’m all for her, she has nothing to be afraid of. Plus, there is nothing more ugly and weak than a man who cheats. Unsatisfied bastard who don’t deserve what they are given. And women love when we give their friends’ attention. Athena was extraordinary last night, my compliments were genuine and I thought she could relax a bit too.”

Marsella nod.

“Why ? Does it bother you ?” Andrès has this peculiar smile on his face which let Marsella know just how much he is screwed.

_____

“May I present you Athena Clementelli, La Prima of the Ballet de La Scala, in Milan.” Tatiana says, the woman at her side smile shyly and bow to him. He return the gesture with a nod. She seems intimidated, and he guesses he is pretty tall and broad compared to her small size, without necessarily looking overly worrying, he knows he is not very inviting at first glance.

The presentations are cut short as Tatiana takes the arm of her friend and they walk away, immediately launching in what seems an interesting conversation. Andrès give him a tap on the shoulder and gently push to invite him to walk behind the two women with him. Even if the private jet will wait for them, passing too much time in a busy and loud airport is never pleasurable.

“She is amazing on a scene, a brilliant dancer and a very good friend of my love.”

“And since you said we were going to Milan, I suppose Tatiana gives a representation there.”

“Exactly, it’s a partnership. Tatiana will play, and Athena will dance. And us, we will steal. But first, Venice, we have ten days before the representation, we want to make the most of it.”

That’s one of the advantages to work with Andrès, beautiful city, fancy places and good times are always of the party at some point or another.

This private plane is quite nicely sized. There’s a lot of room and the two women quickly take up the front side, close to the cabin and continue their chatting.

“It’s been a long time, they have a lot to tell each other.” Andrès says as he sits closer to the back, leaving the girls some privacy.

He sat near him, the crew that will take care of them during the trip prevent them from talking about the heist they are planning, so after a bit of small talk Andrés decide to take a nap.

Marsella find himself dragged to the jovial conversation ahead the plane, the current article he found to occupy his time is too uninteresting to keep his attention. And at this point ear dropping anything and everything has become a habit, an instinct he doesn’t even intentionally think about.

The conversation contains nothing capital in itself. Athena just explain to an overly please Tatiana how she ousted her competitors for the place of Prima and secured her position. She might not look like it, but if what he hears is true, she is ferocious when she wants something or when someone pissed her off. Her tale is brutal and for a second he wonder how he expected less of a friend of Tatiana and Andrès.

Times passes and Tatiana joins them in the back. Or rather join Andrès. He knows it’s time to head out and leave the couple be extravagant together as only them know how and dare to be. So he joins Athena in the front, he smiles at her as he sits on the other side of the corridor to her, and she answer with a small smile, quickly returning to her occupation.

He notices her without observing, if he is to work with her, potentially, he is not sure of all the details yet, he needs to know more about her.

For what he can see, she keeps to herself, she is kind and polite with the staff and tends to be more reserved with the man than with the woman that she easily chats up with.

When he gets up to relax his legs and take a few steps he accidentally let the magazine he had hardly been reading fall, as he bends to pick it up he is outpaced by Athena, picking it up for him.

“Oh, let me.” She says in Italian. She hands him the magazine quickly.

“Thank you.” He answers back in her tongue.

She is pleasantly surprised.

“You speak Italian ?”

“I do.”

“Is it just a few words every tourist knows or.. ”

“Or am I able to hold a specific conversation ? Feel free to try me.” He continues while stretching a bit. “But apologize my regionalism, it is a bit poor.”

She smiles and invites him to sit in front of her.

“Where did you learn Italian ?”

“I’ve studied over in Naples, I was terrible, but I couldn’t afford to be in the army.”

“You’re a soldier ?”

“Was.”

“Did you ever kill someone ?” He gives a nervous laugh.

“Going straight for the delicate question I see.”

“Just curious I suppose.”

“Be careful, next she will ask you miliary secret.” Tatiana says as she passes beside them to go talk to the pilot.

Athena blush slightly, her eyes lower. Tatiana is not long to come back, and in the back Andrès call for her loudly with loving and erotic suggestions that she answer positively to, which only make Athena blush further.

“Don’t worry, there is noise canceling headphone if they can’t wait to arrive at the hotel.”

“We don’t have that luxury in our training studio, but maybe I should require it.”

“As a prima I’m sure you could.”

“Definitely.”

“How did you meet Tatiana ?”

“In a gala representation in Moscow, it was one of the most terrible and chaotic nights I ever had, ask Tatiana she tells the tale better than me. And let’s says it didn’t go well at all with her at first, but that night or rather morning, we found ourselves outside, drinking vodka to keep us warm and we made friends over the chaos of that night.”

“Found you had more in common ?”

“Absolutely. I wasn’t a Prima at that time, took me a lot of work to achieve it, that world is harsh and unforgiving. I found the same determination in Tatiana.”

They can hear the couple get more excited in the back.

“I think I’m going to take those noise canceling headphone and takes a nap.”

Marsella open the drawer on the side for her. She thanks him in a tone that seems too grateful for such a small and inconsequential gesture. He regains the other side of the plane, giving her space and privacy.

____

Upon arriving in the Marco Polo airport they are approached by a small group, Athena walk slightly faster to meet with the older woman that seems to be the one in charge. It just strikes him upon seeing them smiling, that they must be dancers too. Their stance and physics similar to how he saw Athena be.

Tatiana and Andrès present themselves easily and himself feel a bit clumsy around, though it goes unnoticed.

“Thank you so much Madame Bartolotti for letting me train.. ”

“Nonsense, you know you’re always welcome here. Though I do have a favor to ask of you.” She asks as she takes Athena arm in hers and start walking, leaning the way for their little group.

“Of course, anything.”

“The city receives conservators from all around the country for a conference on the Italian renaissance, I would like you to give a representation for them at the opening party.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Of course your friends are invited.”

“It’s more than appreciated Madame Bartolotti, if I may, my cherished wife is an extraordinary pianist.” Andrès says, holding his hand in the air for Tatiana to take, he brings her so naturally on the scene, letting her use her charm.

“It would be my pleasure to offer you my service for this party.” She says. “As a way to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Tatiana and I have been working several times together, she is talented.” Athena adds. “More so than Regazzi.”

“I see no reason not to accept, I will speak with the orchestra of your participation. I’m very curious to discover your performance, not many people can compete with Regazzi, but I know Athena never hand out such compliment on a whim.”

“Oh I know she is never one to brush an ego just to be kind.” Tatiana confirms.

“Exactly. It will take place in the Palazzo Ducale in four days, I hope it’s enough time for you to rest and prepare.”

“Of course. More than enough.” Athena affirms.

“Good, may I present you to Nicolo, Manfredi and Cirillo, you will work with them, they are at your disposition and you will be the one to choose who come with you for the duet at the party.”

She nods at the three men, slightly in retreat, careful as they all present themselves to her once more.

“It would be to pleasure to work with you. The trip has been long it will have to wait tomorrow morning for repetition, but I would like to see how you dance today. If you don’t mind.”

That being set, they all embark in a boat to join the main city. Athena and Tatiana head for the theater La Fenice with Bartolotti and the dancers, while him and Andrès head for their hotel. They have a lot of things to discuss for the Heist in Milan and details to sort out. He is not even surprised to see how luxurious the Monaco & Grand Canal hotel is, nor to be paid a room for the time of his stay. Andrès love luxe and always treat his trusted collaborators well.

____

Athena is quick to leave in the morning, the sun is only peaking in the horizon and the air is fresh from the breeze. She does not notice him as she passes beside the terrace, her brilliant brown hair flow with her movement and she tie them in a near perfect chignon without thinking. The way from the hotel to the theater is not long but her pace is dynamic. Though, she is stopped when a woman comes toward her with an even quicker pace and a palpable determination.

He focus back on his coffee and the news in the journal. But his ears are sharp as he listens to what he can.

“ … mistake, you can perform to that party only because I don’t have time for it. You are no more than a convenience for Madame Bartolotti.”

“Not my fault if you can’t assume multiple project at the same time Olivia.”

“Keep low, I lend you my theater by respect but don’t come strutting on my field.”

“Madame Bartolotti is the one to lend me La Fenice.. ”

Marsella can feel the tension between the two women, it wouldn’t take much for it to escalate.

“..But thank you for lending me your dancers, they are talented.” Athena softens, calming the electric heat between Olivia and her.

“That conference is important, the representation need to be perfect, I wouldn’t risk it with a low tier dancer, now it’s up to you not to screw it up.”

“I never do and you know that. Personally even. I will make sure to address how generous you were though.” Olivia nod.

“If we’re clear.”

“We are.”

The woman leaves promptly, not without a dry glare that Athena return with more restrain. Once out of sight she relaxes and breath out before storming back toward the hotel. It’s at this moment she notices him. He salutes her and invite her to his table.

She takes on the offers and sit carefully in front of him, nervous.

“You seems pissed off.” He comments.

“One coffee please, and add a bit of whiskey in it please.” She asks a passing waiter who nods to her request. “Yah.” She answers him, untying her hair who fall back on her shoulder.

“Whiskey right in the morning ?”

“Just to take the edge off. She’s.. ” She starts but stops herself to calm a bit. “She’s the Prima of La Fenice, and in my world a Prima hates other Prima. We are in constant concurrence. And it’s without counting ex-Prima who are bitter to be on the bench and those who wish to take our place.”

“Coexistence is hard I see.”

“It is. She is even more bitter because I was supposed to be the Prima of La Fenice, she was the backup option in case I didn’t take the position.”

The waiter arrives with her coffee and she takes a sip or two of it.

“I’m not here to take her place, she doesn’t need to freak out and put pressure on me.”

“If she does it’s because you still represent a threat to her. You’re the one putting pressure on her just by being here.”

“True.” She smiles and gets up. “I’m sorry, I have to leave if I don’t want to be late. Thank you for the talk, I needed to calm down.”

“My pleasure. Any good place I wouldn’t dare to miss while I’m here ?” He asks.

“Try the Castello District and try to find the garden. It’s beautiful.” She says after a bit of reflexion.

“I will. Thank you.”

She quickly leaves. He knows he has a few hours to kill before he meets Andrès again, plenty of time to visit some places, the last time he came in Venice was for a contract and he didn’t have the leisure to enjoy the city. So be the Castello District then.

____

That evening, as he is about to leave the hotel Marsella see Athena in the lounge, a nearly empty drink in hand and a bored expression on her face. He goes to salute her and she smile at him.

He quickly learn the reason for her poor mood. Tatiana and her were supposed to go out tonight, but she canceled their plan in favor of her husband, which in itself is understandable.

“I’m going out to eat, care to join me ?” He offers. He is used to being alone but wouldn’t say no to the bright company of Athena.

She hesitates an instant but accept.

“The garden was indeed beautiful.” He says.

“I’m glad you found it, it’s a sight to see. Especially since green space are rare and private most of the time in Venice.”

On their way for a restaurant they cross paths with a dog, Athena is quick to go to pet it, forgetting what is around her and Marsella himself. Only remembering his company when he lower down to pet the animal too.

“Dogs are the best.” He comments, memories coming back to him.

“Do you have one ?”

“Had.” She nods, he can see in her eyes that she is curious but restrain from asking. “Do you ?” He asks back.

“I wish I had, but I’m traveling too much, I would never see it and my heart would break.”

“You always have time later.”

“When someone takes my place, sure. I may have more time then, but I don’t want to think of it. The sooner you think it will end the sooner it end.” She refocus on the dog who is more than happy to be getting attention. “I don’t know much about you, so tell me a bit about your dog.” She finally asks. He laughs,

“Alright, she was called.. ”

The evening goes well, their dinner is passed to talk about their past animals for the most part and in those tales are woven some details about their life.

Back at the hotel, they are about to split back in their respecting room when she proposes :

“If you like, come to see me rehearse tomorrow. La Fenice is a sight to see from inside and I like to have a public.”

“I will come.”

“Good. Only if you want, of course, and you don’t have to stay for long if you do come.” She adds quickly.

“It’s fine.” He reassures. “I’m curious.”

“Good then. Just says your name when you arrive, I will warn them to let you enter.”

“Noted. Good night.”

“Good night.”

____

As he enters the theater, he is humbled by the beauty of the place. He is not really used to that kind of environment, it’s not his primary point of gravitation, though he learned how to blend in most places.

He is guided in a few corridors then shown directions to the backstage by an obviously bored receptionist. He apparently arrived at the moment where they took a break as nobody had been on the scene when he was guided there at first.

It’s not a problem for him, he makes his ways in a few steps and follow the sound of voices.

It’s unclear at first, but he quickly recognizes the tone of a conflict. If he speed up, he does so as quietly he can. Listening carefully.

He easily recognize Athena voice and what must be one of the dancers that were at the airport.

“.. Picked Manfredi, my decision is final, stop arguing.”

“I’m a better dancer.”

“You can keep repeating that it’s not going to make me change.”

“You’re just an entitled bitch, Manfredi will drop you tomorrow.. ”

“You’re the one who nearly dropped me yesterday.” She snaps back.

“I need that position, what don’t you get about that ?”

“I don’t car.. ”

“I need the money, I need the publicity for my career, some recognition, it’s simple. What you don’t get about that ?”

Something is thrown on the wall and break loudly on the floor. Marsella is getting closer, but still out of sight, and can pick up Athena fearful gasp.

“Leave. I didn’t pick you. Give it up.” She tries again with force yet her tone is full of anguish.

“I’m a good dancer, I was Olivia’s main.. ”

“Yeah ? Well, I get why she dropped you.”

“You.. ”

Athena back up to find herself cornered on a table as he raises his hand against her. He finds himself firmly stopped right in the air. She raise her eyes toward Marsella and let out a relieved breath. The man tries to free himself, but he is firmly held and any attempts drop flat.

“I believe she told you to leave !” He says firmly.

“Who the fuck are you ?” He tries to free himself again, in vain. Marsella place himself between him and Athena. Making him back up.

“You can think of me I some sort of guard dog if you want.” The other man snort.

“Who the fuck he is ?” He asks Athena directly.

Marsella snap his fingers near his ears, his grip tighten on his arm.

“It’s with me you’re dealing now boy. Better calm down, it would be unfortunate for you to get injured, don’t you think ?”

“What ? You’re a psycho.”

“You can’t dance with a damaged knee I believe, or I’m thinking, maybe an ankle.”

“What do you want ?”

“For you to leave just like Athena asked.”

“Fine.” He tries to free himself but Marsella still don’t let go. “I’m leaving.”

“And if something were to happen to Athena or hm.. Manfr.. ” He turns toward Athena.

“Manfredi.” She answers.

“Manfredi.” He repeats. “I will hold you personally responsible, and well, let’s says you don’t want that. Are we clear ?”

“Clear.” The man has a smaller voice now as he takes in the threat.

Marsella let go of him and the man leave promptly, cursing lowly.

“You’re alright ?” He asks Athena.

“Ye.. ”

“Where is this bastard ?” Andrès exclaimed as he enters the backstage, Tatiana following him closely. Marsella point out a direction he immediately follows.

“You’re okay ?” Tatiana asks her.

“Yes, it’s fine, it just got a bit heated.”

“More than heated, he was getting violent.” Marsella correct.

“Did he touch you ?” Tatiana asks.

“Was about. Thank you for your help. I’m glad you came.” She directs at Marsella.

“He’s always there when you need him, that is true.” Andrès says as he comes back.

They all, but Athena, exchange a knowing glare, that man will get some repercussion.

“Do you want to go out, relax ?”

“No, I’m waiting for Manfredi.”

“We can leave a note and he can join us when he arrives.” Athena thinks an instant.

“Okay, yeah, taking some air will do me good.”

On their way out Athena turn to Marsella. He is already way bigger and taller than her but at this moment, she seems so small as she looks up.

“You wouldn’t have hurt him do you ?”

“Only if necessary.” He answers and his tone comes out a bit too coldly.

In a second he had passed from a helpful friend to a scary stranger. Feeling her sudden unease Tatiana grabs her arm and they take the front.

“Don’t worry.. ” He hears her says.

“It’s good you were here to help her.” Andrès tell him.

“You want to do something about the boy ?”

“Nicolo Virona, and yes, I believe he deserves a bit more than a threat.”

They end up taking a small walk on the street, before having a coffee on a terrace. The mood lightens up and earlier worries are forgotten. Manfredi do join them and conversation come to turn around dance and the many interesting stories that come with working within a ballet of worldwide fame.

“We should go back and rehearse.” Manfredi says after a bit of time. “You can both come to watch us if you want.” He directs at him and Andrès.

“I would like that.” Athena says, any worries she had, had disappeared from her sharp brown eyes which reassure him in accepting the proposition.

____

The party is grandiose. The Doge’s Palace is extraordinary, beautiful painting recovers the walls and ceiling, ornated with golden moldings and wood, it’s a masterpiece like you rarely see one. A superb white piano awaits for Tatiana to start playing. Place has been made in the center of the room for the arrivals of the dancers and a grounding choir of whisper can be heard, all eager and curious to see what will follow. It calm down as light focus on the scene, plunging everyone in a gentle darkness.

“Look at her.” Andrès tell him, watching Tatiana as she starts playing. Full of admiration and love.

Everybody goes quiet as notes rise in the room.

Manfredi come, his steps are fluid and elegant and give an impression of languor and sadness. Slow and yearning. They’ve seen him do those steps in training but it hit different tonight. The note of the piano follow the mood, and when it accelerates they know Athena will make her entry soon.

She doesn’t come from where Manfredi emerged but from the crowd around where she squeezes her way with smooth movements.

She jumps and her partner catch her easily, like it’s nothing. He holds her high and turn and when she goes down he embraces her as if they were lovers finding each other again. Lowering her down nearly to the floor. In a quiet and peaceful move. There’s a reverence to it.

Then she finds herself on her feet and they separate for a few moves to find each other again. Every movement is fluid, elegant, and with a natural and a sensuality that is mesmerizing.

It’s beautiful.

The room goes dark when they finish and all light lighten up back for the final salute, applause raise high in the room and many are coming to congrats them on their performance and exchange a few words. He stays in retreat until he can himself go and present his admiration.

“Athena, you were.. ”

“MAGNIFICENT.” Andrès cuts him and pass in front of him catching all of Athena attention. She can barely glance at him before Andrès catch her attention by a flow of beautifully worded compliments. His would be pale in comparison. Not that his feeling and intention would be less, but the form would be poor compared to Andrès.

Sublime, grandiose, opulent, splendid, elegant, sumptuous, majestic.. Andrès spare no compliment. He makes her laugh and manages to eclipse everything around them.

“Do you want a drink ?”

“A flute of champagne would be perfect.” Andrès turn toward him and he knows the task to go pick one fall on him.

“You were resplendent, I’m humbled by such beauty.” He tells her as he hand her the flute when he comes back.

“Thank you.”

“I agree, nobody could look away from you.” Andrès takes her hand and kiss the top of it which make Athena giggle.

In a second, Marsella is forgotten again. He looks at Andrès in disbelief, annoyed by his lack of tact.

“I hope you will grant me the pleasure of a dance tonight.” Andrès asks.

“It would be my pleasure. But I need to change first.”

“Of course.”

Marsella doesn’t manage to offers more than a few words to Athena, her attention caught by the effervescence of the party. After a time he doesn’t really try anymore. It’s not his place, not his world. He doesn’t have Andrès talent and charm and he can’t help but feel a bit bitter about it. Andrès know how to stand out while he is an expert in blending in the crowd to never be seen. A bit too much to his tastes. It doesn’t really matter, Athena seems like she enjoys herself, his presence or not wouldn’t change anything.

____

“Why ? Does it bother you ?” Andrès has this peculiar smile on his face which let Marsella know just how much he is screwed.

“No.” Andrès laugh gently.

“Yes, it does.” He seems very pleased with himself. “It does. You like her.”

He doesn’t answer, this is escalating to a way he doesn’t like.

“Difficult not to, she is brilliant, intelligent, beautiful. Everybody had her eyes on her last night.” Marsella raise his cup to this. “But you could have stood out. Invite her, catch her attention for yourself.”

Difficult when you’re already on the scene. He thinks.

Andrès catch the hint in his eyes. “Oh, because of me ?” He laughs, and Marsella hates it, he feels like being mocked.

“I’m hardly going to compete with you, it’s your field.” He answers calmly.

“I’m taking your envy as a compliment, but you need to be more outstanding, a bit more.. ” He searches his words, a hand on his shoulder. “A bit more.. A bit less proper and a bit more confident.”

Andrès touch bother him and he moves slightly, thankfully his working partner take the hint and removes his hand.

“You’re giving me advice now ?” He can’t help but feel bitter and slightly humiliated.

“Look at me, I get everything I want, I take everything I want. I can help you.” Marsella snort. Andrès come to sit at his side. “No, it’s true. Athena appreciates you. You, the one who came to her rescue. Make a grand gesture, she will appreciate it.”

“She’s not like Tatiana.”

“Exactly, I’m a bit too much for her, she needs someone a bit more subtle. Here what I think.. ”

The preparation for the heist in Milan is forgotten as Andrès expose his idea.. Marsella previous bitterness fade in favor of amusement. Alright, maybe he can learn a thing or two.

End.

[stevie-wicks]

red, black and blue

She’d taken the photo in some empty parking lot in downtown LA, sunlight two years younger glinting off the hood of the Camaro. Billy’s moustache was still a couple of stray gold whiskers on his upper lip; his hair just past the tips of his unpierced ears. A different Billy to the one Hawkins had seen, but post-California Billy hadn’t had much time for Max’s amateur attempts at photography. Or for Max, in general.

“It’s a good photo.”

Jonathan Byers was not a formal wear kind of guy. He looked stiff and uncomfortable in his ugly suit- or maybe that was just an extension of how he was feeling. How they all were.

Max wrapped her hands around her elbows, suddenly regretting resisting her mother’s attempts to usher her into a jacket. “Thanks. I know he looks- different.”

Jonathan looked for a moment like he might offer her his ugly coat; then he probably remembered the uglier shirt he wore underneath. “He looks happier.”

“He was.” Max dug her nails into her skin. “He hated it here.”

Jonathan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Listen, Max; I know it’s not- it’s not really the same, but when I- when I thought Will was gone, I-” He swallowed. “Will is my best friend. I know that sounds really lame, but I just thought that. Maybe you’d feel better, or, I dunno. I know what it’s like.”

He was trying so hard. Max almost felt bad for him. “I don’t think you do.”

She’d wanted to sit next to Lucas, but her mom hadn’t. Some murmured nonsense about Neil not liking it; some louder nonsense about how they were a family and that now, more than ever, they had to stay together.

El became the compromise.

Not that Neil was gung-ho about El, either; not with the oversized flannel and suspenders she’d refused to change out of. Light blue eyes bore a hole into the side of Max’s head as she shuffled into the pew next to El. They weren’t the same shade of blue as Billy’s; he’d had more green to his, more like Max’s own. Neil’s were like ice chips.

A bony hand reached over, and Max looked up at Joyce Byers’s warm brown instead. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she whispered.

Stupidly, Max said, “He owed you a plate.”

El stirred. “I owe him my life,” she said quietly.

The last funeral Max had been to had been for some distant Mayfield relative. She’d been six and she’d cried all the way to Glendale because she was missing Jabberjaw. Then Dad bought her an ice cream and she’d forgotten all about Jabberjaw. She fell asleep halfway through the service, and they got home in time for Speed Buggy.

Billy’s service took half as long and felt an eternity longer.

Mom had offered to do a eulogy. She’d brought it up over breakfast, nervous eyes darting between Max and Neil, as if either of them would put up a fight. She tottered to her feet now, shuffling awkwardly to the front, in a dress a few laundry cycles short of being grey. For a fleeting moment, Max wished she had put up a fight. Billy would’ve died-

Max bit her cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Mom cleared her throat. “Billy and I didn’t know each other for very long, but I wish we had. He was a wonderful young man.” She dabbed at her eyes with a ratty handkerchief.

Max sank back into her seat. Maybe it was for the best; she could never lie about Billy the way her mom did. Not when all she could think of was the blood- God, so much blood, his blood- his last scream torn out of his chest by misshapen claws- apologies on a dying breath-

She stood up. Mom paused midway between some crap about Billy’s ‘respect and responsibility’.

“Maxine,” Mom said, mortified.

“I have to go.” She tore outside, knuckling her burning eyes.

The breeze nipped at her skin. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her hands up her arms. It was mid-July, for Pete’s sake.

She should’ve worn the stupid jacket.

She wiped at her face roughly. When her vision cleared, Lucas stood in front of her.

“Your mom’s done talking, if you wanna head back inside.” He kicked at a pebble.

Max kicked it back. It skittered away, just out of Lucas’s reach. “Not really.”

He squared his shoulders. “Mind if I join you, then?”

She shrugged. He hesitated for a moment before sidling up next to her, arms barely brushing.

“Steve’s giving his speech now.”

Max’s eyebrows reached her scalp.

“For the basketball team,” Lucas clarified, then added, a little awkwardly, “None of the other guys showed up.”

It shouldn’t hurt, but. “Yeah, well. Didn’t think Steve would, either. He hated Billy’s guts.” She dug her heels into the gravel. “You all did.”

Lucas fell quiet. “I didn’t hate him.”

Max snorted. “’Cause you’re not supposed to hold grudges over people who are-” She blinked back a fresh wave of tears. God, Maxine; you’re such a goddamn girl, Billy would’ve said. “You should. He was awful to you.”

“I didn’t hate him,” he repeated. “I mean, he scared the shit out of me, sure. But still. He was your brother.”

“That’s not an excuse. And he was my step-”

“He was your brother.” Lucas had turned on his side, fully facing her now. “And I know you lo- cared about him. And I’m trying to tell you that it’s okay to cry.”

Her eyes welled with tears. She hadn’t allowed herself to; not since Starcourt, not since she’d read the twenty-eight other names in the paper, not since she’d come home in an ambulance and her brother in a casket and Neil locked up Billy’s room and tore down everything else that had belonged to his son and threw it all in the trash like he’d been waiting to get rid of it-

Lucas held out an arm. Max buried her face in his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt and turning it translucent with her tears.

She cried long enough for her tear ducts to run dry, and then stood sniffling into the wet shirt. She was probably making it all gross with her snot, but she didn’t let herself get too torn up about it. The Sinclairs could afford a washing machine.

“Maxine.”

Max went rigid. Lucas, unbothered and oblivious, kept his arms around her. “Hey, Mr. Hargrove.”

She turned around slowly, just in time to catch the flicker of revulsion that passed over Neil’s face. “And who are you, boy?”

There was a painful pause. Max’s nails carved crescents into her palms.

“Lucas Sinclair, sir,” Lucas said at last.

Neil’s eyes were glacial. Max barely suppressed a shiver when they trained on her. “Maxine; something you learn when you grow older that there are a certain type of people in this world that you stay away from. And this boy?” Neil cut his gaze to Lucas. “This boy is one of them.”

Max reeled back. “I-”

“You stay away from my daughter, Sinclair; do you hear me?” Neil hadn’t raised his voice once since he’d started speaking. To any passers-by, this would look like a normal conversation. “Stay away.”

He didn’t wait for Lucas to respond, tugging Max away with a harsh grip on her wrist. She didn’t dare to turn around.

“I don’t want you anywhere near that boy, Maxine.” His hold loosened the closer they got to the car- Neil’s car, a respectable Ford sedan. She didn’t dare tug her hand free, either. “I hope you learn your lesson with this. Billy didn’t; not at first. I’m afraid I had to use more- forceful- methods with him. I trust I won’t have to do the same with you.”

Max turned to Neil despite herself. It was the first time he’d said Billy’s name since the Fourth of July.

His eyes gave nothing away. “Do I make myself clear?” His fingers tightened again.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” Neil’s smile was a mirror of Billy’s; shark-like and vicious, moments away from tearing into your throat. “It’s about time you got some new friends, too. Girls your age shouldn’t be hanging around with boys too much.”

“El’s a girl,” Max told her shoes.

Neil scoffed. “Really? Did she show you proof?”

What happened to you, Mad Max? Billy would’ve asked. You’re not going to stand up for your little hick friends?

Or maybe-

I had to use more forceful methods with him - the bruises she’d see on Billy while his own knuckles remained unscathed- Mom whisking her away on impromptu shopping trips whenever Neil and Billy raised their voices- forceful methods -

- maybe he would understand.

★

Billy’s life couldn’t have fit into a garbage bag.

Max hadn’t gone into his room since she’d gone with El, but he had to have more than what Neil had thrown out onto the sidewalk. Outside the four walls of his room, it was like Billy hadn’t even existed.

She slipped out of bed in the quiet.

Billy had taught her how to pick a lock, back in California. “Use a hairpin, or somethin’- you got one of those?”

She unfurled her fingers. The hairpin was damp with sweat. She wiped it on her t-shirt, and slid it into the keyhole.

“Keep your big ears close to the door; you won’t hear squat that far away.”

She held her breath, pressing her ear to the cool wood.

“Wait for the sound- there, you hear that? That’s how you know the tumblers are in place.”

The door swung open with a soft click.

Max half expected to be assaulted by cigarette smoke and hair metal. But it had been almost a week, and all that Billy had left behind were stale air and silence.

She flicked on the flashlight. The blinds were drawn, the bed unmade, half his closet on the floor. Air the room out, and you could pretend he’d walk right in.

His schoolbooks balanced an ashtray; the desk was not for studying. Instead, he’d cluttered it with beer cans and tapes and a tree’s worth of loose-leaf.

She padded over and sat down in his chair, trying to imagine him hunched over the desk, scribbling on page after page in messy letters. Billy’s handwriting was just as angry as he was.

Her eyes flickered over song lyrics- snippets from the racket she’d been forced to sit through every weekday morning and afternoon. Somehow, silent car rides had lost their appeal.

Strange little doodles decorated the margins- band logos and cars and anatomically inaccurate depictions of women. “Gross,” Max said aloud, pushing the papers away with a theatric shudder.

The tabletop had not been exempted from Billy’s artistry; Max shone the flashlight on more band logos and cuss words and names engraved into the wood. Here there was a crude AC/DC logo, the lightning slash extending down to form the ‘t’ in ‘TWAT’. There was a ‘María’ right next to that, the accent mark angled in the wrong direction. Max remembered her; she’d gone out with Billy for all of sophomore year- the longest Max had ever seen him go out with one girl. She’d taught Max how to do makeup.

A few paces away was Tina- the prettiest girl in Hawkins High, everyone agreed- Laurie was a slut, but she’d complimented Max on her hair- and then Karen. Max traced the ‘K’; she didn’t know any Karens who went to Hawkins High- but then again, she barely knew all the kids in the middle school. There could be a pretty blonde cheerleader somewhere, talking to her friends over the phone. “Yeah, I went out with him a couple of times,” Max imagined her saying. She’d twirl a strand of hair around her finger, lips pulled down in a pout. “And now he’s dead. Spooky.”

She knuckled her eyes. The beam of the flashlight caught on the letter S.

She held the flashlight up, frowning at the name that made itself obvious. Stevie- except the ‘i’ was jammed haphazardly between the ‘v’ and the ‘e’, like it had been an afterthought.

She stared at it until the light flickered overhead.

“Shit!”

Max dropped the flashlight, head snapping back to the door. It hung ajar, just as she’d left it. Heart in her throat, she inched towards the doorway.

The hallway light flicked on.

Max held the flashlight close to her chest, knuckles bone-white and stark. She stepped outside, and the light turned on in the living room.

When she stood in the doorway, staring out at the lifeless room, the telephone started to ring.

Her feet felt heavy as cinderblocks. She plucked the receiver from its cradle, bringing it to her ear with shaking hands.

From the other side, someone breathed heavily.

Max pressed the phone closer, hard enough to hurt. “Billy?”

A crackle of static. Some peculiar noise.

Apologies on a dying breath.

Then, “Max.”

ao3

[cinnamontoasttaes]

Till Death Do Us Part - myg

pairing: Yoongi x reader

genre: Assassin Au, eventual smut.

word count: 5.972k

warnings: blood, gore, lots of cursing, action, violence, sexual content.

summary: Assassins are not supposed to fall in love.

author’s note: I don’t know what the fuck I just wrote but I hope you enjoy this. Let me know if it’s good enough for a second part. Have a lovely day my beautiful peeps.

                                                  ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Making a run for it, you jump off of the edge of the high-rise building. The chilly wind slapping you harshly in the face as you brace yourself for landing. Knees tucked in, arms spread out as the balls of your feet come in contact with the flat surface. 

It has been a week since you last saw him, a whole fucking week. Yet, you keep coming back here, but not intending to do what you should have done a long time ago. Instead, you were here searching for a Yoongi that didn't exist, one that would comfort you and tell you he didn’t mean what he said. 

                                   ——Flashback to that night——

“I Love you--”

Your eyes widen and a gasp escapes your lips, afraid of the words that had just come out of them. Searching his eyes, you pray he didn’t hear it. But eyes that were once clouded with euphoria were now overtaken with shock and disgust. 

You panic and push him off of your sweaty and naked body. Wincing at the sudden loss of his cock as cum oozes out of your pussy and trickles down your thighs. Not wanting to believe you just said that, you look up at the seahorse fairy lights on the ceiling wishing that they would come alive and carry you out to a galaxy far away.  

“What did you just say?” he asks, his voice raspy and low. Your heart pounds loudly in your chest, so loud that you could hear the thumping rhythm in your ears going...LUB... DUB... LUB... DUB... LUB... DUB. 

“What did you just say?” he repeats, and your blood drains from your face as you stare at nothing but the dim light coming through the sheets. Biting onto your bottom lip, you realize that there was no escaping this, that you would eventually have to tell him. And just as you say the words in your head, he pulls the covers off of your face in one quick motion. Your eyes widen, quickly locking onto the seahorses again, not daring to look at him.

“W-what,” you stutter as tight knots take over your stomach.

“Look at me y/n,” he growls...but you didn’t want to... you didn’t want to face him just yet, afraid of being rejected by the one guy you said those words to.

“It just slipped out, I didn't mean it...just forget I ever said that,” you say, trying your best to keep your cool but hearing as your voice cracks at the end.   

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

But if only you knew what was going through his head at that moment, that he didn't just want to forget about it. That all he wanted was to hear you say those words over and over again. Just like that, with you underneath him, your beautiful brown eyes glazed over and your soft lips curled up into a smile, pulling him closer as he filled you up with his cum. 

Wanting to use this as an opportunity to tell you that you were everything he had ever wanted, to tell you he felt the same way. That all he desired was to hold your hand, to wake you up with kisses every morning, to hold you when your nightmares struck, and dry your tears when you cried. That he wanted to do all those things and more because ever since you stepped foot inside the agency. Your small body soaked with blood from head to toe, a big smile on your face as if you hadn't just finished killing someone with those small bare hands of yours. Since that day he hasn't been the same and he hated you for it. Hated you for making him feel such strange feelings he thought he would never feel. 

It was frustrating to think that you could be the one to warm up his icy heart. How? When not even his mother or his brothers, the people who cared for him the most made him feel the way you did. He wanted to tell you the truth, to tell you that all his life he has tried his best to ignore his feelings for you, convincing himself that he could never like an annoying girl like you. 

To apologize for always breaking your toys and making you cry as if it was his full-time job. To tell you he didn't hate you, but the boys who played with you, held your hand and made you things during art class. To tell you he never understood why your face lit up every time they gave you something, that even if it was ugly or falling apart, you cherished it deeply. 

You seemed so strange to him, like an alien from a different world, that knew something he didn’t. How could a person be so kind yet so evil at the same time? He would ask himself, always trying to figure you out. While secretly wanting to see your face light up like that for him. To tell you that that was the reason he stayed up all night the day before your 12th birthday, making you a clay ring that looked like a frog because you were always jumping around. And just as he pushed the ring into your hands the next day... it happened. Your big brown eyes widened like a beaming sun on a summer day. Burning through his corneas, but he couldn’t look away as it was the prettiest sight he has ever seen. Then you smiled at him, a smile that made him feel things he couldn’t quite explain. 

That what he meant to tell you when he threatened to kill you if you told anyone about the ring was that he hoped you liked it. To tell you how he almost struck a bow into Jackson's head that same day when he caught him kissing you under the same place where he had given you the ring. Upset that you didn't even push him away, upset that he wasn't old Yoongi who would have felt indifferent and done nothing just because he didn’t have feelings. But he wasn't that Yoongi anymore, but one who suddenly felt hurt and betrayed just at the thought of you being someone else’s. 

He wanted to be your first kiss... just like you were his first everything. 

But even though he felt this way for you and wanted to tell you all these things. The walls he has built from years of conditioning, brainwashing, toxic relationships, near-death experiences, depression, and other issues he swears his brain blocks out to protect him. Keep pushing you away, not allowing you to get too close. 

Even though he’s always his best when he’s with you. He hopes you can find a better man one day, one who knows how to love you and treat you the right way.

 Now there was only one way of ending this and that was to hurt you, like always.

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

“We both agreed that this was just a sex thing, nothing more. We are assassins for god's sake, we know nothing about love,”

A chill runs down your spine and you knew you should have stayed quiet, but your traitor of a heart betrays you once again, “You're wrong...because if that was true I wouldn’t be feeling this way for you….tell me you feel nothing for me!” you cry out, your face turning hot. 

“Y/N what the fuck are you talking about, you were just a way for me to pass time. Shit of all the women I’ve fucked I would have never thought that... you, someone who is as lifeless and cold-hearted as I would be the one to say those words to me-” He pauses but continues, “I hope you're not getting confused with the other stuff we have been doing in here because if you are I should’ve just stayed with Juna or-” 

Before he could even finish his sentence, you strike him on the side of the face, so hard his head turns. Your hand tingles as it falls back onto your lap. You don’t realize, but you’re sitting up now, the sheets that were once hiding your upper body now pooled around your thighs. Your chest heaving up and down as you feel your eyes water. Angry at yourself for catching feelings for him, angry that you allowed yourself to be blinded by the moments you’ve both shared, mistaking it for fucking love. 

“You're a real piece of shit you know that right, how dare you bring her up right after I-... after I-...you know what Yoongi just leave, go fuck her for all I care,” You shout, biting onto your quivering bottom lip as you look at him. 

His hand is covering his right cheek where you had slapped him, but you could see the red hand mark from the gaps between his fingers. His furrowed brows accentuate the pale ridged scar that runs down from the top of his left brow and stops right in the middle of his cheek. His cold eyes glaring at you intently as the corners of his mouth turn into a smirk.

“Don’t worry, that’s where I’ll be tonight because you can’t honestly think, that you have been the only one I’ve been fucking all this time,” he says, venom dripping from his voice and you feel like throwing up. 

Putting your trembling hands into fists, ready to lunge at him, you stop yourself, a low chuckle escaping your shaky lips. He wasn’t fucking worth it, you should have known better, you should have stopped yourself before it got this far. “I'll burn this place down tomorrow,” You push the words out, trying to ignore the tightness in your throat.

You remove the frog-inspired clay ring from your ring finger, the one he had made for you when you had just turned 12. And place it on the bed beside him, your finger suddenly feeling naked without it. Not giving him a second glance you get off the bed, the cold air hitting your naked body traitorously. You pick up your clothes that were scattered around the floor, get dressed, and before you know it you are out the door. The cold air greeting you like a fake friend as you push your way through the thick fog. 

You make your way down the building and once in the comfort of your car;  you rest your head against the steering wheel and let your tears fall.

  -—-Flashback Ends----

                                                                                                                                       With a sigh, you pull out the lighter from your pocket, twirling it around your fingers as you stare up at the house. 

Remembering when you both found it, on top of an abandoned skyscraper in Busan. The day you were both forced by the chairwomen of the academy to go on a mission together, as a punishment for almost killing each other again in Poison lab 101. Threatening us that if the mission wasn’t a success that she would send us both to the basement and no matter how cold of a killer you were, no one wanted to go down there. It surprised you that locking the both of you in the basement wasn’t their first option. 

In all honesty, they should just lock Yoongi in the basement because he’s always the one to start fucking problems with you. Ever since you came to the agency at 7 years old, he’s always been such a dick to you, for no fucking reason. But as the years went by and you guess that as the dick grew bigger, he turned into an even bigger dick than before. There isn’t a day that goes by when we are not trying to kill each other. 

Like how last week Namjoon, the boss in charge of the baddies (aka the 3rd years) made the both of you clean the first year's locker room…. was that a good idea? No. Because we came out of there drenched from head to toe after fucking Yoongi tried to drown you in the hot tub, so you tried to drown him first, and of course, we got punished. You fucking hated everything about him, hated how he always got first in exams/training and you always made second. Hated how he always ruined your uniform, hated that smug fucking look on his face. And fuck, you hated how his exes or little crushes were always on your ass, telling you to stay away from their man and shit. Like bitch, you can fucking have him.

The mission was fairly quick and easy, and you knew Namjoon had to have chosen it. Knowing us that if we had to work together for more than an hour, we would kill each other for sure. To stop that from happening, we separated our mission into separate tasks, Yoongi was to take out the bodyguards who were on the lookout for anything suspicious, surrounding the abandoned book shop like statues. Not knowing that there was a shadow creeping up behind them like a thief in the night. Your job was to kill their boss called Mo, a big old wrinkly guy who ran an illegal organ trafficking business, and who was processing a transaction from two corrupted cops, on top of the shop's semi-slanted rooftop. The shop was just a few buildings down and the abandoned house you were in aided as the perfect hideout. In less than two minutes you had sniped them one by one with your pink bedazzled sniper, watching them fall to the ground like flies with blown-up heads. 

Then the unexpected happened. Before you could set your gun down, you sensed a presence behind you, and just as you turned around you were pushed against the wall by no other than Yoongi. He had splotches of blood on his face, almost making him look like the wings of a ladybug. His eyes clouded with lust and something else you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. You froze, your heart beating fast, as you stared at him confused. And before you could push him away, he kisses you, and you could have sworn you heard fireworks going off behind you. Your eyes close at the softness of his lips, which pull you deeper than any tidal wave. The stench of blood tickling your nose as he wrapped his arms around you. Holding you tight as if you’ll suddenly vanish. You couldn’t explain what you were feeling, but it almost felt as if you were soaring through a sky full of stars. Just as you breathe him in, he pulls away, his face flushed as he touches his lips in shock. Taken aback by his actions, you hear him mutter an apology. But before he could walk away, you pull him back into you. That same afternoon he took your virginity away on that dusty floor, in that abandoned house on top of a skyscraper.

And now you wish you hadn't let him take that one thing away from you----

Cocking your head to the side, you stare at the house, suddenly in awe at its unique beauty. It was a small house, the kind of house you would see in the countryside or by the beach. With vibrant wisteria that cascaded over the flat rooftop and arched window. A few green vines growing out of the bricks here and there. The house we had turned into our escape house, the place where we would go that wasn't our own homes or the agency. The place where all we did was take our pain and anger out on each other by fucking. 

Until it got rather strange and we sort of started to do things as if we were friends. It wasn't the same friendship/relationship like the one you had with Haemi and Mina, but it was okay. We did things, like read together, argue about why blank manga was better than the anime, indulge in ramen, chips, and candy at 3 am without having anyone tell us not to, play Overwatch, shit our pants while playing Amnesia, and binge-watch anime and Disney movies whenever we had the time. 

All our years of hatred for nothing.

With a sigh, you walk to the wooden door and push it open just to take one last look inside before it all turns to dust. The horrible paintings you both had painted still hanging on the wall above the bed. The makeshift bookshelf in the corner of the room was now empty after you came and rescued all the graphic novels and books, not having the heart to burn them. You glance at the two broken bean bag chairs by the window, the ones he had refused to throw away after we popped them during drunk sex. Pushing those memories to the far back of your mind, your eyes land on the black iron bed we got from IKEA, which had to be the best thing in there. It was the place where you always found him sprawled out, snoring with spit and all as he waited for you to get back from your mission. And of course, the bed where you had mind-blowing orgasms. 

Your thumb rolls against the spark wheel of the lighter in one swift motion, pushing down onto the ignition button until a vibrant flame appears. You rest your thumb firmly on the button to keep the flame alive as you rummage through your coat pocket and pull out a white piece of paper. Still not daring to step foot inside, you lean against the door frame and light up a corner of the crumbled paper. Watching as the flames race toward one another, hurrying to consume every inch of the paper. But before that could happen, you fling both the lighter and the paper somewhere inside the room and close the door. 

Moving a few feet back, you grab onto the fire extinguisher you had stolen from the agency last night and wait. A few minutes pass and still nothing...no smoke, no house engulfed in flames. But when you close your eyes you see it, the fiery inferno. The beautiful petals of the wisteria falling to the ground and turning into nothing. You could hear things falling, shattering, and popping from inside, the fire becoming bigger. Dark gray smoke escapes through the crumbling door and shattered window. Embracing you in a death grip, poisoning you slowly until all you see is black. 

“No,” you scream and open your eyes to see the house was still intact, no fire ablaze. Positioning the fire extinguisher on your arm, your feet moving on their own as you push open the door. Your eyes widening when you see that one bean bag was on fire and traveling up the side of the arched window, smoke slowly filling the room. Pulling out the safety pin, you take a hold of the black hose and squeeze down on the lever, aiming at both the bean bag and window. Watching the angry flames die down until there's nothing left, but a disfigured piece of burnt-up nylon and a half black window frame. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and set the fire extinguisher down.

You just couldn’t do it.

Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, and you pull it out, almost dropping it when you see the time--- 8:43 AM. Along with 10 unread messages from both Mina and Haemi, 3 missed calls from your brother, and a notification from Uber Eats saying you had 8 dollars off your next order. 

“Ooh nice I can get a pizza or some---fuck this is not the time for that.. I’m late,” You freak out already seeing Namjoon, Kai, Sora, and Haemi’s dark ominous faces as they cut your eyeball into 8 equal pieces and eat it with some dipping sauce. Fuck, the more you think about it, the more you realize that that is something they would do. You grimace at the taught, wondering why you choose to traumatize yourself like that.

“You're not normal,” the little voice in your head finally shows up to clarify that you're indeed not sane.

 Closing the door behind you, your combat boots are heavy on your feet as you run across the rooftop. Making it to the edge, you look up at the sky seeing that it has now cleared up and turned into a soft blue. A bright yellow sun peeking out from behind a sea of fluffy white clouds. 

Swinging your right leg off the roof, you jump. Watching a distorted image of yourself in the dusty windows of the skyscraper as you free fall. Your hair is flying all over the place, slapping you in the face and getting into your mouth. Until it stays put in a Goku-like hairstyle when he turns into a Super Saiyan. A chuckle escapes your lips at that and you close your eyes, enjoying how the cool breeze feels like gentle kisses against your skin. And just as if it was a natural-born instinct, you swipe your finger against the rim of your heart-shaped Daith, activating your magnetic levitation shoes. Opening your eyes, you grin when you see you were just a few millimeters from the concrete ground. Silently thanking Haemi for being such a genius and making you these for your Bday. Landing successfully, you tap your finger against the rim of your Daith two times to turn it off. 

Wasting no time, you run across the desolate street to where you had parked Kai’s black motorcycle, putting on your helmet you hover over it, zooming out of this ghost town and into emerging traffic hoping to make it to the agency before 9:00 AM.

——

 9:05 AM

You slip through the doors of the main conference room that was always empty except for important days like this one. The room crowded to the point you couldn’t even see the long oval mahogany table in the middle. Chiming your way through you try your best not to bump into your colleagues, knowing how grumpy they usually were in the morning. Your eyes frantically searching for Haemi and Mina, but everyone was wearing the same fucking thing: a black hoodie and black jeans. As if we all had agreed to wear the same outfit today, the night before. A smile creeps onto your lips right as you catch sight of them standing near the front next to Boss. But before you could go any further, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you away.

“Why are you late? The meeting ends in like 5 minutes?... Didn’t I wake you up this morning and tell you to get here before me, Mina even told me she saw you leave around 6... what the fuck took you so long!” Kai scolded you quietly as he bombarded you with questions.

Damn, you spent 4 hours contemplating on burning that fucking house and in the end did nothing.

Kai pulled you to the far back of the room, stopping next to a small table filled with sweet pastries and four boxes of hot coffee. Made of course by the sweetest/deadliest grandmas in the world, aside from the chairwomen. They shouldn't even be in charge of the academy's bakery due to their obsession with poisoning people. 

But no one has died yet...so people like you who enjoy balancing their lives on a thin line instead of making their own coffee and sweets or going into the city to a normal bakery with normal owners who aren't psychopaths. Like some of your semi-sane classmates would do...still nothing could ever beat their rice pancakes topped with edible flowers and honey. In all seriousness, you would die for those. Your mouth waters just at the thought, your stomach begging you to give it something to eat. Reaching over the table, you grab a foam cup just for it to be slapped out of your hands within seconds.

You gasp and turn to your brother ready to kill him watching as he picks up the cup from the ground. Crushing it in his hands as quietly as he could, the squeaky sound making your eye twitch. He signals for you to stand by him and you roll your eyes as you walk two steps and lean on the wall beside him. 

“You know you can’t drink fucking coffee on the days we have missions...especially not today, do you want to be shitting yourself all day?” He questions, his bushy brows furrowed as he crosses his arms across his chest. You stay quiet, not knowing what to say. Of course, you didn't want to shit your pants, but why did he have to do your cup like that, you weren't even going to use it for coffee. You were just going to fill it up with rice pancakes because there weren't any plates or napkins.

  Kai suddenly sniffs your hoodie and you raise an eyebrow, looking at him weirdly. “Why do you smell like smoke?” 

You were about to fidget with your ring but then you realize it wasn't there, “I almost burned a house down,” you tell him blankly. 

He does a double-take, making sure he heard right, “Wait what...you did what, why?”

You shrug him off and before he could keep nagging you; he gets interrupted by Namjoon’s booming voice. Kai looks at you with the look of we’re going to finish this conversation at a later time.

“Ok, I'll see you all at the venue, be on time!” Namjoon shouts and everyone disperses, some leaving while the risk-takers stop by the table to grab a cup of coffee and sweets. 

Some of your friends came up to you and congratulated you and before you could ask them for what they would just leave. And then there was the fucking Juna’s of the class who stared at you with utter hatred, something that wasn’t new to you. But you flipped them off anyway, not understanding the fucking memo. 

“Kai, what are people congratulating me for, what did I do?” You ask as you turn to him, he shrugs and stays quiet, ignoring you. 

You catch sight of Haemi running towards you at full speed and you spread your arms apart, hitting Kai in the face as you do so. You hear him groan as Haemi melts into them. She wraps her arms around your waist and squeezes you tightly. Satisfied at the sound of your bones crushing, she loosens her grip. Her arms now on your shoulder blades as she looks at you quizzically, a frown making its way onto her lips.   

“Why were you late and why didn't you answer our messages... NamNam is fucking angry at you,” She says through clenched teeth as she turns to look at something in the distance, biting onto her lips her face flushes into a bright pink color. You didn't even have to follow her gaze to know that she was staring at Namjoon and fantasizing about her fake dirty relationship with him. You nudge at her arm and she turns to you, now with a mischievous grin.

“y/n my panties are all soaked because of him... oh did I tell you my dildo came in this morning and I named it after him...dude, I fucking squirted all over--” Kai clears his throat making it known that he was right next to us.

“Ay! go away if you don't want to listen, this is some very important info I’m catching y/n on,” Haemi says as she shoos him away with her hand, but he stays put against the wall.

You raise a brow at her, certainly not wanting to hear about how she squirted on her Namjoon dildo. All you wanted to know was why Namjoon was angry at you---

Ah shit, and then it dawns on you... that you missed the 6 am meeting.

“Omg y/n I’m going to kill you for not answering, oh and congrats--” Mina appears with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. Kai puts his arm over her shoulders and whispers something in her ear. She looks at you for a split second and then nods. 

Before you could ask her why she was congratulating you, Namjoon’s voice rips through the air again. “Y/n and Yoongi, can you both come here now,” 

Your breath hitched in your throat as this could only mean one of two things. We were in trouble—which couldn't be right because we haven't seen or talked to each other for 4 weeks. Then it could only mean—- that he was going to assign us to work together in today’s mission.

“Well, I guess we'll see you at the venue,” Kai says. Haemi squeezes your shoulder and with a wink she lets you go. You watch them walk away, wanting to tell them not to leave you. 

With a sigh, you turn on your heel and walk towards Namjoon who is now sitting at the end of the oval table. His head is down, his fingers drumming loudly on top of his black manila folder. The room was empty now, as the voices from outside became less and less. 

Your eyes search the dim-lit room for Yoongi, but you don't see him and you feel a little better. Namjoon clears his throat and your eyes land back on him. Without looking at you, he signals you to stand by him. You do as he says, seeing a hooded Yoongi appear from the shadows and stand next to you. 

“Awe fuck,” you groan in your head.

“Why were the both of you late today when I clearly said to be here at 6 am before the meeting started,” He says, his voice strict and eerily low. 

You say nothing and neither does Yoongi. Namjoon stops drumming his fingers and leans back against the chair, resting his arm on either side. He moves robotically in slow technical movements until his face is facing forward, his eyes locking onto yours. With a gaze of a snake, waiting for you to say the wrong thing to snap. 

You open your mouth, but no words come out, unsure of what to say when it was your fault for forgetting about the meeting. 

“I was busy,” Yoongi announces in a rather bored tone.

Namjoon taps his finger again, now against the armchair, the taps sounding softer than the rigid ones on the table. 

“Hmm, what were you busy with… little brother? was it with the girl Jimin told me you had over...Keep messing around and I’ll tell father to teach you a lesson.” Namjoon snapped.

You feel a stinging pain in your heart, but you try your best to ignore it. Yoongi says nothing but shrugs.

“What’s your excuse,” He asks you now.

“I burned a house down,” You lied wanting to get a reaction out of him but got nothing. He just stood there, his face hidden by his black hoodie, unbothered. 

“Why?... instead of getting your ass here on time, you decide to do that. You know what if the both of you pull this shit again, to the basement it is,” 

A chill runs down your spine and you focus on the piece of paper that was stuck under the wheels of his chair.

“You both are getting married...with each other,” he exclaims. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, almost as if he was about to smile, but he doesn't.

You choke on your spit and cough loudly, staring at Namjoon as if he has lost his mind. Ah, this was what they were congratulating you for, for this shit.

“You have to be fucking kidding,” Yoongi shouts, and you could hear the anger in his voice. 

“What? This is perfect... I've seen that you guys have stopped fighting for a while now, so this will be easy peasy,” 

You shake your head no, that he's got it all wrong.

“Anyway, remember the bride and the groom I made each of you study for these past few weeks...You guys are going to be them.”

“What! but isn't there already a groom and a bride?” you ask, thinking back to your notes, pretty sure that there was a bride and a groom already.

“Ah, about that… If you both would have come on time, we would have more time to discuss...But long story short, we killed them off because it was just going to complicate stuff. Plus, you both kinda look like them and with the power of makeup those old fucks won’t even know the difference,” 

Your mouth drops, taken back by the subtlety in his voice. Why the fuck would they kill them when the plan was to kill them at the wedding. The sound of a clap brings you out of your thoughts.

 Namjoon is now standing, Manila folder in hand as he looks inside it, humming an upbeat tune.

“I don’t want to fucking marry this asshole!” 

“I don’t want to fucking marry you either!” he fires back.

“Silence, it’s fucking fake you both are acting as if this was real... it’s not. By afternoon tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.” 

You look at the sparkly marble floor, pressing your lips into a tight line.

“Before you both leave to get dressed, I want to say a few things… you both know how each of them acted towards each other, I even made you both a list of the things I need to see happen at the wedding which will be in your rooms. You both can study your vows while they do your makeup or in the car… Yoongi as the boy you studied remember that he is possessive, he is crazy about his woman and all that toxic bullshit which I’m sure you’re good at….Oh and one last thing, the bride’s father is a creep and is going to come and check the morning of after you guys fake sex or you can-“

“No,” you both shout in unison, and Namjoon looks at you guys weirdly. 

“Chill I was just going to say to drip a bit of fake blood on the bed that will be in the room already. So that when he comes in with his wife to see you know what to do… well, take care of the rest,”

“Don’t disappoint...have fun, enjoy the 1-day honeymoon, and sorry I didn’t tell you both sooner.  I just didn’t want the both of you to kill each other before the wedding...now get the fuck out,” he said with a crooked smile, falling back onto the chair as he pointed at the door.

[youwontlikethisblog]

Betty's New Look

Previously I talked about Armando's rivalry with Nicolas and how that also motivates him to continue the affair with Betty. I've also talked about how Armando displays signs of s. addiction. I felt it was important to break that down to really understand this post in particular.

By understanding what motivates Armando in his quest to have affairs and understand why the man is so obsessed with the beauty standards of women we can now understand his behavior towards Betty.

I mentioned in that post that I have an OC that is portrayed to have s. addiction and how much research I had to make so I could write it correctly. However I didn't mention or explain as much something vital that I see in Armando as well.

Seggs can many times not only be a form of escapism or control but many times for reasons of self-esteem/worth. If the person believes that the only way they can ever feel wanted or loved is by acts of s. than they will often participate in said behavior to feel that way.

With Armando he doesn't only do it to escape the chains of a pre-planned destiny by his parents and fiancé but because he also doesn't really feel loved and he uses these models as a from for him to feel that way or at least wanted,(I mean the only thing he has that keeps his relationship with Marcela together is their seggsual relationship.) he doesn't only do it to feel like he has control over that part of his life.

I mentioned in another post that women enter Armando through the eyes. He is a very physical man. He is superficial when it comes to the women he sleeps with. He grew up in the fashion world where the standard is tall and thin. The beauty of women can only be found in those types.

What does this have to do with Betty's new look?

Though we've established that Armando is attracted to her personality, he isn't of her physical appearance. Does that make him a bad person? No. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes we find someone's personality so much more attractive than their outer appearance but we still dare to date them. Women are often told "you're too pretty for that man" because of this.

Armando isn't a bad person for that and he accepts to a certain degree that he is attracted to her personality but because he is such a superficial and perfectionist with the body of a woman he denies this. He denies any and all attraction to her for this exact reason.

He finds it so hard to understand why he would still be attracted to Betty and why he likes her kisses when he doesn't look at her as a seggsual object like he does to all the women he has had affairs with and that's because unlike those women Betty isn't a seggsual object and that throws him off.

Lets considered the fact that when he repeated what Bertha told him about Nicolas, that he didn't even think of her with a bad thought(one could assume she meant a perversive thought.) as he tells this new piece of information to Mario he said so surprised and when Mario said that it made sense to not think of her in that way he agreed. In an instant he contradicted himself. In his tone he seemed surprised that a man wouldn't think of Betty so much even with a bad thought but that he understood that no one would? To some degree, to some far end distance, Armando does view Betty as a woman but not enough to actively desire her as one like he has in the past with the models.

(I'll talk more about this when we get to the B-Day episodes 😏)

In the past when Marcela got a new look he commented on it. It was the first thing he mentioned as he said she looked great(Betty was a witness to this). However when he see's Betty's new look he doesn't even comment on it. For one because he doesn't want to hurt her feelings and two because he doesn't want to lie so she keeps looking like that.

I think, in my very personal and humble opinion, that Betty looks fine. What ruins the fit is her hair but it is very 70's office chic. Like lets be honest if they took off the bangs, did a middle part, defined those curls, and didn't apply that much blush and lined her lips, she'd look so cute. Unibrow and braces with the glasses, Betty would slay. She'd look like a cute dorky person.

She IS very gorgeous to me!

I will fight anyone who disagrees with this and I will set up a time and date for it!

Now that we have established Armando's hesitation to accept Betty's physical appearance and why he doesn't want to comment on it lets begin.

In this episode Betty had just arrived to Eco Moda, her friends went to see her new look in her office as if she were the main attraction at the zoo and when leaving her office Armando over heard their commentary on it, once again being witness to the critique of Betty behind her back as none of them wanted to tell her how awful they thought she looked and they were her supposed close friends.

Marcela then enters his office and they talk about how Patty thought Marcela had caused those bruises on Armando, who tells her that the cuartel thinks the same and they start to flirt and then make out.

Just as they start to Betty exits her office.

Armando's reaction is a pissed off one. We see him roll his eyes and clench his teeth while he has his lips tight, even Marcela comments on it.

"My love you don't have to get so upset."

"No it's just embarrassing for all of us." He says and walks behind his desk and sits.

Betty struggles to speak for a second before grounding herself and saying that she just wanted to excuse herself to go to Marcela's office so she could sign the paper work for the loan they were giving Sofia.

Marcela only stared at her for a bit before she couldn't look at her without bursting into laughter right there and then.

Betty doesn't make eye contact with Armando he however stares at her with a concern look on his face, which is very different than his first reaction to Betty being in the room.

Now he watches Marcela sign the paper, he's got a crease between his brows that are furrowed, his eyes are saddened and his mouth slightly parted but still slightly tense.

This is a look of worry.

Betty excuses herself and Armando watches her leave while Marcela starts to laugh(Natalia really nailed the mean girl laugh).

As Marcela starts to make fun of her Armando asks her not to make fun of her and she tells him that whoever did her hair didn't curl it but stuck her into the electricity socket. Armando stares at her as she says these things with his lips pursed while squinting his eyes at her as she laughs.

He disapproves of what she's saying and it angers him that she is HOWEVER in a very classic manor he doesn't tell her any of this. Unlike the previous night that he literally started to hit the guys who were saying these awful things to her, saying that they had to respect her, here he stays silent. He doesn't even yell at her. Instead he turns around and goes to his computer.

I'm not saying that Armando should have hit Marcela lmbo! That would be bad and inexcusable! What I'm saying is that again we're shown the contrast and contradictions of Armando. While with complete strangers he demands for Betty to be respected and treated well he can't to that with Mario or Marcela. Not only because Marcela would get jealous and throw a fit about him telling her to be respectful but because he'd also give her cuerda(rope) to suspect and continue being controlling and with Mario because Mario would make him miserable if he shared even a fraction of his confusion or talked through his feelings about it all because he's tried it in the past but each time Mario makes a joke about it and he just shuts down. He's a coward to face the people in his life that really matter because he doesn't want to face the consequences of liking a woman like Betty.

The girls asked Betty if anything is wrong and she tells them no. Betty expressed her guilt and how she feels terrible whenever she sees Marcela and how she has walked in on them kissing and Armando making it obvious that he was angry that she interrupted them(It also explains his worried expression in the latter of said scene).

I've noticed many people just lump Betty as the insecure girl because of romance and that's really where her depth ends but Betty is a very complex individual here too(and I really want to make a more detailed post about it!).

She navigates a world that overall treats her poorly only because she's "ugly" but inside Eco Moda she navigates a world that actively prays for her downfall and who humiliate her in front of many only for the reward of laughing at her expense be their personal satisfaction. Yes she's dealt with bullying and people excluding her because they think she's ugly all her life but the cruelty that she faces in Eco Moda goes beyond and above.

These people are supposed to all be people of class, people she views as superior to her in all aspects. It isn't just humiliation that she faces for her physical appearance but she faces an over all humiliation for simply being a human existing and even then, even as she feels so terrible of herself, as she hates the way that they humiliate her, she still thinks of them superior to her and their opinion matters to her and because of this, despite their disgusting behavior, Betty still has some respect for them on the professional side. She still respects their authority inside Eco Moda and their vitality to the well being of the company.

Betty is such a sweet person at this stage of the novela that she still respect these people but it's so hurtful to see because she also does this because she thinks she deserves this.

Trauma affects a person in more than one way. Her life experience has been painful, isolated, grim, cruel, and lonely; add the traumatic relationship she had with Miguel to this, Betty doesn't have a self-esteem. She doesn't have a sense of self-worth. Betty, in such a terrible an awful way, believes that she isn't deserving of respect for simply existing, much less of voicing how it makes her feel when they treat her the way they do.

She doesn't understand why her father takes so much care of her. She doesn't understand why anyone would ever be nice to her. She's shy, timid, reserved, afraid. This is exactly why she was so impacted by Armando's behavior towards her. It wasn't just because she has no self-esteem. It's that someone treated her as a human being worthy of respect for simply doing her job and existing.

In the following scene, which is a parallel of a scene I previously talked about(post You Betrayed Me!) Armando's behavior is vastly different.

While in the past when he heard them making these crude jokes at the expense of her[Betty] boyfriend Armando seemed scared, angry, worried, and humiliated to a certain degree but this time his demeanor is different. This time he squints his eyes at Patty. He looks at Marcela with disapproval without hiding it. He visibly looks pissed.

"Did you see her clothes? No one would undress her with that!" Patty and Marcela laugh.

"Who would want to undress her?" Marcela says and they cackle, seriously, they cackle a lot. "I think Beatriz goes to the gyno and he tells her not to get undressed, that he'll examine her over her clothes."

"Obviously! She'd tell him "Doctor could I get undressed?" she mocks Betty's voice. " and the Doctor would tell her "No please, please! Don't do it! I beg of you!" she clasp her hands in front of her, pretending to be the Doctor begging. Armando had passed by her, squinting his eyes and now he's behind Marcela, far away, still hearing their conversation staring at them in disbelief and anger.

"Could you imagine what it must be with the boyfriend?" Patty says while Marcela laughs.

"No! See, she's so ugly that he doesn't kiss her, he hits her." they laugh. Armando stares at Marcela with disdain.

"Again with the jokes against Betty?" Marcela turns to him laughing.

"No. No they're not about Betty. They're about Betty's boyfriend." this time, unlike before, he doesn't change his emotions. He squints his eyes at Marcela once more. "and what he has to face tonight once he sees her." She covers her face laughing.

"Maybe he already saw her." to Marcela this line holds no meaning but to the audience it does and it isn't only for comical effects. Armando is now saying that her[Betty] boyfriend already saw her i.e. him. He is now out loud in his own way confronting the fact that he is her boyfriend to himself, while before he wasn't even able to say it to Betty or himself this time he's confronting himself about it.

Betty walks past Armando and he watches her as she walks towards Marcela and Patty who are still laughing, she bumps into Hugo who laughs at her, and they don't hold back at making it obvious that they are laughing at her and making jokes behind her back.

"Who is that creep?" Hugo voices loudly. Armando turns to glare at him. "Betty's cousin?"

"No Hugito that's the very same Betty but like a new version." Patty says.

"She went with the enemy so they could dress her and style her hair." Marcela says.

"What hairdresser? Because he didn't do highlights, he did lightning bolts." Hugo jokes.

The model and the rest laugh while Armando visibly controls his anger, but doesn't hide it or pretend to be unbothered as he shakes his head at Marcela and Patty and marches away from them.

Compare this to his previous reaction, while Marcela knew that Armando didn't like that she was making fun of Betty the other time he didn't actually voice his disapproval, he even laughed at one of the jokes that Patty made until he heard Marcela call him[Nic] a Multi-Millionaire. This time he finds no humor, he doesn't even feel offended that their making fun of Betty's boyfriend or hurt, he feels furious that they are.

However in the following scene all of that good behavior is squashed like a bug. He sits with Calderon talking bad about Betty's new look.

While Calderon tries to make him be a good boyfriend Armando scoffs and questions "praise her new look?"

"You haven't praised her new look?" Calderon whispers alarmed. "What are you? A beast? An animal? An ignorant!" he hisses. "Look there's nothing worse, nothing that humiliates a woman more, that tramples her ego, that ends her love for a man than you not praising her new look."

"What? Do I give her four hallelujahs for the hairdo? What?"

"No but Betty isn't the only woman that goes through that, my god. Almost all women are a disaster when they change their look but you still praise her new look! It's that simple." Armando sighs. "Look when a woman changes her look she changes it for A: her husband. B: the lover. In this case we have one true god." Armando purses his lips and rolls his eyes. "So then my dear god, praise the new look."

"She won't believe me. She won't believe me. The entire world has made fun of her for it. She'll think I feel pity for her, consoling her, or or worse that I'm making fun of her like the rest.

"Then the time for you to demonstrate to her that you're really serious[about this], that your love goes beyond the physical(goes on to list all of her physical flaws)" Armando looks pained to be the poor fool to have to "Accept" this. "well the list is long but if I were you I'd make love to her just as she is." Armando slowly, repeatedly blinking, turns to look at Mario. "well it's the only way for you to show her that you love her, that you desire her."

"Be very careful, Calderon, because with the simple fact that I already kiss her, with that fact alone, I'm paying in life what I should be paying in death." He whispers. "And besides I'mma tell something for me... to do that to her, never. Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps." He stands up.

"Well you better start to prepare yourself. Where do you have Adrianita's picture?"

Yes I've talked about how women enter Armando through the eyes but that doesn't justify his behavior, it merely explains it. The objectification he has on women as seggsual beings clouds his judgement and blinds him to see past that. While he doesn't like that people make fun of Betty, he does worse. He doesn't make fun of her, he verbally humiliates her by the mere fact that he compares kissing her to a punishment, that he finds her affection to be a torment only for the fact that she's "ugly".

Armando continuedly flip flops from caring about Betty and her best interest to only caring about his. We're barely starting to see him take notice of Betty's interest but he still focuses mostly on what he wants and what he feels comfortable with. He doesn't once wonder if Betty does.

He finds her kisses a punishment because she isn't pretty. He finds her affection a torment because she isn't pretty. If she had the body and face of AA and the personality of Betty mans would proclaim it to the four winds and the seven seas. He would dump Marcela on the spot for her.

People are allowed to have types, we all have them. When do we draw the line between types and actively dehumanizing a certain group of people? When it no longer is based on preference but hatred and fear of said group.

Armando to this point hates that Betty isn't society's beauty standard. He hates that she isn't his idea of woman perfection but he lives tormented by the fact that he still cares about her. That he doesn't like it when people treat her poorly or make fun of her. That he hates it when they dehumanize her, (except he's a hypocrite because he does the exact same thing and he allows his best friend to do that exact thing.) and that he secretly enjoys her kisses and her affection. He hates all of this which is what truthfully makes him a miserable piece of ish.

These episode however are meant to help Armando accept Betty's physical appearance to a certain degree(lol I'm saying that a lot). He is forced to accept that he can't control the way a woman looks and that he can't change it either(I'll talk about this in the next post) Here he is faced with Betty's new look and he's forced to think about her feelings first than his own. He's confronted within himself that he is Betty's boyfriend. He is forced to find a way to tell her that her new look isn't it without tearing her confidence to shreds.

In other words Armando is forced to accept that Betty isn't a seggsual object but just because of that it doesn't mean she should get treated horribly. That the respect she deserves isn't only because of how good she is at her job but because she's a human, a person with feelings and with struggles of her own and that he doesn't like it that people don't see that.

But it foreshadows as well that he also has to accept Betty's physical appearance as it is and be okay with the attraction he has towards her, or at least prepare himself to accept that attraction.

Now as Armando and Calderon talk about how hot AA is Betty interrupts and leaves the office but overhears Armando call AA a mamasita and say that if she ever showed up that he'd throw everything away and marry her on the spot.

She seems annoyed by that as she shakes her head and walks away from the double doors.

Obviously our girl is hurt because not once has Armando mentioned her new look, not once has he made the effort to say anything about her physical appearance but there he is talking about how he'd end all his relationships without care of consequence if AA showed up and he'd marry her for the simple fact that she's hot.

Men really only have the audacity!

Here Betty is trying to escape her comfort zone(though she didn't get far from it) for the sake of Armando's ego. She's willing to face humiliation and ridicule if Armando likes her new look, even if she feels uncomfortable and knows how people are insulting her behind her back, and he hasn't said a single thing, instead he comments about how hot AA is.

I do want to note that Armando is behaving more like a boyfriend now. While in the past whenever the subject of his crushes or infatuation on Models was brought up he didn't reserve himself to express how hot they were or how he wanted to look presentable for them except now he pretends to show no interest in them when she's in the room. Better yet he pretends to be offended that(when the two models went to ask for their paycheck and tickled him) they'd flirt with him or try to play with him. Except this time he pretends like he isn't even aware of how hot she is and only is interested in her in a professional matter but as soon as she leaves the office she over hears how he truthfully feels.

She knows him well and because of this it does hurt her.

[ahgaseda]

phoenix | one

I’ll be the phoenix, leave it to me, we be flying, spread your wings behind your back, they call us phoenix, ride or die, ride or die...

summary : the clock is ticking as you recount your passionate affair with Jackson, the most wanted man in Shanghai, to the people trying desperately to catch him, but no one - including you - knows if he will risk his life to save yours.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, mentions of blood and violence, references to drug and alcohol use, graphic sexual content, self-destructive themes, potentially triggering elements involving kidnapping, arson, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

The chains rattled on the steel table. The cold cuffs wrapped around your wrists were anchored to the surface, looped through a bolt. You weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

It had been a quiet Thursday night. Nothing out of the ordinary to note. You left your apartment and went out for dinner. The steak was cooked just right. Your company of friends were lighthearted and buzzing from wine, but for once didn’t grill you about your relationship.

On the way home, you were ambushed. You put up a fight, of course, knowing all the while it was futile. The men had descended on you like thieves in the night and none of them were gentle.

Shoved into a chair and fastened to the table, you were read your rights, but by their tones, you had none. Five hours had passed since your less than legal arrest. The clock slipped past midnight a while ago. There was no telling when you would be reported missing, if at all.

Your closest friends knew you vanished from time to time. It was that good for nothing guy you dated, whisking you away to god knows where, they often jeered. Envy was ugly.

He was on your mind. He would notice your absence. Especially the empty space left in his bed.

The detective slapped a file in front of you, but the loud smack that echoed through the room did little to rouse you at this ungodly hour. He was middle-aged and the lines of his face were hard, furrowed. You wondered about the kind of people often in your current position. Gangsters, killers, and the like. You had done nothing to warrant the same treatment.

“Am I being charged with a crime?” you asked, poised and calm as you had been trained. You tossed the idea of trying to speak to them in their native tongue the moment you were booked. Your Mandarin was rudimentary and would likely get you into more trouble. “You have no right to hold me here, chained up like a criminal.”

He shot back, “You are at the center of a government investigation.”

Those words alone should have sent your heart somewhere to the pit of your stomach, but you knew better. All your life, you had been a law abiding citizen. But they treated you like you were wickedness personified.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” you replied, head held high. You dared not give them an inch. You couldn’t afford it.

He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, eyes scathing. His reply was bitter, dripping with disdain, “Your lover has done plenty.”

You didn’t argue. It was abundantly clear you had no rights in this damned metal box. Lover; the word lingered in your mind a second or two. Yes, he was your lover. No man had loved you like him and no man ever would again.

Was he in love with you? Not even God knew the answer to that.

The detective finally took the seat across from you, in an attempt of appearing more diplomatic. His shouting and intimidation had gone nowhere.

“Tell me about your relationship with Jackson Wang.”

Your eyes fluttered. Just hearing his name made your heart spin. The boy owned you - mind, body and soul. Lacing your fingers together in front of you, you lied, “I don’t have one.”

The detective snorted. Then, he withdrew a photo from the file and placed it before you.

There you were in black and white, centered in a scope that for all you knew could have belonged to a sniper’s rifle, caught up in Jackson’s arms as he kissed you with abandon. Passion flowed freely from every inch of the photograph. It belonged on display in a gallery for twisted, ill-fated lovers.

You could still remember that day in the picture clearly, how it felt when he pushed you up against the window. The glass was frigid on your back, but did nothing to rival the heat of his body against yours.

Jackson always felt as if he carried the entirety of Hell inside him.

You lifted your gaze from the image at last and murmured, “A moment of weakness… a long time ago.”

The detective didn’t believe you for a second. He rifled through more pages in the file and fanned them out in front of you. “Phone records. Travel logs. Looks like you live in a constant moment of weakness,” he sneered. There was no doubt he resented having to share the same oxygen as you; a woman that willingly slept with the devil himself.

“I do,” you retorted, almost regretting the words when they left your tongue.

The detective raised his voice angrily, “Jackson Wang is singlehandedly running the underworld of Shanghai and is a major player in the open rebellion against the People’s Republic.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. One day you knew you would be confronted with what he was, what he had done. There were nights you lay awake, wondering if you slept in the arms of a murderer.

The detective tapped his finger on the table and the noise brought back your attention. His face was severe, red from stifling his rage. To him, you were a valuable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. His ass was on the line. Perhaps you were the one and only chance he would get at piercing Jackson’s armor.

“I have no information to give,” you answered quietly. “I know nothing of that. Nothing.”

He had gathered that. From the months they had you under surveillance, you were never seen near any of Jackson’s businesses or his known safe houses. He went to great lengths to keep you at a distance from his work.

“Given the nature of his crimes and how viciously he runs his underlings, what would happen if we were to… leak that you were in here, singing like a canary?”

The first threat of the night. You knew it wouldn’t be the last.

You scoffed. He knows I would never betray him. It didn’t matter what Jackson did, you were loyal. Jackson had the ability to inspire loyalty in those close to him. He tolerated many, many things, but disloyalty was not one of them.

The detective lifted a brow, thinking your silence meant he had found an edge. “Have you seen what he does to his enemies?”

Your expression didn’t change. No, he made sure I never saw.

Jackson was ruthless when he took his pleasure from your body. Even more merciless when he buried his head between your thighs. You could only imagine how intensely he ran his underworld.

“Do you know nothing of what he is?” the detective exclaimed, incredulous.

He never wanted me to know, your thoughts wavered.

The world didn’t exist when you were with Jackson. Together, it was just you and him, and everyone else be damned. Every moment spent with him was a lifetime unto itself.

A spontaneous trip to Maldives. An impromptu midnight ride on his yacht in the harbor of Hong Kong. A weekend in South Korea spent locked away in a riverside cottage with only the birds to witness your sins.

Jackson had money. There was no denying that. But so did you. You had made a fortune in your line of work and from then on, no one could buy your attention or affection. Jackson was different. He didn’t shower you with designer clothes or heavy diamonds. He paid attention. Learned your interests and kept you on your toes. He understood you to be like some beautiful mystery in need of solving.

You bit your lip, tears pricking your eyes. You wanted Jackson, wanted to be safe in his arms, hidden against his chest. You loved him. God, you loved him with every fiber of your being. He had taught you how to live again. He showed you there was still a soul somewhere inside you.

Even if his own had been burned out of him.

Clearing your throat and pushing back your emotions, you asserted, “For your own safety, don’t show me anything and don’t leak that you have me in here against my will.”

The man before you bristled with wrath, jaw clenching. “For my own safety?”

You frowned. It was not your intention to anger him. You just needed to keep buying time.

The detective stood abruptly, knocking over his chair and shouting, “Is Jackson going to come for his whore?”

You winced, more so at the screeching sound of his chair scraping the ground than the unsavory words. You weren’t surprised that was how they saw you.

They had probably sent women to seduce Jackson before. Find a crack in his walls to exploit. They must have waited years for him to finally have someone he could love, someone to ultimately break him.

The detective began circling the room, like a vulture spiraling around its next meal. You weren’t afraid. There were laws in place for situations like these. At least, you hoped they still applied to you.

I have to get out, you thought. You steadied your breathing and remembered what you had been taught.

Being held captive was something you had rehearsed many times. Jackson tried to chase you off once. He didn’t want you to live in a constant state of danger because of what he was. Then, Jackson realized he had been waiting his whole life to find you - the person who completed him. And that’s when he started preparing you.

In fact, rehearsing being in police custody was one of your favorite roleplays.

You remembered being led into a tiny room, no larger than a closet. Bound to the only chair, Jackson had stormed in and treated you like a traitor. But you knew how soft he was for you, and how bad of a liar he was, and had seen through the ruse all too quickly.

Nevertheless, he wanted you to be ready for whatever the dirty cops would throw at you should the day come you were in their clutches.

“Baby, had I known you were going to tie me to a chair, I would have worn something a little more seductive,” you teased, licking your lips.

With your hands overlapped and cuffed behind your back, your shoulders were pressed to the top of the chair rather uncomfortably. Jackson skulked before you, not uttering a word. His face was shadowed, dark and menacing. All it did was turn you on.

With heat in your eyes, rather than look demure or nervous, you spread your legs.

Jackson let his gaze fall to your parted thighs, clad in black pantyhose. He had bought you the red bottom heels you were wearing and fuck, if they didn’t make your legs look longer. Without a word, he bent down before you, taking your ankle in hand and slipping off the shoe.

You watched in surprise as he tossed both shoes to the wall where they clattered loudly. No distractions, you mused, wanting to giggle.

Jackson saw your little smirk and fought a grin. You weren’t fooled by him in the least. He stalked across the room, coming to stand behind you with a hand gliding up your arm.

You shivered when his fingers found your neck.

“We have ways of making you talk, sweetheart,” he whispered darkly.

“Mm,” you hummed, breathing heavier as his hands stroked your jaw and throat. With every pass of the rough strokes of his palms, they moved further south. You sucked in a gulp of air when his fingers grasped the buttons of your blouse.

Glancing down, you watched him unfasten one button. Then another and another.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked softly, pulsing with adrenaline.

Jackson traced the pads of his fingers down the lines of your cleavage, which he already knew quite intimately, and grinned at the sight of your blood red bra. Also a gift he had bought for you. Perhaps you wore the matching panties beneath your skirt.

It went without saying that red was his color.

You shuddered when you felt his breath hot on your neck, lips brushing your ear. Your hair stood on end. Electricity prickled across your skin. His touches on your breasts were maddening, drawing senseless patterns that only served to stir a fire between your legs.

“I want you to say,” he replied venomously in your ear. “That you’re going to give me everything I want.”

You gulped, shifting in the chair. That voice was lethal, drawing you into a heady fog that almost made you forget the purpose of this roleplay in the first place. And his hands cupping your clothed breasts were even worse. Jackson had godlike hands. Long fingers. Bulging veins. Your mouth watered.

“I’m waiting,” he taunted, taking a patch of flesh on your neck between his teeth.

You quickly asked, “What is it that you want?”

Jackson squeezed your mounds, tugging down the cups of your crimson bra to expose your nipples, pinching them between his deft fingers. With how badly you squirmed on top of the chair, it was safe to say his hands alone were doing a number on you.

“Jack…,” you started, about to tap out. You needed him to soothe the ache he had created.

Jackson caressed your nipples with his thumbs, smirking at the way your chest rose and fell for breath. “Where is the money?” he growled, trying to sound vicious.

You shook your head in defiance. “I never cared about the money.”

Jackson flicked his tongue over the blemish he had made on your neck, one of his hands leaving your chest to wrap around your throat. His next question sounded more like an accusation, “Are you saying you don’t trade him your body for money?”

You snickered. “I give him my body because I love what he does with it,” you purred, snapping your jaws as if you were going to bite him in retaliation.

“Good girl,” Jackson said with a chuckle, thoroughly pleased with you.

You smiled victoriously. Whenever he said those two little words, you melted into his hands. The man could play your body like an instrument. He could draw the devil out of you like poison to dance with his own.

Jackson pressed a single chaste kiss to your temple. Then his thumb and forefinger gripped your neck, suddenly pressing to your blood flow. Your vision clouded and thrummed. The room began to fade. When you felt a hand dip between your legs and settle on your clothed sex, you knew you had passed the test and would get your reward.

You found yourself back in the present, crossing your legs beneath the steel table. It did you no good to think of Jackson and the power he had over your body. Always leaving you satisfied, shaking and screaming. He took pride in making a complete and utter mess of you, ruining you for anyone else.

The detective resumed his threats, but his voice faded into static. He offered to toss you in a cell and throw away the key. But in your mind, you were back in Jackson’s bed, naked save for his dress shirt as he told you what to expect.

“They’ll try to scare you into talking,” he said levelly, sporting only a towel around his waist after a hot shower. “If you flinch, they’ll escalate. Find your happy place and don’t give them an inch. Never let them know you’re afraid.”

You nodded, distracted by the fiery tattoo that covered the full expanse of his back. Jackson was a perpetual distraction.

“Then, they’ll switch it up. Offer you a deal. They may give you full immunity if you give me up,” Jackson continued, focusing on your face to see your reaction.

You rose to your knees, shuffling to the edge of the bed and grabbing him by the hips. Pulling him close, you pressed a kiss to his lips and crooned, “Ride or die, babe.”

Jackson rewarded you with another kiss, but pulled back the moment you tried to slip him your tongue. His expression turned grim. “Then, they might turn off the camera. Might start threatening you with pain.”

You shook your head. Being with him made you brave. “I’m not afraid of pain.”

Jackson cupped your cheek, stroking his thumb over your soft skin, and whispered, “I won’t be there to protect you, but I promise on my life… something bad will happen to them when they least expect it.”

“Just get me back to you, back to where I belong,” you told him impatiently, carding your fingers into his damp hair and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip before kissing him again. At the time, you wanted him to hush this line of conversation, wanted him to focus on the precious time spent together.

What you didn’t know was that the noose had been tightening and Jackson was setting things in motion.

For a moment, he indulged you, sucked eagerly at your tongue in his mouth and kneaded your hips in his broad hands.

Finally, he stopped you, cradling your face and staring intently into your eyes. “You need to know this,” he whispered in hushed tones. “The cops are dirty. Corrupt, every last one of them.”

You nodded your understanding and made sure never to forget it.

The door opened and you snapped out of your reverie, the detective joined by another officer that had been one of the men to participate in your violent arrest. He strode in forcefully, a phone you swiftly recognized as your own held in his hand. The device was hooked to a number of wires and receivers.

“Here, talk to your bitch,” he snapped harshly.

The officer grabbed a handful of your hair and shoved the phone to your ear.

You groaned at the stiff tug on your head and answered confusedly, “...Hello?”

“Baby,” was all Jackson said.

“I’m fine,” you spoke like a well-rehearsed robot, looking up to make eye contact with the man holding your hair in his fist. “They are treating me very well.”

The officer shouted loud enough for your lover to hear, “She’s being a very cooperative cunt, Mr. Wang.”

You bristled, practically feeling Jackson’s wrath through the phone.

“Baby girl, rest assured,” he hissed under his breath and you had never heard his voice devolve into such a growl. “They are all dead men.”

You flashed your teeth in a grin at the man gripping you so roughly and sang, “Yes, Daddy.”

The line clicked dead.

“Damn it,” the officer groaned, releasing you none too gently.

The door swung inward again, causing the man beside you to jump. Whoever had just entered was clearly a superior, because the others bowed deeply.

“Out,” said the stranger with little to no patience, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit.

You watched the two shuffle through the door, metaphorical tails tucked between their legs. It was a relief to be free of them. Though you now had a new enemy to confront.

The interrogator spoke your name in greeting, offered a warm and somewhat reassuring smile, and introduced himself, “I’m Park Jinyoung.”

“Korean,” you mulled in surprise. “What are you doing in Shanghai, Mr. Park?”

He looked barely Jackson’s age, but you already respected him more than the others because of his kind manners. He wasn’t here to play any violent games with you.

“I was about to ask you the same question, Mrs. Wang,” he retorted, pointing at the ring on your left hand.

“I’m not his wife,” you were quick to correct, overlapping your hands to hide the piece of jewelry. It was the most precious thing you owned. You sighed in relief when they hadn’t removed it during your arrest process.

Jinyoung approached and withdrew a key from his pocket, unfastening your cuffs. You caught a glimpse of the gun strapped to his hip and decided not to cross him. Once you were free, he sat down comfortably across from you, unfastening the button of his coat.

You murmured a small thank you and studied him carefully. He was a far different entity than the corrupt detectives.

“I apologize for the unsavory care that has been given to you in here,” Jinyoung said, seemingly genuine. “From what I understand, this is hour five for you.”

You nodded. “Spent the first hour being read my rights. The only word out of my mouth was lawyer. Then, no lawyer in sight, hour two they left me in here to sweat,” you told him as you rubbed your aching wrists. “I didn’t sweat.”

Jinyoung bobbed his head as you spoke, as if he was well aware of all that, adding, “And as I saw, he has already been in contact.”

You sighed. “Not long enough to get a trace.”

Given the officer’s reaction when Jackson hung up, you gathered that much.

Jinyoung smiled. He was almost amused. Opening his notebook to a blank page, he tapped his pen and said, “We both know they won’t get anything from you. You’re not going to crack.”

You tilted your head. “Are you interested in finding a way to break me, Mr. Park?”

Jinyoung was a master tactician, highly respected for his intellect. He had been watching from behind the tinted glass. Your behavior with him was a stark contrast than with the detectives. You had been trained. You were more at ease with him. Jinyoung realized he didn’t put any fear in you. And that was an advantage for him.

Jackson’s words echoed in your mind, “If someone comes in from the outside, a different agency or a different country, he or she will be the real deal. They will have been hunting me for a long time and will see you as a key to finally bringing me down.”

Jinyoung’s delayed response cut through your thoughts, “I’m more interested in how someone like you became involved in this. Level with me. How did you meet the one and only Jackson Wang?”

You shrugged. “Why do you care? It won’t help you find him.”

Jinyoung uncapped his pen, ready to write, and pressed, “Some girls are drawn to men like him. Men with violent, dangerous power.”

“I never knew about his powers,” you shot back vehemently. Was he implying you were insane for loving someone like Jackson?

“I’ve spent the greater portion of my professional career in a cat and mouse game with him,” Jinyoung confessed, trying to smooth your feathers. “Help me get to know him better.”

“You’re the mouse,” you smarted.

Jinyoung glanced up through hair straying into his eyes. With a smirk, he scribbled something at the top of his blank page and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exhaled loudly.

The last of Jackson’s warnings rang in your ear. “If they’re the real deal, buy time. Get a feel for them. Figure out what it is they’re after and how they want to use you. And then, whatever you do, don’t give it to them.”

Glancing down at your nails, noticing one or two had broken in your scuffle during your shady, back alley arrest, you began, “I met him at some ritzy, overpriced hotel. It had been a shit day. Another board meeting of senior partners where no one gave a damn what I had to say. As long as our stocks came out unscathed, they didn’t care if the rest of the world was about to go to hell…”

You had been sitting at the bar, manicured nails drumming on the black marble. The bartender kept a steady flow of red wine coming your way and you sipped your glass in an attempt to clear your head of all its moral conscience.

It was a wonder you had lasted this long and you pondered how much longer you could keep going. You never imagined selling your soul to a corporation, playing with people’s lives. It had all just been numbers and math, at which you excelled, and then the corruption steadily seeped into you.

“Another crisis, Luke,” you told the bartender.

He tossed a cloth over his shoulder and retorted, “Another Tuesday, madame.”

You chortled and put the glass to your lips. “That’s the truth if I ever heard it,” you mumbled bitterly.

You saw the numbers. Numbers were your expertise. The market would crash. Much, much worse than before. Hard-working people would lose their retirements, their livelihoods. Some would never recover. Meanwhile, you and your bosses would roll in cash and the government would cut the banks a giant check to fix the disaster they had created.

Looking at your hands, you marveled how clean they looked for being so stained and filthy.

Luke glanced at the television overhead, where you had asked him to switch to the financial channel. The bell was chiming. The market had closed, deep in the red. No surprise there.

You glared at the screen. They had no idea what was coming tomorrow morning. People worked hard, but greed worked harder.

Luke turned to you, pointing at the coverage, and inquired curiously, “That kind of crisis?”

You tipped your glass toward him for more wine and nodded. “Now is the time to pull out.”

“My pull out game has never been good,” Luke quipped after topping off your drink.

You nearly spat your wine with laughter and your stomach ached. Fuck’s sake, when was the last time you laughed?

“Dammit, Luke. How am I supposed to cut in now?”

You angled to the man who had been seated a few stools down from you.

Luke held up his hands in defense, smirking with satisfaction.

The first thing you noticed about Jackson Wang was his smile. It was warm, undeniably playful, yet something about it put you at ease. Most men in your field had smiles that warned of danger or bad intentions.

Your eyes met and Jackson could see right off the bat you were unimpressed. It had been a rough day and you were in no mood to flirt. So Jackson decided to finesse, which luckily was his specialty.

Turning back to your wine and tasting it on your tongue, you tried not to steal another glance or two at the handsome man at the bar.

“Should I unload my portfolio?” Jackson asked, wanting your attention.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and feigned disinterest, “What’s your pleasure?”

He cocked his head and joked, “I’m surprisingly vanilla.”

You rolled your eyes and deadpanned, “In stocks.”

Jackson recognized that icy tone of a woman who did not have a single fuck to give him and knew he would need to melt you a little. You had caught his eye at the bar, but beautiful women were a commodity in his line of work.

At first he dismissed your glowing skin beneath the bar lights and your big beautiful eyes glistening with unshed tears. You almost hooked him with that tight black dress and the way it hugged your every curve. And your legs, hot damn, keeping his eyes off of those had been even harder.

Then, he heard you speak. You talked with intellect and eloquence, and he was ready to hire you to narrate the rest of his life. He realized you may have some intelligence in that pretty head of yours and that snared his attention.

Because Jackson had learned long ago he was very, very easily bored. And the vapid nonsense that came out of the mouths of the girls he tended to attract with his money just didn’t cut it for him anymore.

The pursuit was on.

“Mostly gold, some silver. A few auto brands,” he replied, attempting to sound humble.

You answered expertly, “Gold and silver will bounce back in the long run. They always do. Some auto manufacturers may not survive, but just the American ones are at risk. And more than likely Uncle Sam will bail them out like last time.”

Jackson winced, but it was for effect. “Bye-bye, Cadillac.”

You chuckled.

Jackson sobered a little, frowning at the television. “Another crash, huh?”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” you whispered under your breath, sipping your wine and knowing every time you opened your mouth, you jeopardized your entire company.

In the morning, when the opening bell rang, your firm would unload all of its dirty, worthless stock to unsuspecting buyers, and the market would collapse like clockwork.

Numbers didn’t lie.

“I trust your expertise,” Jackson flirted, voice like silk.

You gave him a sideways glance, not convinced. More than likely he was just trying to get into your pants. “Most men get turned off when I speak with expertise in my field,” you said, running a hand through your hair.

Jackson shook his head and retorted, “I’m not most men.”

You giggled; how predictable. “That’s what they all say.”

But you knew now that he was right.

As the conversation went on, Jackson moved closer and closer. By the time he sat at your side, his presence was a welcome one. After another glass of wine, you started leaning into him.

You talked about everything. Topics shifted from the market to the weather to international travel and finally to your favorite subject, good food. You were never one for small talk. In fact, you hated it. But Jackson spoke like he could match your rhythm.

He didn’t shy away from more complicated discussions. He didn’t bat an eye when you challenged his opinions. He could keep up with a little verbal sparring and seemed to enjoy it as much as you did. And he never tried to dumb you down like so many men before him.

Finally, after you didn’t back away when he moved dangerously close to you, Jackson cut to the chase and teased, “Don’t act like you’re not feeling me.”

You laughed, but there was no weight behind it.

Jackson shuffled closer and murmured, “I see you.”

You blinked up at him innocently. “What do you see?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I can’t explain it, but I could try if you wanted me to.”

It had been a long time since you indulged a man to sweet talk you or romance you or even get you into bed with him. You had given up on the opposite sex not long after you began ascending the ladder at work and learned the vast majority of them were threatened by your success.

Jackson was not the least bit intimidated by you. At this point, he was a goddamn unicorn.

“Explain it to me,” you whispered slyly, realizing his lips were mere inches from yours.

Jackson moved even closer and whispered for your ears only, “You’re gravity. You’re a magnet. I can’t stop getting closer.”

You lowered your head, hiding the heat quickly rising behind your cheeks.

Jackson slipped his fingers beneath your chin and tilted you back up to meet his unwavering eyes.

It was the first time he touched you.

“I want you,” he said, a low rumble of a growl in his throat.

Your eyes flickered, faltering under how intensely he looked at you. You wanted desperately to hide how badly his words and voice affected you, and you sneered, “Does that line work?” You had to keep him on his toes in this little dance. You weren’t ready to surrender yet.

Jackson wasn’t going to let you have the upper hand anymore. He knew you were what he wanted and he was coming in for the kill. “You tell me,” he spoke, more aggressive. “You’re the first woman to hear that from me.”

You pouted when his fingers slipped from your chin, satisfied he had made his point. “You’re smooth,” came your reply, a little hesitant from the tension. “I’ll give you that.”

Jackson slouched comfortably on his bar stool and said, “I’ve flashed the watch, the rings. Most girls get very friendly once they’ve seen sparkly rocks.”

You clicked your tongue and snorted. “If you only knew how much money I make.”

Jackson tried another approach. “So I can’t buy your affections?”

With a shake of your head, you crooned, “Sadly, not for sale.”

“Fine,” Jackson said, noncommittal and rather abrupt.

You panicked. It sounded like he was about to throw in the towel. Your heart began to beat a little faster against your ribs.

Jackson gulped what was left of his drink and set the glass back down loudly on the bar. Adjusting his tie, Jackson rose to his feet and peered down at you, whispering, “Tell me you’re not feeling me and I’ll go. And you’ll never have to see me again.”

That was not a welcome thought.

At your silence, Jackson pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to Luke. “Mine and the lady’s tabs, pal,” he said, driving the last nail into the coffin.

You reached out and grabbed his sleeve without hesitation, gazing up at him with naive eyes. You had no idea then what you were getting yourself into.

“Don’t…,” you whispered bashfully, cheeks flushing again.

Jackson moved back to your side, a victorious smile on his face.

You saw his grin and chuckled, realizing you’d been beaten in the game.

Jackson cupped your cheek and leaned in with confidence, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Your lashes fluttered. He smelled good, ridiculously good. You wanted to bury your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.

Jackson resisted the urge to slip his hands in your hair and kiss you like he really wanted. Your skin was soft; so soft he wanted to trace his lips over every inch of you and write his name with his tongue across your body.

You managed to hold onto some semblance of self-control throughout the elevator ride. The tension was thick. The air was heavy. No words passed between either of you. And you stood at opposite corners of the elevator.

Jackson led you down the hallway, your hand tucked inside his. The moment he stopped at door 309, the two of you were on each other.

“You’ve got some nerve getting me turned on like this,” you teased, panting softly.

Jackson’s lips were on your neck, his arms around your waist. He crushed you between his body and the wall, and you couldn’t be happier. After that comment, he pulled back to look into your eyes and smirked, nipping at your lips.

You took his face in your hands and smashed your lips on his. It went without saying that you really liked kissing Jackson. It was all you wanted to do for the foreseeable future. He tasted of liquor and really bad choices.

Jackson wedged a knee between your thighs and made room for his hips to fit between. You moaned into his mouth, tempted to lock your ankles behind his back, but rather conflicted about it. Were you going to hook up with him? Your first thought was an emphatic yes.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders and back, feeling taut muscles underneath his expensive suit. He was hard like iron, thick thighs bracing you against the wall. His hands wandered too, exploring your body, finally able to touch those curves.

Despite his hold on you and your tongue down his throat, Jackson managed to pull the keycard from his back pocket and swipe it over the panel. You heard the familiar beep of the hotel door unlocking, followed by Jackson pushing it open.

Mumbling against his mouth, you grabbed his wrist and pulled, blurting, “We can’t.”

“What…,” Jackson exclaimed, his lips red. “Why?”

“Because,” you huffed, letting your head fall back against the wall in defeat. “If I go in there, we’re gonna fuck.”

The words alone made a certain something twitch in his pants. Jackson fought a chuckle and gave you a glance over. You were already disheveled and breathless, and he hadn’t even touched you yet. “Is that so?” he taunted, expression full of boyish energy.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, still at war with yourself. Then, you leaned into his chest and collided your lips back to his.

Jackson smiled against your mouth, tightening his arm around your waist and meeting the rush of your kisses. He took them to mean you changed your mind and swiped the key card again.

Hearing the chime of the door, you grabbed the lapel of his suit with both hands and broke away. “No, we can’t.”

Jackson laughed, amused by you. “Okay. Okay,” he relented.

“Sorry, but…,” you trailed, still trapped in his arms. “I’ve never fucked anyone I just met.”

“Me neither,” he replied softly.

You cocked a brow. No one gave a damn if men had sex with every human that passed their sight. For that reason, you were inclined to believe him.

Jackson pulled the door closed and pressed the sweetest of kisses to your lips. When he stopped, your eyes fluttered open and you peered up at him.

“Gravity,” was all he said, chuckling to himself.

Yeah, you felt it, too.

Running your fingers into his hair and tugging gently, you ordered, “Keep kissing me.”

Jackson didn’t need to be told twice.

The rushed, hurried kisses were over. Now that the two of you weren’t sprinting to the bedroom, you could focus on how your tongues danced in each other’s mouths. Jackson stroked a hand down your thigh and hooked your leg over his hip, needing to be as close as humanly possible to you.

When his lips moved back to your neck, you rolled your eyes and the catch in your breath almost sent him to his knees.

“Can I take you to breakfast in the morning?” he asked between kisses.

“Yes,” you replied, fingers pressed to his shoulders.

Jackson proceeded to suck a mark of possession beneath your ear. “And dinner tomorrow evening?”

You were out of your mind, insane with lust and desire. Sweat was beginning to gather beneath your dress, courtesy of the fire burning inside him. “Absolutely.”

Jackson licked the bruise he was making, tasting your skin. “How about the day after that?”

You groaned in frustration. He was making it fucking impossible. “And the day after that. Just don’t stop kissing me,” you whined, bringing his face back to yours for another kiss.

You blinked your eyes rapidly, dismayed to find you weren’t in Jackson’s arms, but still caged inside the grey room. Grasping the ring on your left hand, you spun it around - a nervous tick, but it was vaguely comforting. The ring had been a gift on your first anniversary. Inscribed along the inside of the band were the words, never stop kissing me.

It was the closest Jackson had ever come to confessing his love for you. Slipping the ring on your finger, the finger generally reserved for wedding vows, Jackson had said, “So every man knows you’re spoken for.”

Jinyoung let his gaze fall from your face to your hands, noting how you turned the gold band around your finger to soothe yourself. It was human nature, to cling to something sentimental when under duress.

You noticed where his eyes had fallen and quickly covered your hand. His expression was one of scrutiny and belied interest, and you deflected, “Alright, I told you how we met. Makeout session included. Tell me what you hope to get from that.”

Jinyoung replied without hesitation, “I want to catch him. I want to put him away forever.”

A bitter taste filled your mouth. “I will never help you do that.”

“You already are.”

You blinked.

Jinyoung leaned back in his chair, at ease when he explained, “I can keep you here indefinitely. We wait for him to crawl out of his hole.”

You shook your head vehemently. “He won’t.”

“He won’t trade his life for yours,” Jinyoung questioned, seemingly shocked.

“He…,” you paused with indecision. “I don’t know.”

The cold, hard truth was, you didn’t. There was a part of Jackson’s life he never shared with you. The life that was centered around his powers.

But you knew Jackson took great pride in what he had built. He came from nothing, was told his whole life he would never amount to anything, and he had destroyed all the odds stacked against him. He not only beat the game, he changed it forever.

“You’re in here, ready to give up everything for him,” Jinyoung’s voice faded into the background.

“Am I?” you questioned, lost in your memories.

The first time Jackson made love to you, he revealed himself to you and said something that was burned into your mind forever. The two of you were naked, exposed and vulnerable to the other. So many little nothings had been spoken while endless promises and vows were written into each other’s skin.

Then, in a moment of stillness, Jackson cradled your face and drowned himself in your eyes. He called your name and you stared up at him, hinged on his every word.

“Do you know what they say,” he breathed, chest heaving. “About playing with fire?”

“Are you going to burn me?” you asked him innocently.

“I burn everything I touch,” Jackson told you, filling with sadness. “And only I survive.”

“I’ll be your Phoenix then,” you whispered, bringing your fingers to rake teasingly down his back over the tattoo of the immortal firebird inked into his skin.

Jackson smiled and shifted on top of you to take you again. “You are the closest I will ever get to heaven…”

And you watched in disbelief as the dark brown of his irises turned to scorching red.

Jinyoung called your name. He knew you were somewhere far away in your head.

You blinked through oncoming tears.

“Do you know what he is? Do you have any idea what he’s done? Do you even know what they call him?”

You heard the rumors and read the headlines, just like everyone else. He wasn’t the only one; these men with strange powers. Some said they were harbingers of the end times.

“The Phoenix,” you interjected.

Jinyoung frowned in contempt.

“Because he burns everything and everyone in his path,” you finally confessed. Whatever gets in his way.

“One day, he’ll raze cities to the ground.” Jinyoung’s tongue was a razor. “Did you think you wouldn’t get burned?”

I asked for it, you admitted to yourself. I fell in love with the villain.

Reaching down to pick up the photo still on the table of you swept up in Jackson’s arms, you sighed in acceptance of fate, “Moth to the flame.”

Somewhere out in the night, as Shanghai finally drifted to sleep, Jackson sat in the backseat of his tinted car, gripping the phone so tight he was sure it would snap at any minute.

There would be hell to pay for those that had taken you. Jackson already identified each of them. But in the meantime, he could only sit and think. Getting revenge was easy. Getting you back was considerably harder.

He had to stay ahead of the game. They took you for a purpose. You wouldn’t roll on him, Jackson was sure of that. You would never give them the satisfaction. But they would try to use you as leverage and Jackson couldn’t risk everything he had built. It would make the entire city fall down on top of him.

If he tried to rescue you, then the whole world would know he had a weakness and you would never be safe again for as long as you lived. If he didn’t, then the corrupt cops could put you in the hands of enemies that were much worse to make a bloody example of you.

Jackson grit his teeth. He knew this day would come, when he would finally have to confront his feelings for you. He swore to never let his heart out of its cage, but it had escaped and fled to the palm of your hand. There was a reason he never told you he loved you.

He couldn’t admit it to himself. Love was meant only for humans.

“What do I fucking do?” he cried out in his mother tongue, wringing his hands before hiding his face behind them. He needed you in his arms, needed to hold you again.

But he would lose everything.

The phone chimed and Jackson opened the text.

Call it off. Or she drowns first.

Jackson shook with rage and opened his hand, irises turning crimson as flames appeared on his palm. Then, he closed his fist, snuffing them out.

next chapter →

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[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Imagine: Erik teaching his daughter to love her dark skin.

Imagine:

[ Short, fluffy. ]

“Daddy,”

Erik was in the middle of talking with a group of his guy friends from his youth before they stepped out for more protesting and solidarity. All of the men are wearing black from head to toe, poster boards with various quotes such as:

Unapologetically BLACK

The new racism is to deny that racism EXISTS

Skin color is not reasonable suspicion

I CAN’T BREATHE

Justice for Breonna Taylor

Erik was in the middle of writing on another poster board when he heard his ten year old daughter, True, call for him. Her voice was shaky and small, the sound of it causing his chest to tighten. Erik recapped the permanent marker before turning to his beautiful daughter with sepia skin, her cheeks wet from her fresh hot tears.

“What’s going on, True? why are you crying?” Erik pulled out one of his dining room chairs, grasping True’s tiny hands in his, bringing her closer to him with urgent eyes.

“I was gonna tell mama but she’s sleeping and she might go over there,” True looked down at her pink converse.

“Listen, whatever you were gonna tell your mama you can tell me,” Erik squeezes both of his daughters shoulders, “Talk to me, baby, what happened?”

“Kimberly, across the street,” True timidly pointed towards the open window that was sending a warm draft throughout the dining room, “She said I was ugly.”

Erik could feel his friends movements behind him still. True averted her eyes to look at the wall, trying her hardest not to break down and cry.

“Okay...why did Kimberly call you ugly?” Erik spoke calmly.

“She said my skin looks like tar...it reminds her of an apes skin.”

Erik’s eyes flickered with rage as he watched his daughter cry before him. How dare this little white girl say that about his beautiful black daughter? How dare she make a joke that her ancestors before her would have made about his daughter? He wanted to charge over there and bang down Kimberly’s door. That all sounded perfect but all it will lead to is the police being called; the pigs.

“True...I want to tell you something,” Erik cleared his throat; raspy voice strong and abrasive because of his anger towards what Kimberly said, “there is this quote from Marcus Garvey...it says the black skin is not a badge of shame but rather a glorious symbol of natural greatness,” Erik gently takes True’s face into his hands, his thumbs wiping away her overflowing tears.

“Your skin is a glorious masterpiece, the sun kisses your skin like no other, hey,” Erik soothes True, “black women, black girls; there are different shades of beauty. Beauty is about being comfortable in your own skin. Kimberly’s words shouldn’t matter, you know why? Because Kimberly isn’t my baby girl. Kimberly could never be you because no matter what shade of melanin you are, know that your skin tone is brilliant. You, my princess are phenomenally made!”

“You’re a gift, baby girl!” One of Erik’s friends says, the others following suit with more compliments and encouraging words.

“That melanin tho!” Another one shouted, causing everyone to chuckle and True to blush.

“Black girl magic PERIOD,” Erik says pulling his daughter in for a hug, “I want you to repeat after me, True...I love my dark skin.”

“...I love my dark skin,” She says while keeping eye contact with her father.

“I am a strong melanin princess,” Erik playfully squeezes True’s Afro puffs.

True giggles, “I am a strong melanin princess.”

“I am impressively dripping in black beauty, and can’t NOBODY tell me otherwise, say it.”

“I am impressively drippin’ in black beauty and can’t NOBODY tell me otherwise!!!” True shouts, Erik’s friends wolf whistling and clapping in the background.

“SEE, that’s what I’m taking about. You are my beautiful, chocolate, princess. Kimberly ain’t got nothing on you, she envies you.”

“Thanks daddy,” True gave him a wide braces filled smile before wrapping her arms around Erik’s broad shoulders, “I love you daddy.”

“I love you too, True,” Erik kisses her kinky hairline, “Now, remember what I say. You gotta love yourself, baby girl.”

Erik stood up from his seat, grabbing his permanent marker and handing it over to True, “Before I go, I want you to write something powerful on this poster board that represents all the black girls in the world, okay?”

True uncaps the marker, walking up to the poster board. She stood there, staring at the black canvas, unsure of exactly what to say. She gasps, leaning over to write something out. Erik watches his daughter write big letters across the white poster board with a wide dimpled smile.

“Black girl MAGIC!!!” She shouted before holding up the poster board for the others to see, “Daddy! I wanna go protest with you!”

“Okay,” Erik simply says, “We’re meeting for a rally, call on the spirts of the fallen and our ancestors to be with us. Remember, Asé?”

“That means amen, right?” True says.

“Yes. It is an African philosophical concept through which the Yoruba of Nigeria conceive the power to make things happen and produce change. It is given by Olodumare to everything - gods, ancestors, spirits,” Erik stands fully, “I am root of your root, soil of your soil, bone of your bone, and blood of your blood. Love, love, love, asé.”

“Will we say asé for Breonna Taylor?” True says with wide hopeful eyes, “She still didn’t get justice.”

Erik smiles proudly at his daughter for knowing her name, “Of course. For all those who deserve justice and who didn’t deserve to be taken away from us. All of our people.”

A knock came to the door, a hard knock like the police. Erik shared a look with his friends before walking to the door. Before he opened it Erik peeked out of the living room curtains, holding a hand up to his friends to let them know that everything was okay. Erik had to watch his back, he was a strong voice for the Oakland community. Opening the door, Kimberly and her mother, Suzanne are standing there. Suzanne looked startled for a second but she gathered herself, turning a blazing eye on Kimberly.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Erik, but I overheard my daughter say something very, very cruel to True while they were writing with chalk on the pavement,” Suzanne looked embarrassed, her eyes avoiding Erik’s, “Is there something you have to say to True!”

Kimberly twisted her foot on the steps, her face solem and her long, black hair shieldjng her eyes, “I’m sorry True for calling you a monkey.”

“And I am terribly sorry for this,” Suzanne has a hand clutched to her chest, “I don’t know where Kimberly heard this from but we did not teach her to talk like that. You should be ashamed of yourself-

“Kimberly is a child, children absorb everything around them. Not to cause problems but...maybe Kimberly heard it from her other white friends? Maybe they don’t like True so they told her to call my daughter a monkey.” Erik gave Suzanne a stern look as if he were watching her suspiciously.

Suzanne blinked at Erik with confusion, “I think I would know if my daughters friends said anything like that, Kimberly, did Rebecca and Sabrina say anything to you today about True?”

Kimberly looked like she wanted to hide. True didn’t take her eyes off of her so-called-friend. She knew the truth but she wanted to hear Kimberly say it. True grasps Erik’s hand tighter. Erik looked down at her, her silence enough to let him know that there was more to the story.

“Kimberly!” Suzanne shouts.

“Rebecca doesn’t like that I play with True. She says that her father thinks all black people are infectious and corrupt.”

“WHAT!!!” Suzanne’s voice boomed like she was holding a megaphone to her mouth, “Kimberly, why would you allow your friend to say those things about True? Why would you say things like that? I am so embarrassed right now,” Suzanne points a stern finger at Kimberly, “apologize again!”

Kimberly angrily wipes away her tears with the back of her hand, “I’m sorry True! I’m sorry I said that!”

“I accept your apology,” True leaned into Erik’s solid body, “But I can’t be friends with you anymore.”

Suzanne felt True’s words as if she were the girls friend. Kimberly angrily storms off across the street, running up her porch and into the house.

“True, I know what Kimberly said was very mean but...you don’t want to be friends with her?” Suzanne looked offended.

“No, she doesn’t. I’m sure those girls have picked on my daughter and the fact that Kimberly knows that shows that she will do it again. My daughter doesn’t feel comfortable with your child,” Erik wrapped a comforting hand around True’s shoulder, protecting her guarding her.

“Well,” Suzanne turns to leave, “I’m sorry again, True.” She looked like she wanted to say more on her daughters behalf but instead she walked back to her home.

“Did I do the right thing, daddy?” True asks, looking up at her fathers with sad eyes.

“You did what was best for you, that’s the right thing, baby girl,” Erik kisses True on top of her head, “Let’s not tell your mom about this just yet, you know she will raise hell about it.”

“Yeah, let’s just go protest,” True pulls her fathers hand back inside, “Let’s go, daddy, we have to get out there!”

“Haha, okay, Princess.”