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certified-anakinfucker · 1 year ago

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📖 RN NOW PLS

you have no idea how far back i had to go in my OLD ask tag to find this fucking link. i love you kebbie i really do and i hope this genuinely proves it - so send me a book for a daydreamed story of mine! trust me i have many!

this ask has deadass been in my box for two years now um. holy fuck. its gonna be super long bc this is actually my excuse to force myself to figure out how this fucking story actually goes. youre my sacrificial lamb, babe <3

under the cut for toxic/abusive relationship themes | mostly stemming from not putting an end to toxic cycles and briefly refusing to believe it was an issue

so i had this old ass wip, right. it was called parisian lovers despite no one in the entire story being french whatsoever and it was basically a love story for a sexual relationship with danger turning into a genuine view into what happens when you dont. like check yourself before running headlong into what you think you want

ive since started readapting it to (surprise) swtor and an excuse to explore sith pureblood (henceforth referred to as "tsis") cultures surrounding whats considered normal in their dating/relationships, and also how it challenges familial relationships

the details of it are super fuzzy mostly bc all the meat of it was lost to twitter dms that i refuse to open. so heres a quick fast easy rundown

basically, youve got tsiksos. he is the third born and third son of an extremely powerful and wealthy union of bloodlines, and since hes really not the most important one, he decides he wants to study a niche theory of dark arts. something about how channeling power needed to cast sorcery can be amplified through vocals and choreography. basically he went to a contemporary dance school for the shadow wizard money gang

tsiksos meets ûtainoz, who is practically a beast in this school. he sees the valedictorian spot and hes steamrolling anyone he needs to. hes ruthless, hes heartless, hes a smooth-talker, he will do anything to get his way, and tsiksos found that hot and sexy and definitely worth falling in love with

predictably, this goes terribly. tsiksos doesnt know what the hell he walked into, only that he may as well enjoy it because hes sleeping with the hottest, most talented guy at this school. ûtainoz got a little too comfortable, though, and by the end of their tenure there lost his valedictorian spot to tsiksos,,, who was also gunning for it right under his nose

but whatever, its fine, they go their separate ways with the taste of one anothers venom permanently burned in each others mouths. they both fill their own niches. ûtainoz goes into more of a performative, traveling role and relies on his aesthetic rather than his power - whereas tsiksos followed through with his intent and deepened his connection to the dark arts through what he learned. he became something of a siren, honestly

anyway anyway anyway. tsiksos moves off of his homeworld. he decides he wants to actively burn fires through everywhere ûtainoz has been. and hes extremely successful. he wants to win, he needs to win, he will win. he meets utajhaiw while in the new city, and while poor utajhaiw falls in love - tsiksos sees someone he can keep close with him if he just uses all the right words.

which works! theyre together, its great, theyre fucking almost daily. but they argue every hour. to the point where it gets violent more often than not with tsiksos on the offensive. the arguments are largely fabricated or instigated out of boredom. but isnt it worth it for the sloppy nasty disgusting hateful makeup sex?

yeah well. the neighbors of their apartment dont think so. theyve nearly called the cops every time, until neighbor laishtzi comes over to investigate what just hit the wall. he gets pulled, literally, into the middle of their fuck. his partner rîshja follows and, likewise, gets pulled into the middle of their fuck. its like some sort of apology thing for them too and it becomes regular.

enter: their friend nunjor, a lawyer (i think. something like that) who also ! gets pulled into the sex life. whats worse is that both tsiksos and utajhaiw both fell in love with nunjor and wanted to have him as a permanent third.

sometime after this, the whole hatefucking thing gets a little too hateful. tsiksos actually genuinely nearly kills utajhaiw, and hes starting to hide the knives in earnest. nunjor suggests that they attend actual couples' things instead of just their joint performances where utajhaiw plays and tsiksos conjures something.

they try it. they enjoy it. their relationship actually improves. they make a vase together in a ceramics class.

by the way, utajhaiw has asthma. tsiksos has been stressing him out so bad hes started smoking. on purpose. yes it is what you think it is and tsiksos thinks its hot because he wants to shotgun the smoke from his mouth

anyway, something happens and tsiksos starts backsliding. they have another argument and he breaks their ceramic vase. all that dust from the glaze and the clay triggers a pretty bad asthma attack, bad enough that the neighbors come over (it had been so long without an incident) and call the paramedics to come get him. utajhaiw actually snaps at tsiksos in the middle of literally coughing himself to death, and this is uh. a little traumatizing. because its never been this bad before.

utajhaiw makes it to the hospital fine, refuses to see tsiksos, and nunjor is on utajhaiw's side - that was fucking uncalled for, dude. tsiksos goes back to their apartment, alone for the first time since they bought it together. naturally he should not be alone at this time

laishtzi phones a friend, kaqur (psychiatrist-adjacent) and his partner jashru (probably a psychologist, if not professional "wtf is wrong with you, stop that"). they agree to take tsiksos in while utajhaiw is back home with his family.

its about a year i think? that tsiksos stays with them, basically on s-watch, and it turns out he has a really severe derealization + depersonalization whammy going on, spurned from still dressing the way ûtainoz liked him to dress and the way other people wanted to see his body. he punched through a mirror. so once he started dressing in looser, more comfortable clothing - surprise! he felt better!!!

(meanwhile, utajhaiw spent a year at home strengthening his lungs again, writing songs and poetry, and reconsidering his entire life. spoiler alert: he actually was in love with tsiksos)

but things are never easy. at some point, tsiksos has a bit of a meltdown and breaks out of his little prison, steals the spare key to his apartment, and ends up burrowing in the bed wearing utajhaiws clothes and sleeping on his side of the bed because he feels so fucking bad about what he did to him. but uhhhhhhh.

apparently nunjor also decided to pay a visit that night. and tsiksos, in some nightmare-sleep-haze, reacts to nunjor trying to wake him as if he were ûtainoz - meaning he tried to apologize through offering his body. rubbing his hands on his thighs, face in his crotch (since nunjor was standing at the side of the bed). when nunjor gently corrected him and woke him (not that he would have been upset at the idea of fucking him again, buth he didnt seem to be in the right headspace) it actually uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh sent tsiksos into a worse panic. scrambling out of the bed. tripping on something. breaking a glass.

oh, hello ptsd - it sure is nice crab-scrambling backwards on your hands and bare feet over glass while hyperventilating and sobbing so hard you genuinely cant see. again, laishti and rîshja to the rescue getting him back to kaqur and jashru.

so heres where the fun happens. ûtainoz comes back. hes genuinely changed for the better, he is apologetic. he wants to make it up to the person he hurt the worst. does tsiksos take him up on that? yes. should he have? yes, actually, because he needed the closure.

they start rekindling what little flame they had together. days turn into weeks, months, and theyre getting along just fine. apparently nunjor had left, and tsiksos had no comm - by the time tsiksos noticed, it was uh. almost a little too late.

theres a time where tsiksos and ûtainoz are in a speeder together and ohhhh nunjor is a poet, its in his full name, but he also composes. he sings. and he sings about how badly someone has just lifted him higher than ever before dropping him down into nothing. tsiksos has a breakdown on the lawn of some random recreational park.

things will get better again, though! somewhere along the way, tsiksos and ûtainoz make peace with who they are and who they were. nunjor comes back and he and tsiksos talk it out. they forgive each other. and then tsiksos and utajhaiw reunite. they explain a lot. they forgive each other.

tsiksos/utajhaiw/nunjor throuple endgame is the only thing that matters to me actually.

thanks for coming to my ted talk i love you so much

#cheeri inquires #kebbie when i put this shit in draft #i had to actually scroll down through a sea of other lost posts #just to find it #meaning dont feel bad - there are posts older than this ask that i have held onto #cheeri is literate #i need a swtor tag #technically this counts as swtor since tsiksos is vowrawns brother

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squatsteader · 2 years ago

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SQUATSTEADER NEWS: My novel THE REVELATOR is DONE!

And, on to lesser reportage...

WE WON!

And almost as importantly, there's still a chance we seize control of the senate. 2 Georgia seats are going into runoff phase, so YET ANOTHER election gears up almost immediately. Make calls for these 2 dems!

We deserve a day f celebration. But the election didnt go the way most expected. All pollsters are hereby FIRED. They get a pass for last election, which was razpr thin, but missing half a dozen senate and congressional seats, no excuse. From now on there should be a big red warning whenever news outlets show us polls, WARNING TOTAL BULLSHIT.

BUT HAY, WE GOT AMERICA'S FAVORITE PSYCHOPATH out of office, (secret service will have to drag him out of the oval office, where for decades tour guides will point to scratches on the burnished oakwood floors and say, "that's Disaster Don Trumps fingernail trail"

GOOD. FUCKING. RIDDANCE. Lets all hope he ends up in a super max.

What to do with the 405 OF THE VOTING REPUBLIC that put him in office and almost did a repeat? Hope they fall into a sinkhole, or something. There's really no excuse voting for someone who vilifies Muslims, tares refugee kids away from moms, then lies about it. And lies and lies and lies.

I NEVER WANT TO HEAR HIS NASALLY WHINEY VOICE. AGAIN.

On to other world changing and amazing news:

My latest novel, THE REVELATOR, at 250000 words, (thats a lot of friggn words believe me, my personal record) IS DONE.

HERES THE QUERY. Anyone who needs help writing a query, dont ask me, I fucking hate queries. they suck. How do you jam 580 pages into one and a half? How how how...

I tagged on the 1st ten pages as well.

Greetings Ms X.

I truly appreciate the time and investment you are making in considering representing me and most especially the Novel in question, The Revelator, a literary work at 250 k. That you represent Mr Cantu', and was successful in publishing The Line Becomes a River, makes me feel that I'd be at home with you as my agent. I value Cantu's work, as well as the excellent Midnight on the Line, as the two most important modern works on the border. Ive worked and lived in the region for years, and based a novella trilogy and novel on the region, and into Chihuahua and the Sierra Madre.

My novel The Revelator, a literary work at 250 k pages, is also founded upon a rich cultural legacy, that of the Caribbean and southern Colonies of 18th century America.

The heart of this tale begins with the boy Garret, press ganged onto an English slaving ship, the Dolphin. During a vicious storm off the coast of Guinea, he crouches above the padlocked hatch to the hold below, where several hundred Africans await their fate; death by drowning, or a chance to survive, if the boy smashes that lock, with the ball peen hammer clutched in his fist.

Directing and acting in the performance art theatre group Los Angeles Poverty Dept enabled me to develop a unique voice,The LAPD is a rough and ready troupe of homeless folks (including myself for a time), actors, artists and students. We were NEA supported, and received the Tony Award.

My travels along the Caribbean rim through Honduras and a bit of Guatemala also added a cultural honesty to The Revelator. Allow me like to thank Fito, a Garifuna elder, for providing me hammock space in his sea side bar, just outside La Ceiba, Honduras. I like to think the Garifuna and other Native American groups live and breathe in the pages of The Revelator.

A rich cast of escaped African slaves also find voice in this novel. A native American confederacy under the leadership of the enigmatic prophet Ghost Eye, committed to retake their lands, form an alliance with, among others, absconded indentured servants, pirates and revolutionaries. All combine to fight under the banner of Tierra Libre, or, the Freelanders who set aflame a revolution throughout North America.

The Revelator is, in part, an exploration of American violence brought about by slavery. Our protagonist, Garret, is split into two timelines, one of today, one of yesteryear. After an assault, resulting in a concussion, today’s Garret embarks on a rampage of killing centering on young black men and boys. Hunted and eventually arrested by African American detective Det. Grimes, Garret is found guilty and sentenced to death in Texas. Housed on death row beside the one time urban guerrilla Cochise Teages, who was convicted (possibly erroneously) for killing an FBI agent during a no knock raid, the two begin an unlikely friendship. Garret mumbles and speaks in odd accents late at night. Teages hears, and soon is recording multiple voices emanating from Garrets cell.

I have published in the online Poetry Journal The Nervous Breakdown, and have won numerous Awards for fiction and poetry in the online workshop Zootrope. I also blog at Tumblr under the handle Squatsteader. This blog is a primarily for urban homesteading and gardening, though post fiction and poetry as well.

Again, much thanks for your time and energy. Included below is 10 pages from The Revelator

Yours, D Halenda

cell 415. 200 8551

[email protected]

The Revelator

chap 1

The victims. 2018, United States of America

The concrete owns a stain outside Lupe’s Liquors. A blackened, oily shadow in repose. The death chalk not yet traced about that place where his soul was last earthbound, before vacating, diffusing, upwards into the sky. Desmond ‘Luciano’ Stiggs. Born 1989. Kill # 3. South side Tucson Arizona. Mother, Bertha. Father unknown.

Mario Williams. Age 17. The outline of yellow chalk reveals a babe curled about its own form, not in his mothers belly, but the concrete, the tomb of his most sudden death. Austin Texas kill # 1. 2616 S Congress st., on the property of The Comanche Hills apartments.

Darl Mose. Age 16. slumped against the brick wall of Mobis Cafe, Phoenix Az. Mouth gapes as if his jaw has been unhinged. Beneath, his throat laid open, gouts of blood soaking his hoodie, his jeans, the pavement beneath. Kill # 14.

His girlfriend, Mariposa Marquez, weeps beside him, his son in her belly, listening, not yet fathoming the world in which he will soon emerge. Yet surely sensing by his carriers frantic heartbeat, not is all well.

Lavon ‘lil Detroit’ Boyd. Age 14. Emergency room, st Theresa the Martyr Hospital, room number 16 E. Houston, Texas. A metal object having been shoved into the back of his skull, into the cerebellum. he survives solely by life support. Within three days, his step mother and sister will agree by signature to allow ‘nature to take its course’. As the victim's brain damage is massive, and would otherwise remain in a vegetative state for the remainder of his time, here, on this planet.

The Stepmother weeps squatting beside the coffee machine, alone. The janitor mopping the floor ignores her, swivels his bucket to another quadrant of his workplace. Her son if not by flesh then by love. Something caves inside her chest. She freezes, silently, enduring. It is a physical thing , grief. It catches you, in the neck, in the throat. It squeezes you in the dark of night, refusing to release its grip. Othertimes grief itself is a ghost, hidden, yet drowning one in a listless, thoughtless blank.

The shit eating grin of Demetrius Green, trumpet in hand, behind polished glass and framed by plastic blooms of every genus, all white. The white of death in India, his mother says to the heated air before her, the crowds of distant relatives shoving food into their mouths, mumbling lowly, to her they were wooden machines, maniquins, jerked here and there by dangled strings, dictates of funeral formality. Her voice was every bit as dead as her son lying in the coffin five feet away from her.

That aint him, that aint Dem, that aint my son. That a thing.

Just a ...thing.

She closes her eyes as if under her lids some respite might be found of this horror. But stamped upon those lids another border shone as if lit from within, the yellow border of chalk, in a zig zag down the steps of their apartment house, where he’d been stabbed. The ritual of funerals and murder scene investigations became a blur to her.

Her only son. D didn’t hang out with the neighborhood click, he’d kept himself clean, was set to graduate with honors, from the LA County School of The Arts. His crime had been to hang out with a cousin, who’d just been upped in the hood as its major shot caller, at the age of nineteen.

Towns, you motha fucka. I told you to keep clear. Keep clear of my boy.

Towns had something to do with it, she was certain. Maybe whoever killed her baby mistook him for Towns. Because her boy D had shot up like a weed after a summer rain, from the goofy 11 year old in the school picture, to a long, lean and unbearably clumsy six feet something. Where as Towns had gone into sports, then crime, D had gone to music, taking to it ironically, like Towns’ daddy, who played with the biggest jazz men in the city. Before dropping to the H and finally a slab in the morgue.

Just like where you should be Towns! She screams loudly. Not my boy, not my D….not Demetrie

The parlor freezes. An unknown mannequin sits beside her, its wooden hand clasping her own. My boy. His music, the tone as pure as a dream of heaven itself, clean as a Mississippi sky after a thunderstorm. From where her kin came, after Africa...My boy.

She’d taken extra work, cleaning houses, doing accounting for neighborhood shops, to buy him the horn, a used pawn shop relic, its bell dented, rusted. A valve that stuck. But even with that old thing of tin and rusted brass his sound was golden.

Golden. Until the school president himself gifted him a Bach Stradevarious, with its bell of solid silver. And his tone ranged so high, into heaven, like honey. My honey. I know I embarrass you no end. My baby. How you used to flee from my hugs, cause you didnt want to be the moma’s boy. But you were. You were my boy. And now you are nothing. No...thing. Or just a thing. No more music, no more runnen off from me. A stiff piece of bad work from the cheap assed mortician what charged her an arm and a leg...for this. This aint my child. No. No sir.

chap 1

1752 off the coast of Benin, Africa

In a screaming wind rent with sheets of rain slamming into the the ships and sailors bodies, our gang-pressed boy of Scottish blood stands sprawl legged, right hand gripping the hemp rope rigging, left clutching a pall-peen hammer, trying to fathom what the 2nd mate, at his side, is screaming at him. Through the howl of wind and a rain driving down upon them verily like a waterspout tilted upside down, he cannot even hear the man’s voice, much less discern any meaning at all. But between bouts of the rain he sees the man clutching a massive padlock hung from the hasps screwed into the porthole’s frame, the one which imprisons nearly two hundred sweating sickness and dying Africans, in the hold below. He studies the mans face, mouth agape, teeth a yellowed and blackened nightmare. He raises the hammer, sweeps the rain from his eyes, and freezes. A swell takes the ship, tosses it aside like an enraged toddler might fling his toy boat out from his tub, and the water drives across young Garret, up to his waist. He steadies himself against the ripping force of the water, hammer gripped, hammer raised, frozen in the moment of falling upon that very padlock. Having considered through an entire night this very act , the two sides of the coin, whether to free a hold of chained Africans that would surely kill he and the rest of the crew, or doom them to their own deaths.

***************************************

Roll the dice, toss the bones. The old spanish peseta. Ones and zeroes. Does he strike the lock, unleashing a series of events whipping through the future like a lightning clad snake, or will the next swell take him, washing him from the ship, tearing away the grip of the hammer, never then, to find purchase for his own survival? While those men women and children below will sink to the blacklands at sea’s bottom. Food for crabs, groupers, eels.

The particle flashes forward at lightspeed, separates, into two particles, identical twins, yet still twinned by what mystery of gravitational force, invisible, undetectable...

Toss the bones 'pon the hide over the clay ground, old skin stiff as an oak shingle left in the sun. Birthing sack which once carried a like-twined soul in its momma's belly. Let the bones fall ‘pon that old placenta, gaming board of what may come to pass, and let the speaking spirits have their say, by knuckle or toe, coccyx, molar or fang. By common gambling dice. By cards whose faces were born from the dreams of soothsayers, then painted on their blank pigs hide rectangles by an old deaf mute, so now let them rain down like old time orations torn from the good book, and the sayings from the grannies n aunties goin all the way back to Africa, the gold coast, from the highlands of Scotland and the old Celtic clans of Ireland, of the high plains and deserts and eastern woodlands of America, and we'll see as to your future. As to your seed as well, and what blood may survive into the abyss ahead, to the next epoch and the next, sewn into the realms of time as recorded by those long passed to clay, to the underworld.

Chap 2

Ash to Huntsville Deathrow 2017

Her drive was fraught with rain and sleet, sheets of Atlantic weather unending, surging, retreating to drizzle at times, then heaving back with still greater ferocity.

She cherished such road adventures generally, even when they involved her work, though the Knoxville city traffic’s quagmire leading into interstate 75 aggravated her, so that she took to the back roads. And now she was lost. Somewhere in the swamps and pine barrens of east Texas, or was it still Arkansas? The rain had followed her all the way down, along the eastern range of the Appalachians, her family’s home for generations, and into the deep south, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas.

And though she was born and raised in the south she was still struck by the differences between her ‘neck of the woods’ and that of the Dixie states in general. Her folks, tho maybe a bit more restrained, had never held to the glory days of the gentry, the planters and their culture, and the ugly twin that shadowed them always, slavery. Certainly there was racism round her neighborhood. She grew up with the spooky tales of blacks in ghettos rampaging through those big cities outside the mountains. But truth be told, her family’s history, and of those hill-folk in general, was a good deal different from the south through which those mountains ran. For the most part, geography dictated that large plantation operations weren’t feasible in the roil of sandstone and slate and granite that broke up from the flats how many millions of years ago. True enough, tobacco was a cash crop which grew in profusion in the mountain valleys, but not on the scale of tidewater Virginia or the rice, indigo and cotton of the lowlands of the Carolinas. So that, slavery was never really operational in the environs round about Knoxville and other mountain towns. Most folk, Scotch Irish generally, that settled the mountains were in fact indentured servants ‘on the lam’ from brutal labor of their own on the plantations of the south or the early factories , weaving and furniture making, gun smithing and such, of the north. Many, including herself up to the age of 13, had never so much a laid eyes on a black man.

Garret Francis McComas, clearly an avowed racist with a deep and destructive hatred of black folk, was born not an hours drive from her, in the Town of Wise, Va. Claims were made, that had begun as rumors among the prison guard, that strange voices were emanating from Garrets cell. And that such reports of the voices, heard by the guards on shift, evidently issued from this single pale, frail and pale skinned killer, had percolated out to state psychologists and therapists. Those tasked both with determining the felons mental state thus culpability in Capital offense crimes, especially inmates condemned to death by the state….. it was in short, all in all quite troubling. And did not fit into the escape proof steel alloy parameters of their governmental mission specifications.

Rumor had it mongst the inmates that visions came to him as he lay on the metal bedframe in cell #544 in the Texas state penitentiary, Polunsky Unit, death row, thirteen miles north of Huntsville. Waiting patiently and most would say utterly resignedly, for his end by means of lethal injection. And tho Dr Ash didn’t hold to state sanctioned murder, if anyone short of say, Mengele or Pol Pot deserved it, then Garrett Clark McComas was your man. Sixteen dead, all young men, some still yet juveniles,every single victim black, the last three, and still counting some claimed, had been burned after succumbing to multiple stab wounds. Evidently he’d soaked them with a flammable agent, then tossed a lit napkin upon their supine forms. And more perplexing even, many claims were made by several inmates regarding his magic powers, and healing hands, without even touching as no contact was allowed, and the ability to predict a number of the inmates futures. But Mr McComas denied emphatically any such gifts. Indeed, it is said that he himself questions his own sanity regarding these ‘hallucinations’, as he deems them.

It would be her task, under the exegesis of the state sponsored defense team of said inmate, to determine his mental capacity, among other, more troubling, more haunting questions, in which she and a very select few specialized. Not including those experts hired at top dollar to track down ghosts and vampires in what reality show of the moment which plagued the television airwaves.

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uomo-accattivante · 4 years ago

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I recently came across a bunch of press articles and photos about Oscar Isaac that are so old, they appear to be out-of-print and pre-date social media. Considering they were probably never digitally transcribed for internet access, I’m guessing that the majority of current fans have never seen this stuff.

Even though a lot of these digital scans are challenging to read because they are the original fuzzy news print, I think there some gems worth sharing with you guys. Over the next several weeks, I will transcribe and share those gems on this page. Hope you enjoy them!

Let’s start with this fantastic 2001 profile piece done before Oscar was accepted into Juilliard:

South Florida’s rising star isn’t just acting the part

By Christine Dolen - [email protected]

February 4, 2001

As fifth-graders at Westminster Christian School in Miami, Oscar Isaac and his classmates were asked to write a story as if they were animals on Noah’s Ark. Oscar turned in a seven-page play – with original music – from the perspective of a platypus. Then he starred in the production his teacher directed.

He hasn’t stopped expressing himself creatively since. Today, Isaac is one of South Florida’s busiest young theater actors, and certainly its hottest. And not just because he’s a slender five-feet nine-inches tall with an expressively handsome face and glistening brown eyes.

Since making his professional debut as a Cuban hustler in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage in July 1999, he has played an explosive Vietnam vet in Private Wars for Horizons Repertory, a pot-smoking slacker in This Is Our Youth at GableStage, another Cuban on the make in Praying With the Enemy at the Coconut Grove Playhouse, the entrancing narrator of Side Man at GableStage, a Havana-based writer in Arrivals and Departures for the new Oye Rep and, most recently, a young Fidel Castro in When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba at New York’s Cherry Lane Theater.

Beginning Wednesday, he’ll be juggling five roles in City Theatre’s annual Winter Shorts festival, first at the Colony Theatre in Miami Beach, then at the Broward Center for the Performing Arts. But that is not all: During the two weeks he is doing Winter Shorts, he’ll also be playing dates with the punk-ska band The Blinking Underdogs (www.blinkingunderdogs.com), which features him as lead singer, guitarist and songwriter.

Oh, and he just got back from auditioning for New York’s prestigious Juilliard School of Drama.

All this for a guy a month shy of his 22nd birthday.

Sure, you could hate a guy who’s that talented, that charismatic, that transparently ambitious. But the people who have worked with Oscar Isaac don’t. On the contrary, they’re all sure he has it – that magical, can’t-be-taught thing that transforms an actor into a star.

Playwright Eduardo Machado, who put in a good word for Isaac at Juilliard, says “he does have that star quality that makes your eyes go to him. It’s great that someone with that talent still wants to train.”

“He has a star quality that’s rare in a young actor,” adds Joseph Adler, who directed him in Side Man and This Is Our Youth. “Without a doubt I expect to be hearing great things from him.”

‘I JUST LOVE CREATING’

Isaac, who also makes short films, can’t say exactly why he was attracted to acting. He just knows it makes him happier than anything, that it’s what he was meant to do. And he’s been doing it since he was a 4-year-old putting on plays in his family’s backyard with his sister Nicole.

“I just love creating, whether it’s music or films or a character on a stage. I love taking people for a ride,” he says. “In Side Man, every night I would love being that close to the audience. I felt like I was talking to 80 of my closest friends.

“I could feel what the audience was feeling.”

His powerful, mournful-yet-loving monologue near the end of the play, he said, “worked every night. I knew it would get them. I’d hear sniffles.

“But it had less to do with me than with the atmosphere [created by the playwright and director].”

You could understand if Isaac, surrounded as he is by praise and possibility, had an ego as burgeoning as his career. Instead, he channels the positive reinforcement into confidence about his work.

“He has such a charm and an ease onstage, but he’s very modest,” says New York-based actress Judith Delgado, who shared the stage with Isaac in Side Man. “He’s hungry. He’s got moxie. I was blown away by him.

“He saved me a couple of times. I went up [forgot a line] and that baby boy of mine came through. He’s a joy.”

FORGING HIS OWN PATH

The son of a Cuban-American father and a Guatemalan mother, Isaac was never a stellar student. But he found ways of turning routine assignments – like the Noah’s Ark story – into creative challenges.

His science reports were inevitably video documentaries underscored with punk music. He acted through middle and high school, though he had a falling out with his drama teacher at Santaluces Community High in Lantana over his misgivings about a character. When she refused to cast him in anything else, he got his English teacher to let him play the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors his senior year.

His skepticism about authority and love of playing the devil’s advocate have long made him resist doing things the usual way. His post-high school “training” consisted of one semester at Miami-Dade Community College’s South Campus (where he met his girlfriend, Maria Miranda), touring schools playing an abusive character in the Coconut Grove Playhouse’s Breaking the Cycle, and working as a transporter of bodies at Baptist Hospital, where he absorbed the drama of people in emotionally intense situations.

“It was the most magnificent dramatic institute I could’ve attended,” Isaac said. “I was able to observe the entire spectrum of human emotion, people under the most extreme duress. I was mesmerized watching the way people interacted with each other in such heightened situations.

“I learned everything about the human condition, and it was real and harsh and brutally honest.”

Yet even given his propensity for forging his own path, something nudged him another direction while he was in New York making his Off-Broadway debut in December. Walking by Juilliard one day, he impulsively went in to ask for an application. Though the application deadline had passed, Isaac persuaded Juilliard to accept his, noting in his application essay that most of the exceptional actors he admires had acquired “a brutally efficient technique” to enhance their talent by studying at places like Juilliard.

Though he won’t know whether he has been accepted until the end of this month, his audition last weekend went well, he says. He did monologues from Henry IV, Part I and Dancing at Lughnasa, adjusting his Shakespearean Hotspur to a more fiery temperature at the suggestion of Michael Kahn, head of Juilliard’s acting program – though not without arguing that Hotspur wouldn’t be speaking to the king that way.

Isaac, not surprisingly, loves a good debate.

Adler, GableStage’s artistic director and a man who is as liberal as Isaac once was conservative, savored the verbal jousting they did during rehearsals for Side Man.

“He knows exactly how to pull my chain,” Adler says with a laugh. “Intelligence is the cornerstone of all great actors, and he’s bright as hell.

“He has relentless ambition but with so much charm. He’s very hard to say no to. He has incredible raw talent and magnetism that is very rare in a young actor along with relentless energy, perseverance and ambition. I see his growth both onstage and off. He’s mature in both places.”

Part of his growth, of course, will necessarily involve dealing with the rejections that are part of any actor’s life. His career is still too new, his string of successes solid, so it’s anyone��s guess how failure will shape him. But director Michael John Garcés, who picked him for When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba after Isaac flew to New York at his own expense to compete with a pool of seasoned Manhattan actors for the role, believes his character will see him through.

“Oscar is realistic, but he’s so willing to go the whole nine yards,” Garcés says. “He didn’t go out when he was in the show here. His focus earned the respect of the other actors, some of whom have been working in New York for 30 years.

“He hasn’t had a lot of blows yet, when the career knocks the wind out of you. But he has talent, determination and focus, and if he has perseverance – my intuition is that he does have it – he could achieve a lot.”

FAMILY TIES

His father and namesake, Baptist Hospital intensive-care physician Oscar Isaac Hernandez, couldn’t be more proud. (Isaac doesn’t use the family surname in order to avoid, in his words, being “put in that Hispanic actor box.”)

“I’m ecstatic that he’s probably going to be going to the most prestigious drama school in the United States,” he says. “School will help him focus his energies and give him discipline. He’s got the raw material and the drive.”

Isaac’s mother, Maria, divorced from his father since 1992, is a kidney-transplant recipient who acknowledges that she’ll miss her son if he moves to New York. But, she adds, she wants him “to live out his dreams. He amazes me every day. He calls me every day. I’m very proud of him.”

Even the other guys in The Blinking Underdogs are fans of Isaac’s acting, though it could take him away from South Florida just as the band appears to be, Isaac says, on the brink of signing a recording deal (it has already put out its own CD, The Last Word, with songs, lead vocals and even cover photography by Isaac.

“Oscar’s the leader of the band, a great musician who amazes me and motivates us,” says sax player Keith Cooper. “I’ve been to see every one of his plays. He’s a phenomenal actor.

“I completely buy into his role in every play. As close as I am to him, I forget it’s Oscar.”

His South Florida theater colleagues credit that to Isaac’s insatiable desire to learn and grow.

Gail Garrisan, who is directing him in Donnie and One of the Great Ones for Winter Shorts, observes, “It’s not often that you find a young actor who is willing to listen and who doesn’t think he knows everything. He loves the work.

“He really brought the young man in Side Man to life. When I saw it in New York, it seemed to be the father’s play. When I saw it here, I felt it was his [Isaac’s] play.”

Oye Rep’s John Rodaz, whom Isaac calls “the best director I’ve ever worked with,” gave the actor his first important job in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage. They met when Isaac came to see Area’s production of Oleanna and the actor, knowing Rodaz ran the theater, introduced himself.

“He has so much energy and such a sparkling personality,” Rodaz says. “He knows how to move in the world. He seems to take advantage of every situation in a good way; he’s not a cold, calculating person who’ll stab you in the back.

“[But] he wants it so badly. Everything he does, he’s the leader. When I was 21, I was taking naps.”

Rodaz coached Isaac on his Juilliard monologues and found the experience energizing.

“I got chills just watching him. That happens so rarely. I was so exhilarated when I came home that I just had to go out and run. You just know he’s got all the tools.”

Christine Dolen is The Herald’s theater critic.

###

#oscar isaac #vintage #juilliard #blinking underdogs #area stage company #john rodaz #gablestage #when it's cocktail time in cuba #side man #arrivals and departures #this is our youth #praying with the enemy #sleepwalkers #private wars #winter shorts #the miami herald

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eideticmemory · 5 years ago

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EVER SINCE NEW YORK IV | MATTHEW GRAY GUBLER

Description: I was messaged saying: “If you don’t write a young Matthew enemies to lovers fic featuring an obsession with sucking on boobs then what’s the point 😔.” So, here it is, folks! The ultimate College!Matthew fic. Cover by @timey-wimey-lovi!

PART 4! Read Part 3 here!

SOUNDTRACK:

Let Me Know - Clear Eyes.

Friends - Ed Sheeran.

Perfect Places - Lorde.

Word Count: 4,551.

Rating: M.

Warning/Includes: Sexual intercourse, drinking, recreational drug use, a bit of angst.

Fall, Junior Year.

Tisch School of the Arts,

New York University.

New York City.

“We’re going out tonight,” Claire said, plopping down on your bed.

“Oh? We are?” You replied, a notebook in your lap, and your back resting against the pillows.

“Yes. There is a welcome back party on campus tonight and we’re going.”

“I don’t feel like partying,” you sighed. “We just moved back in. There’s still so much left to do, to unpack.”

“Guess what? It’ll be here when we get back. And we’ll have all of tomorrow to decorate. But right now, we’re juniors, we’re thriving, and we’re gonna party!” She did a little dance, her red hair bouncing on her head.

You giggled, “Fine. Only until midnight! Then, we’re coming right back.”

“Geez, grandma? Midnight? Make it one!”

“Fine, one-thirty.”

“I’ll take it,” she smiled. She hopped out of bed, and turned on her heels, finger guns pointing at you. “Wear that red tube top. Step all the way out, kid. I mean it!”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

You wore the top. It looked good. Abnormally good. Insanely good. It hugged your body, and accented your breasts, little ruffles handing on the hem. You paired it with a loose pair of jeans, leather boots, and sparkly jewelry. Your hair was pulled out of your face and you applied light makeup.

“Yes, ma’am!” Claire cheered when she saw you. “For someone who didn’t wanna party, you sure snapped.”

“Hush,” you blushed. “I just wanna be prepared, y’know, in case we take pictures or run into people.”

Person. Singular.

You anticipated a high chance of seeing Matthew tonight, and if it was true, it would be your first time seeing each other in person in two months. After week upon week of late night phone calls — full of dirty words, quiet moans, and soft goodnight wishes. With his timezone being three hours behind yours, the two of you set alarms on your phone to talk in the early hours of the morning. Until you fell into this routine of talking every night. First, helping each other get off — sometimes more than once. And then having a sleepy, giggle-filled conversation about anything under the sun. It regularly lasted until one of you fell asleep.

So, yeah. You were eager to see him. Even more eager to get back to his place. Get back underneath him. It’d been a week since you last spoke, both of you being too busy moving back to New York. You ached for him dearly. And you wanted his first reaction to seeing you again to be lustful, intense. The outfit was perfect.

Claire and you walked across campus, arm in arm, skin glowing under the lights, hair blowing in the breeze. The music was palpable, and you could hear it from miles away. The two of you stepped into the dorming building, giggling at the sight of familiar faces, the smell of alcohol and weed, the sound of bass.

For most of the night it was easy to mingle. You carried a solo cup of alcohol from each room — vodka. Everytime you drank rum, you got horny. It was weird. You couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into someone you knew, be it a dancer, an actor, film student. Being a double major, and active on campus, you knew way too many people. And everyone seemed to be there that night. It took you a good hour to rotate amongst groups.

“[y/n]?”

You turned around, a smile instantly appearing on your face. “Alex! Oh, my goodness! How are you?”

The dashing boy smiled at you, his hand on your shoulder. “Hey! I’m great, how are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. I’m currently trying to have a good time despite being tired as hell.”

He laughed, “Well, I see you’ve got some good time juice there, so you’re halfway to freedom. Hey, I forgot to tell you — your performance in the nutcracker last Christmas was incredible. I, uh, I actually went to the spring ballet after that because I was so impressed.”

“Thank you,” you grinned. “I like to inspire people to experience ballet. It’s cool.”

“I was very inspired,” he nodded. “Hopefully we’ll have some more classes together this semester.”

“Yeah! If not, you know how to reach me.” You bit down on your lip to keep from smiling too wide. He gave you a quick wink, and walked away.

You instantly began looking for Claire, rushing around the dorm for anyone resembling your friend. You noticed her in the threshold of a room, shoulder leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. You walked up to her, “Claire! Claire, you’re not gonna believe who I just ran into. It was definitely not the reunion I was expecting tonight.”

Claire was dazed, staring in front of her with a face solid as stone. You very rarely saw her like this, and it freaked you out right away. “Claire? Claire, dude, what’s wrong?” You turned your head to follow her gaze, and your eyes landed on the couch.

People lined the cushions, and dead in the center was Matthew. His hair had grown out a lot, and he dressed differently. All button down shirts and khaki shorts. With that damn chain tucked in his collar. And beside him was a girl. Hair jet black, a matching black mini dress, paired with sandals. They were kissing. Hot. Heavy. His hand gripping her hair, the other on his thigh. When they seperated, she touched his lips and you felt yourself having a stroke. The giggled at each other and Matthew kissed her cheek.

“It’s about one-thirty, right?” Claire asked you, her sight not moving.

You gulped. There was an ache in your chest that made it hard to speak. But you took a deep breath, and release the words, “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Claire walked around you, heading towards the exit, and you followed. The two of you walked home, silent, arms over each other’s shoulders. In the room, Claire dropped her stuff to the floor, kicked her shoes off and sat on her bed. You rushed into the space, approached your nightstand and rummaged through it.

“What are you doing, [y/n]?”

“I’m packing a bowl,” you replied, grabbing your herbs, a lighter and the bowl.

“Right now? In here?” She gasped.

“Is that okay?”

She sighed, “Yeah. Come share.”

The two of you sat on her bed, thirty minutes later, laying against the wall with your heads staring at the ceiling. Your eyelids were lowered, red, and your breathing was slow.

“I’m hungry,” Claire said, texting on her phone. “Do we have gummy bears? I want gummy bears. But haribo gummy bears. Not those knocks off we used to buy. And some soda. Soda would be so good right now. My mouth is so dry.”

You stayed quiet, eyes focused on the lights overhead. You couldn’t get the image out of your mind. Matthew. And that girl. Kissing. Touching.

“Her name is Veronica,” Claire said.

You turned your hear to her, “Huh?”

“Her name is Veronica,” she repeated. “Or Roni for short.” She rolled her eyes. “She, uh, she’s from Vegas. She went to school with...Gube, actually. They dated.”

“Oh...” you nodded. “Are you...are you okay?”

“I — I, yeah, I’m fine,” she shrugged. “It’s just...really inconvenient of him to go back to her right now.”

“Back to her?”

“They’re together. They’re dating. Apparently they got back together this summer.”

You furrowed your eyebrows together, a thousand thoughts running through your mind at once. “What do you think about that?” Claire asked.

“Uh...” You shrugged. “I’m surprised anyone actually touches that boy,” you laughed, the sound coming out broken and sad.

“Yeah...well...Misty says Roni is a big one for Gube. That, um, necklace he wears? She gave it to him years ago. He never took it off.”

You nodded, “Yeah,” your voice cracked. “Well, that’s...that’s some heavy fixation there.”

“[y/n]...”

“I should shower. I’m gonna shower.” You went to get off the bed, but Claire grabbed your wrist. You turned to her, and she pushed your hair out of your face.

“I’m really upset about this, kid,” she said. “Can you...can you just lay with me for a bit?”

You sighed, gave her a small smile and leaned in to hug her. She held you close, placing one hand on your head and the other on your rest. And she let you rest your head on her chest, as you let silent tears roll down your cheeks.

Monday morning, you got up at 5 in the morning. You spent 2 hours in the ballet studio, twirling and dancing until your feet went numb. When you returned home, Claire was still asleep and you took a quick shower. You tried on ten different outfits, applied makeup, spent a long time on your hair. You made breakfast, checked for any assignments, surfed social media. And still had an hour before class.

You chose to walk around campus, locate all your classes, grab some coffee, and then you headed to your first class. Walking through the building, you sipped on your drink, moving absentmindedly roaming the halls. Suddenly, a hand reached out and pulled you into a storage closet. Your scream was cut short, and you jumped as the door closed behind you.

You looked up at see Matthew staring at you, a soft smile on his face. “Hey.”

“I’m going to class,” you muttered, turning to exit the room. But Matthew put his hand on the door knob to stop you.

“Wait, wait,” he pleaded. “Um, do I see you at the party —“

“Yep,” you nodded, not making eye contact with him.

“So...then, you saw me at the party with—“

“Yep.”

“Okay...[y/n]...”

“I really have to go to class, so, thanks for the detour, but I’m leaving now.” You removed his hand from the knob and left the closet, not looking back.

You walked into your classroom, swallowing to get rid of the weird feeling in your throat. You set your bag down and took a seat. You attempted to shake Matthew out of your mind, the smell of him, the sight of him, the tension of being so close to him. But it was hard. It may have been the hardest thing ever.

“Well, well, well,” a voice called to you. “Guess I got lucky, huh?”

You looked up to see Alex, giving you a toothy grin and a look of pure joy. “Alex,” you breathed. “Hi. This is awesome, you’re in here?”

“Yeah,” he took a seat beside you. “Haven’t seen you much since freshman year. This is nice.”

“It sure is.”

So.

Remember number eight on your list of atrocities against Matthew Gubler?

Fucked his friend. While said friend was supposed to help Matthew with his project.

Alex would be the friend. He was gorgeous and kind and so good in bed. You first met in a cinematography class freshman year, where he very boldly asked if you wanted to hang out some time. You smiled, said yes, and that led to the aforementioned sexual encounter. It only happened a handful of times, until the semester was over. Then you didn’t see each other as often.

But he was here now. He was here and he was flirting with you. You were flirting back. You were hurt and upset and confused and so fucking horny, you could burst. So, after classes, you reached out to him and asked if he could help you with a pre class assignment. He told you to come over. You did.

You didn’t work on the assignment though.

Starting off pretty hot and heavy, it was a few weeks of meaningless sex until he asked you out. Claire cheered when she heard the news, causing you to give her a confused look. “Why are you so happy that I have a date?” You giggled.

“Oh...I just — Alex is cute! He’s great, I always wondered what happened to him. You said he was good in the sack and he was always sweet to you. I’m just, so glad you’re happy.”

You gave her a faux smile, “Yeah. I’m happy.”

Alex’s friend was having a birthday party at his apartment, and Alex insisted you come. Said it was the only way he’d be able to have any fun when everyone got too drunk. You agreed, and when he picked you up that night, you were dressed in a purple romper and diamond earrings.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss you.

“Thank you,” you smiled. “You look beautiful, too.”

He held your hand as he drove to the apartment, as you got out the car, walked up the stairs, entered the living space. He introduced you to everyone you met, his arm around you proudly and your head nuzzled into his chest.

Watching you across the room was a very irritated Matthew Gubler, who sat with Veronica on his lap and a beer in his hand. You didn’t notice Matthew’s presence for a long time, considering the fact that he was avoiding you, and you were more focused on Alex.

While talking to Alex’s friends, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. You strolled down the hallway, searching for the restroom.

“[y/n]!”

You turned around, confused. Matthew marched up to you, his hands in his pocket, his face determined.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you told him, and continued to walk.

He followed you. “So, you dating Alex now?”

“That’s not really your business, now is it?”

He grabbed onto your arm and pulled your body into his, hiding you two behind a corner. “No, but it bugs me.”

“It bugs you?”

“It bugs me. I don’t want you with Alex. Alex is a dick.”

“Well, not to me—“

Matthew leaned down and kissed you, his hands tightened on your waist. He kissed you like he was starving, mouth open, breath heavy.

You pushed him away, your eyes closed in shock and ecstasy. No, no, you thought. “Matthew—“

“Let’s leave,” he interjected.

“Huh?”

“Let’s leave. Me and you. Let’s go.”

“No,” you snapped.

“Why not?”

“Because, I’m here with Alex! And you’re here with...her, so, no. I’m staying here, with the guy I came with.”

“C’mon—“

“Matthew, no! No! Are you deaf? Are you dumb? Leave me alone, and go back to your girlfriend.” You suddenly didn’t have to pee anymore, so you returned to Alex and his group of friends. Matthew watched as you took a seat in Alex’s lap, and you pretended not to notice.

There was radio silence for months. Matthew even removed you on snapchat, and for your sanity, you ignored it. You continued a casual relationship with Alex, and he continued to worship the ground you walked on. A vast change in pace from Matthew. Claire pushed for the Alex relationship hardcore, saying hi to him when came over, giving you guys time alone, tagging alone with you two to parties.

But every once in a while, you thought about Matthew. When you saw a particular movie, or heard one of his favorite bands, right after you would have sex. And especially on Halloween. Over the summer, he told you all about his costume plans, party plans, and movie marathons he was going to have. And for some reason, like a clown, you just assumed you’d be with him when it happened.

By the time final exams were over, you and Alex considered yourselves exclusive. You strolled into the end of the year party, holding hands and laughing. You’d fallen into a good groove with his friends. They all liked you, you liked them, and you enjoyed their company. While sitting with them, one pulled out a joint, lit it and began to pass it around.

“Want a hit?” Alex asked.

“She’s pretty tiny. Can she handle it?” A friend said.

You glared at her and took the paper between your lips, inhaling and holding a large amount of smoke. She watched in amazement as you exhaled through your nose, “Well...I stand corrected, princess.”

You took in a sharp breath of air.

And that was just the beginning of the spiral.

You stayed in rotation of the weed for a long time, until your thoughts were nothing but a mess of words racing everywhere. Your eyes felt heavy, so did your body. And you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

You were wondering was there ever really a connection or were you just highly sexually compatible? Did Matthew ever have feelings for you or did he just want one thing? Why does kissing him and fucking him and just talking to him feel so different? How come when everything falls apart, you want Matthew? How come when everything is going well, you want Matthew? Need to talk to Matthew. Where’s Matthew? Where’s Matthew?

“[y/n]!” Alex called. “You’re high as fuck,” he laughed. “What are you thinking about?”

Matthew.

“Come here,” and he pulled you into a kiss. And when you pulled away, feeling nothing, nothing at all, you realized you needed Matthew. You needed to feel something. But Matthew wasn’t here. And you wish he was here. Where’s Matthew?

Tears were springing to your eyes, but you quickly began to cough, distracting yourself with a new sensation. You rose to your feet, and exited the room, much to Alex’s disapproval. He watched you rush past him, his face laced with confusion.

Everyone you passed by looked like Matthew. Why did everyone look like Matthew? You missed Matthew. And this was unfair. You wiped at the tears in your eyes, but they were already gliding down your cheeks. They burned your skin and it made you cry more. You were blinded. And way too high to notice Matthew - the real Matthew - entering the hallway.

His eyes were redder than red, a lot like yours. His movements were slow. But something told him to reach out for you. Like a magnet. And you fell into his arms. It took him a whole second to realize it was you, but he did.

“[y/n]?” he whispered. “Oh, my God, [y/n]. What’s wrong? What happened?” His hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs wiping the tears on your cheek.

“[y/n]!” Oh, no. Alex. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

At that point, you looked up at Matthew. Focused in on him. Said his name. But his attention had turned to Alex. And he was pissed. You could tell.

“Wait, wait, Matthew, wait,” you pleaded.

“What the hell did you do to her?” He shouted, holding you close.

“Wait, Matthew, he didn’t—“

“Gube, let her go, dude!.” Alex snapped, reaching for your arm.

And that sent Matthew through the roof. He released you from his arms and moved towards Alex, delivering a swift punch to his face. You’d never seen Matthew so much as cuss someone out, so this. This. This was hard to register. Nonetheless, you screamed his name, attempting to push both of them away from the brawl. But it was useless.

Two guys had to step in and separate Alex and Matthew, pulling them to opposing sides of the hallway. And you had to decide who to follow. It wasn’t a hard decision to make.

You kept a good 100 feet behind Matthew the whole time, watching him stomp his way to his residence hall. You knew exactly how to get into the building, but weren’t sure you should. You’d never seen him so angry. So red. So primal.

But, Matthew.

Oh, God, Matthew. What would you say? What would you do? Did he want to see you? Did he want to be alone? Was his roommate there? You paced for 20 minutes, freezing your ass off outside the dormitory. Your mind was made up when you found the side entrance and let yourself in, marching up the steps. Now or never. Now or never. And you needed to see Matthew now.

You perched yourself in front of his door, paused, and proceeded to knock with full force. “Be home, be home, be home,” you whispered.

He was home.

He came to the door, shirtless, his face bruised, his hair tasseled, and that stupid, ridiculous gold chain around his neck. And you’d never wanted to suck a dick so badly in your entire life. You instantly imagined grabbing him, kissing him, pulling him close. But you didn’t do that. You stood there, looking like an idiot, until he spoke.

“What are you doing here, [y/n]?”

You hadn’t even thought about it. It just felt right to follow him. “I—I wanted...I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

He shrugged, “I’m alright.” His face was stern. Stoic. No emotion showed on his features and it made you sick.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”

You stared at each other for a long time. You just wanted him to say it. Ask you to stay. Ask you to come in. To admit it. But he wouldn’t. So you had to walk away.

“Okay,” you nodded, sadly, and ducked your head as you headed towards the exit. “Okay.” You sniffled, patting at your eyes as they watered.

Matthew watched you go. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, his shoulders relaxing as he exhaled. “[y/n],” he called.

You’d stopped in your tracks.

“You...you were pretty stoned at the party,” he told you. “Are you sober?”

You turned your body to face him. You thought about his eyes. How red they were. How slow he moved. How you had both been utterly and totally high as hell. “I’m sober,” you said. Honestly. After all of tonight’s events, and the sheer shock of seeing Matthew, being so close to him again, you had sobered up. “Believe me, I’m sober. Are you?”

Matthew licked him lips, nodding as he sighed. He stepped out into the hallway, and pushed the door to his dorm open. He signaled for you to enter.

You gave him a quick and sad smile, and you avoided eye contact with him as you stepped into the empty room. He led the way to his private room, and let you in, closing the door behind you. You kept your back to him, arms crossed over your chest.

He sighed, “I’m—Veronica and I broke up. Actually, she broke up with me...again. So, y’know, it wasn’t much of a surprise, but—“

“Matthew,” you cut him off, turning to him. “I need a favor.”

He hesitated, then his voice was strong, “Anything.”

“I leave for home next week for Christmas break. And since, I can’t seem to figure out what the hell about you is driving me insane, Matthew Gubler, I’m going to need time. Space. If you need time and space. So, you need to make that decision.”

“Okay.”

“But right now, take your clothes off,” you ordered.

“Okay.”

He stared at you lustfully, just like you wanted, his body moving on autopilot to remove his shorts and boxers. You mirrored his movements, and took off your dress, subsequently tossing your bra and panties onto the floor. He grabbed onto your body and kissed you, one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your waist. He pushed you back onto his bed, falling on top of you and kissing your neck. You held onto his torso as he made way to your collarbone, nibbling on it lightly. He pulled away and gropped your breasts, massaging them with his fingers.

He was practically drooling over them, his eyes focused solely on your boobs. He leaned down and sucked on your nipple, while his hand slid down between your legs. He felt around your core, and slowly slid two fingers into you. You threw your head back, and moaned.

Matthew kissed a trail from your breast to your hips. He began to kiss your inner thighs, kneeling down in front of you and pulling you up to his face. He pressed his tongue against your clit, working his muscle in an up and down motion. You moved your hips against his face and his fingers, gasping weakly. You forgot how good his mouth felt, but this was huge, huge reminder. You gripped onto his hair and swore under your breath.

He noticed your thighs tightening around his face, and increased his intensity and speed. Your back arched off of the mattress, you whimpered into your mouth, and your chest was heaving. You let out a long groan as you came on his face, your entire body tensing up. He withdrew his fingers from you, and licked up from your core to your navel to your breasts. He kissed your neck, then your lips. And he sucked his fingers clean, holding eye contact with you.

Overwhelmed, you pulled him in by his face and kissed him passionately. He grunted against your lips, rubbing his cock on your core. He pushed into you, his jaw dropping and his forehead against yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist and this encouraged him to thrust into you. Matthew held you in his arms, moaning into your ear as he moved his hips.

You kissed his jaw, sucking on the skin until you felt it pulse between your lips. You could feel his muscles moving under your palms, and his cock striking a sensitive spot inside of you. It felt like you were crumbling, getting weaker by the second. But when you felt the chain hitting your chin, you wired back to life. You gripped onto the necklace and twisted it around your fingers, angrily biting your lip.

As he slammed into you, you muttered a soft “fuck!” and yanked on the chain. It popped off of his neck, and it was cathartic. You moaned and threw it to a far corner of the room. You reached down and rubbed your clit quickly, panting as Matthew’s body began to tremble. He kept his gaze focused on you as you let him fuck you into another orgasm, and your hips rolled against his in an eager rhythm.

“Oh, fuck!” Matthew exclaimed, pulling out of you just in time. He released himself onto your stomach, moaning and gasping for air.

The mattress creaked as he laid down beside you, collapsing with a thud. The two of you stared at the ceiling, naked and breathy and covered in sweat. You rested your hand on Matthew’s chest, and he intertwined your fingers.

The next week, you were headed to the train station to get home for Christmas. Not knowing what to say to each, Matthew and you hadn’t talked since last week. You sat in the back of an uber, your suitcase at your side, when your phone vibrated in your lap. You picked it up and recognized Matthew’s name flashing on your screen.

You sighed, swiped to answer, and held the phone to your ear, “Hello?”

“I don’t want space.”

“I—“ You stuttered.

“I want as little space as possible.”

You were stunned, quiet, “Okay.”

The line went dead, and you set your phone down. You bit down on your lip. But the smile was still clear.

[PART 5.]

#mine #college!matthew #esny #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler imagine #mgg #mgg smut #mgg imagine

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jubans · 5 years ago

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title: pinky promise pairing: chigasaki itaru/fem!reader rating: g (general) premise: promises were made to be kept, but damn did itaru have a sharp memory.

Back when you were still a kid, you had a peculiar friend.

Your fathers were best buddies in college and your mothers got along just as swimmingly as well. Whenever either couple would go out of town, the other would follow suit—both parties bringing along their young kids so they could bond with one another.

Itaru was a quiet boy. The first time you met him, he was like a hermit that couldn't be coaxed out of his shell. Eventually, you gave up on trying to get him to play house with you; retreating to the living room with a gaming console in hand. You've been wanting a Gameboy for a while now, and your father did love spoiling his little girl. While you were in the middle of catching your first Pokémon, however, you noticed that Itaru was watching you play over your shoulder, interest sparkling in his pretty eyes.

"Itaru-kun, do you play Pokémon?" you wondered, hoping he'd finally open up to you.

The young boy nodded timidly. "My Gameboy is in my backpack..."

And that's how you started growing closer than you'd initially expected. You challenged him in Pokémon battles every chance you got, but Itaru defeated you every single time. Something about IVs and EVs, he said. But you didn't really care about those. You just wanted the pretty looking Pokémon on your team.

In your usual outings with his family, Itaru would often play off-handed pranks on you—putting weird bugs he found behind your dress, spitting watermelon seeds at you, and even pushing you into a shallow part of a lake. But despite his outlandish behavior, you didn't cry about it like most girls your age would when a boy was being mean to them. You returned his mischief sevenfold in your own way, and that only made your parents think what a lively duo the both of you were.

But like most childhood friendships, it didn't last as long as you'd liked.

With your father having gotten an opportunity to work in America, that meant you had to move residences. The news was hard to take in at first. You grew up in Japan. All your friends were here! And what will happen to Itaru when you were no longer there to keep him in check? But, you've always been more understanding than most children. You accepted it faster than your parents had anticipated.

One day, you decided to tell your him about your sudden moving-away with a proposition that would ensure he wouldn't step out of line while you weren't around.

"We're going to get married someday, right Taruchi?"

Itaru blinked at you in nonplus, surprised by the strange nickname. "Taru...chi?"

"Itaru Chigasaki!" You giggled, clapping your hands together in unhinged glee. "It's my nickname for you, so no one else is allowed to call you that, 'kay?"

He spared you a small smile. Even at a young age, he already looked breathtaking. Eyes of carnelian and hair spun from almonds and vanilla—there was no reason for you not to crush on the boy who lived the next door over.

But then, he did something you've never seen anyone else do with you before. He held out his hand, holding up only his pinky, as he gazed at you expectantly. You craned your head to the side, not knowing how to react. Itaru laughed softly before taking your small hands in his own, manipulating your right hand's fingers so that you were doing the same gesture he was.

"We'll pinky promise on it," he said, entwining his stubby finger with yours. "It's a promise that we can never ever break. No matter what."

"You promise to marry me when I get back?" you asked, curling your own pinky as well.

He snickered. "I'd hate to be stuck with an old hag like you, but if you insist..."

"Hmph!" you simpered, folding your arms across your chest as you turned away from him. "I'm only eight, Taruchi!"

"You'll be eight-y when you return," he retaliated.

You spent the afternoon trying to beat Itaru in another Pokémon battle, but he came out victorious as usual. Just before you could start up another match, however, his mother told the two of you that they'll be attending an event hosted by the company she works for, and that you could come back and play tomorrow again.

"See you soon, old hag," Itaru imparted, waving a hand goodbye as you stuck out your tongue to blow a raspberry at him.

Stupid Taruchi. Why do I even like you?

"Mom, was it really necessary for me to fly back to Japan for this?" you groaned into your cellphone, asking the question for the hundredth time.

Your mother merely tutted at you from the other end of the line. "You know how much your father loved the MANKAI Company, sweetie. We even flew here a week early so he could take a peek at the final rehearsals."

"Yes, I know that part of the story," you sighed as you slowly unpacked your things from the single duffel you brought. "But why do I have to tag along? I had to find a substitute for all my classes this week, and I think the head professor will give me a piece of her mind when I get back to California."

"I'll have your father talk to her, then." The sound of her laughter was jeering in your ears. Why your mother had always been so carefree was a mystery to you. "Unwind a little, sweetie! I think you're going to want to see one of the new Spring Troupe's actors."

"What?" Your tone came out exasperated, but at the same time, your eyes were trained on the ample view of Veludo Way from your hotel room.

Your father used to be one of the members of the original Spring Troupe back when you were still a kid. Though he was one of the most academically proficient professors you knew today, he always had an unbridled passion for theatric arts. But with how swamped he's become with his work at the university you both teach in, him flying to Japan to watch amateurs stage a production was the last thing you think he would do.

Lost in thought, you didn't realize that your mother had been telling you something over the phone.

"Anyways, if you want to see him, I got us tickets for the closing night this Saturday." Your mother sounded disappointed for some reason. "The earlier showing dates sold out by the time we bought them."

You didn't even bother finding out who this so-called actor she was pertaining to, your mind too preoccupied with the lesson plans you forgot to leave to your substitute. With an exasperated groan, you pulled out your laptop from your luggage, booting it up. You loved your mother too much to point out that she could have just told you to fly over here at a later date so you could minimize your absences.

"Sure, Mom," you relented. "Do you want to grab some dinner later?"

"No way."

Eyes of carnelian. Hair spun from almonds and vanilla.

"No. Way." You had to physically look away from the stage to contemplate for a moment. Was that... Was that who you thought it was?

From your right, your father spared you a sideways glance, confusion painting his features. "Hm? Something the matter?"

It's him. The boy with the pretty eyes and the smile that masked his mischief. Itaru. Taruchi.

"I-It's nothing, Dad," you reassured, forcing yourself to train your eyes on the scene playing before you. "I just remembered I haven't started formatting my midterm exam yet."

"Oh, don't fret about work here," he chuckled, gaze trained fondly on the stage. "Plays are where the actors give it their all to put a smile on people's faces. I've always wanted to see you up on stage, but what kind of father would I be if I imposed something you didn't want?"

His words made you relax back into your seat, watching as Itaru's character, Tybalt, conversed with one of the leads on-stage. He delivered his lines so naturally, like the character was moulded to fit him in particular. He looked so...different now, too. Itaru had lost the fat in his cheeks—angular cheekbones taking its place instead. His voice was set into a much deeper tone, given that he was probably in his mid-twenties, just like yourself. Who knew a gamer shut-in like himself would pursue theater, of all things?

"It's nice to see good old Chigasaki's son up there, though." Your father smiled. "That kid was almost like a son to me."

The scenes breezed past before your eyes, each one leaving you at the edge of your seat. Their twist on Romeo and Juliet was comical, to say the least. But each time Itaru stepped under the spotlights, you noticed the strain in his movements. Whenever he had to walk to the opposite side of the stage, his steps came off a bit wobbly. This was a critical scene where Romeo and Tybalt were going to duel to the death, too.

When you spared your father a wary look, the set in his brow told you that there was definitely something up.

"Boy's got a sprain," he concluded. "Goodness. He should've known better than to perform with that dead weight dragging him around."

You frowned. "Then Taruchi, I mean, Itaru should—"

"Tybalt, stop! The battle's over!"

Romeo's little ad-lib caught the attention of the audience, no one daring to draw a breath to see how things played out.

"Lower your blade!" he shouted, voice carrying the emotion in his eyes.

Even Itaru was taken aback by Romeo's resolve. His mouth twitched into a smirk that reminded you of the days he would show you the stag beetles he's caught over the summer to freak you out. You haven't even said two words to him fifteen years later, but somehow, you knew that he hadn't changed. Not one bit.

"(Surname)-san, hello!"

A woman that seemed right about your age greeted your father with a shake of hands once the two of you arrived backstage. Your mother had insisted that she would wait for the two of you at the parking lot as you gave your congratulations to the actors. So here you were, standing awkwardly behind your father as he animatedly conversed with the said woman, who seemed to be the director of the show.

"Kid, as much as I'd like to tell you about your dad, it isn't my place to tell," your father chuckled.

She sighed. "Ah, that's what Yuzo-san told me, too..."

"Say, this is quite out of the blue, but my daughter here wants to have a word with one of your actors. Itaru, to be precise."

Wait, what?

"Oh, sure!" The director nodded, twisting the knob to the dressing room behind her before you could even protest. "Itaru-san, someone wants to talk to you!"

"Oho? Itaru-san has stans?"

"Fans. But you're not too far off, huh, Citron?"

"Wah! Itaru-san is so popular!"

"Tch. As long as it's not her, I won't complain..."

The sound of cheerful laughter hit your ears, and the next thing you knew, he emerged from the doorway—still in costume without a single hair out of place. Itaru grew up to look like one of the princes in the fairytales your mother used to read to you, and it grated on your nerves more than it should. How could the kid with the most rotten attitude you've seen be blessed with a growth spurt like this?!

Too busy wallowing in your own frustration, it took you a moment to register the utter shock on Itaru's face once his vibrant eyes landed on your father. But when his gaze shifted to you, his lips parted in muted surprise before spreading into a disbelieving smile.

"So you finally thought about coming back, huh, old hag?"

Before you could even think, you seized the collar of his costume with your fist, familiar irritation festering in your chest faster than you could blink. "It's the first time we meet in fifteen years and that's your opening line?"

Itaru hollered loudly at your aggression, but the gesture didn't even faze him one bit. Maybe it was because he stood about a few inches taller than you now. Nonetheless, he held your hands in his own—holy shit they were smooth—before prying off your hard grip on his clothes.

"Ah, Izumi!" your father called out to the director. "I want to discuss something about the MANKAI Company and how I might be able to pitch in. Itaru-kun, you can keep her occupied for the time being, right?"

"What? Dad, don't leave me with hi—"

"She's in my care," Itaru spoke over you, a gloved hand going up to ruffle your hair.

As you watched your father and the director disappear right down the corridor, you gulped when you felt Itaru's piercing gaze on you. Turning around, you saw that his lips were still affixed with a condescending smirk, like he had some dirt on you that you didn't know about. Slowly, you backed away from him, but the hallway was cramped and you ended up with you in between the wall and the man in front of you.

"So," he began before he braced his palms on either side of the wall, trapping you in place. How could someone who had the regal air of a prince look at you like a wolf in sheep's clothing?

You felt your heart racing hummingbird-fast in your chest, breath hitching when he leaned in to ask:

"When's the wedding?"

#a3!#a3 #act! addict! actors!#act addict actors #a3 headcanons #a3 fanfiction #chigasaki itaru #itaru #itaru chigasaki #itaru x reader #a3 x reader #fluff #itaru fic

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iwrestlenow · 4 years ago

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Many More To Die - Chapter 2

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 2)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Names are powerful things--and after ten years, Logan's has acquired quite a bit. The restoration of his power is something he has to fight viciously to keep secret...But he's not the only necromancer who's in hiding. Above his head, Roman is being introduced to the people of the Kingdom's as his father's successor--but someone in the shadows is coming for the royal house of Sanders, of which Roman is part.And Logan will not stand for someone laying figurative hands on anyone that belongs to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. In this particular chapter, CW for angst--I’ll post what kind at the end if you want to avoid spoilers, but I’m warning because for me? It’s a triggery subject. Be safe, you’re all so sweet and ILU.

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1025, A.A.

“Berry?”

Logan was yanked from a sound sleep by the utterance of his name—not the sound, but the feeling of it. Crawling around inside his skull like ants, static electricity shocking his neural pathways and the core of his essence. It was red strings and his first meal after that one stretch in the dungeon's blackout cells after he punched the guard that dislocated his shoulder.

Logan Berry. Logan Berry. The gift from his guardian angel was two years old at this point...and Logan was starting to wonder if it was more than just a small reminder of his personhood, to keep the harsh world around him from breaking his spirit.

Sitting up, Logan rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses where they sat on the floor beside his pallet. When they had finally given them back to him two weeks after his arrival, the right lens had been all but shattered. The guard who had returned them—the same one who injured him—smiled far too wide for Logan's liking, inciting the attack that had gotten him punished.

“I am awake.” he announced softly, sliding his glasses on and rising from his pallet to approach the bars of his cell. Squinting in the low torchlight, he searched...

A point of bright yellow sunlight, slit down the middle by a reptilian pupil gleamed in the shadows before the body it was attached to came into view. Swiftly, it was joined by another eye, very much human and dark as chocolate. A sweep of hair as black as Logan's own fell across his forehead, and the torchlight gleamed across the burnished surface of the scales that covered half of the young drake's face and neck.

“Of course.” the drake shot back dryly, not quite managing to hide the sibilant accent inherent to his species. “That's why you were snoring.”

“What do you want, Janus?”

The eighteen year old Janus narrowed his mismatched eyes at Logan—but quickly gave up on trying to look intimidating. He hardly needed it, being not only older, but the son of the captain of the guard.

“A favor.” he admitted, sparking enough of Logan's interest to banish the last of the cobwebs lingering in his head. Janus didn't like being indebted to anyone—and, to that end, usually came to Logan for favors, as Logan was always perfectly willing to trade his assistance for some commodity, be it books, food, or the repair of his glasses.

“What is the favor?” Logan asked.

Janus said nothing for a long moment, staring into Logan's face...no, not his face. Squinting, he realized Janus was quite deliberately avoiding direct eye contact by focusing on a point just above Logan's eyes, somewhere around his forehead.

“Janus?...”

Shutting his eyes, Janus ducked his head.

“I...need a name.”

“A...what?”

“A name, all right? Like the one you picked for yourself.”

Logan was startled by that request—he told no one about the boy who came to him, claimed he made up his own surname to replace the Name that was stripped away. Some of the guards disliked it, stirring fresh retellings of the legends of the Lazari: necromancers with the power not merely to raise the dead, but craft true, living souls from sheer force of will.

He even heard some new ones about the Animata: a theoretical balance to the Necromata, magic practitioners that could manipulate life the way necromancers manipulated death. From the stories Logan overheard while pretending to sleep with guards outside his cell, the Animata had been wiped out by the rise of the Animator, the First of the Necromata, leading to his rise and attempted enslavement of the Kingdoms. With the Animata gone and unable to keep the balance in check, the king had been forced to slay the Animator and had outlawed necromancy soon after.

All stories, of course...but over the last two years, as his name wormed through his brain the way the power of the prison mages had, it sometimes made him wonder. After all, mythology and legend served two functions in human history: explaining natural phenomenon that were not yet understood, or hyperbolic retellings of one or many actual events.

So the prison guards talked, wondered if Logan had designs on restoring his own Name through the adoption of a new one—but Janus, for all his trust issues and ilicit dealings, was an intelligent boy with a good head on his shoulders. He wasn't one for fanciful stories—only those that he could tell in the name of manipulating others.

Perhaps that was why he felt some measure of shame or embarrassment for asking Logan this favor? There was clearly some...unidentified emotion behind the request, and Logan wasn't particularly good at coping with emotional issues. He highly suspected that, when he still had a Name, he had been essentially the same.

“...I want to be allowed to keep books in my cell.” He hadn't meant to say anything indicating agreement—but the words fell out of his mouth without any conscious permission.

Janus's head snapped up sharply. This time, he met Logan's gaze with an intensity that was decidedly threatening.

“That's all?” he asked, squinting after a long moment. “No...commentary?”

Logan shrugged. “You know I do not care for sentiment. Your obvious flirtation with it, in this situation, does not interest me so much as what I can gain from the moment of weakness on your part.”

“Are you sure you're only fourteen? You sound way too much like my grandpa sometimes.”

Logan rolled his eyes, declining to rise to the bait. Instead, he gave the matter what he felt was a comically superficial amount of consideration.

“Hart.” he finally decided.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him, mismatched eyes losing focus for a moment before he nodded to himself.

“That...works surprisingly well.” he mumbled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Refocusing on Logan, Janus straightened and once again resumed his attempts at exuding as commanding a presence as he could manage.

“You'll get your books.” Janus assured him. “I always pay my debts.”

“Past performance indicates this is an accurate assessment. Hence my request.”

“Oh...go back to bed.”

“Gladly.”

********** 1033, A.A.

“Ladies, lords, non-binary royalty, and all of my valued subjects!”

By the gods, I'm going to throw up.

Roman stood behind the curtain on the balcony, his heart in his throat. Every part of him was screaming to run, to hide, to sink into the floor and vanish through sheer force of his desire to not be there—to push Remus out to take his place when the king made his proclamation. Already, he could feel the weight of his impending responsibilities threatening to crush him, the world narrowing and the walls closing in...

He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't smart like Remus or as patient as his father, he wasn't commanding enough—he couldn't be king.

But he would be. One day.

Peering through the curtain, he saw his father turn...and though the pride in his face only made the terror worse, at the same time...

He could do this. He had to.

Smiling, King Thomas Sanders IV extended a hand towards him in silent encouragement. It was the same hand he offered to those subjects that knelt before him at court to have their grievances heard, the same hand he offered to both Roman and Remus as children when they felt shy or had fallen down while playing...

...or leading him back into the house when he was out to hunt a Lazari...

“I give you your future king—Prince Roman Sanders!”

A hand fell to his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Give 'em hell, Ro Bro!” Remus hissed gleefully in his ear.

It was strange, but some of the weight lifted itself off of Roman's shoulders, with his brother's hand there instead as he stepped out onto the balcony and into the sunlight.

For a moment, it was...magical. The ghost of Remus's fingers pressed into his shoulder, his father's hand curling warm around his nape—the people of the Kingdoms below, smiling and cheering in a symphony that filled his lungs as readily as it filled his ears, turning his heart into pure starlight.

For a moment, basking in his father's pride, his brother's confidence, and his people's love—he didn't just feel like he could do this, he knew that he could.

For a moment—that was all he got before his heart stopped beating.

It happened suddenly, but somehow it felt as natural as breathing. The tension of that missing engine powering the body and soul, the inability to draw breath. It was the peace of sleep, the flow of one step into the next while walking down an evenly paved road—he knew something was wrong, and yet he could not escape the manner in which it felt so normal.

Standing there, dying in front of the very kingdom he was meant to serve with no rhyme or reason for it.

Let it go...it felt so right, it felt proper.

As his vision began to dim, and the hand he'd raised to wave to the crowd started to fall by his side, he felt the urge to fight sliding out of him, eyes already slipping shut...

Easy as existing. Getting dark, time to sleep.

Until he heard a sigh next to him that was chilling.

The king.

Death no longer felt so inevitable, nor did it feel right. It was wrong, but...it was inside him, twisting and warping to form words that echoed inside his head. Something was slipping into the void left behind by the absence of a heartbeat, speaking to him in the Reaper's voice...

The necromancer.

**********

Logan was only aware of it in passing—however, Logan wasn't supposed to be capable of even that, and had to take such painstaking care to make sure that no trace of his magic could be felt anywhere. He had to keep the fact that he had power hidden, had to beat back every trace of it.

So he was aware of his magic, far more than he was aware of the distant stars that were the lives of every creature within the palace and beyond.

And the feel of his power waking, straining towards death? That hit him hard, made him focus on that awareness of what was happening.

“Lo? You okay?”

Logan spun in his seat and stood, stalking up to the bars of his cell. It was little more than a voice in another house, reaching him barely through thin walls and great distances...but it was growing closer, crossing that distance, too close too close too close...

“Logan? You're scaring me.”

Patton was at his side, watching him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Someone is killing the king.” Logan breathed.

“What? How can you possibly know that?” Patton hissed.

Logan opened his mouth...and nothing came.

Until that voice, hollow and honeyed, was suddenly in his house and in his veins and in his...in his.

For the first time, Logan understood why the Necromata were so feared—why he was locked below ground, why he had no Name of his own and why it was so desperately important to make sure no necromancer could ever practice their art.

The moment he sensed that foreign power encroaching on something that belonged to Logan alone, everything was chilling instinct and cold, calculating fury. The power swept up and took over, took action to reclaim what was being stolen.

The king was dying, but so was the Green Man.

Logan's last rational thought before an eerie blue light swallowed up his eyes and the power wiped his mind clean was that, if the Green Man was close enough to the king, he might actually be able to save them both.

********** The necromancer in the dungeons. Roman could feel it, he was certain of it...it felt cold and airy, thick morning fog swirling through his marrow yet rendering his mind strangely clear. It was familiar, not all that different from the way it felt when they touched in Roman's dreams.

The necromancer was there. He was...helping Roman.

You have to get to the king.

He didn't know, even after all these years didn't realize who Roman was, and that was the way it ought to be, and yet...he was warning Roman, he was--

The wrongness of it filled his chest in the space of a blink, filled his lungs, forced breath into his body. The fight squeezed every muscle, including his heart, in a steady rhythm that started his blood moving again. Roman tried to clutch at his chest, but he couldn't.

He felt cold all over, but his body was working, warring with some outside force, struggling to stay alive.

His body was no longer his to control, he realized with a rush of fear. The necromancer...chill fog, thick and light and clear, in his head and his veins and his heart...

Roman's body was turning, his head swiveling around, obeying an order he did not give.

The necromancer was animating him now, manipulating his every move—and all Roman could do was stand there and let it happen--

Go.

...Father!

This time, when he tried to move, his body obeyed him, his will and that of the necromancer uniting as one.

He rushed forward, reaching out...

In just enough time to catch the king as he fell, a corpse gone cold by the time the both of them reached the ground. ((CW: parental death--but this IS a necromancer AU. Just keep that in mind. XD))

#cw: angst #cw: death #sanders sides #ts logan #ts roman #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #ts morality #logince #necromancer au #thomas sanders #ts fanfic #this is all the artist's fault i'm just a hapless writer that stumbled across it #my name is liz and i swear to god i will fic again #no betas we die like men

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definedwrath · 4 years ago

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uploading data … ⟳ 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴 !

* ; — welcome , MARINA ANDRIESKI . a long way from the magicians , huh ? hm … a twenty - six year old diagon alley store employee who looks like KACEY ROHL — could be worse . i heard you were at THE FACTORY when we un - glitched , & you ( bought yourself a drink ] . still the analytical & self - serving type , that’s why [ red lipstick smudged on pale skin , a flicker of a candle's flame , & heeled boots echoing on tiled floor ]’s totally your vibe . the memory of BEING MURDERED BY REYNARD is hazy , but maybe the ( moonstone ring & black cat familiar , cupcake ) waiting for you at the pawn shop’ll bring clarity . + witch , genderfluid [ she/they ] , pansexual .

tws : death , rape / sexual assault

BEGINNING — born marina andrieski , she lived in new york all her life . she had a family that she doesn't care to remember , a father she doesn't want to remember . for all she cares about , her life only mattered post - brakebills . she could have come into her own , there . but , she had gotten expelled , disgraced by dean fogg . they had taken her memories away from her , but a freak accident left her with her realisation of magic once more . with her sudden realisation back , she groomed her magic , becoming a hedge witch as she scoured places for spells to gain higher star levels , so much so that she opened a safehouse . a fellow hedge witch , hannah , had gotten into her debt due to constant favours , and marina used it for her advantage , using hannah's daughter to smuggle objects and texts out of brakebills . she met a woman named julia wicker and became fascinated by her . she took on the role of a mentorship to her , training her in magic as she used her to sneak into brakebills to get her memories and knowledge back . however , julia turns and betrays her , and marina expels her from the safehouse , burning the stars she received in her time with her . julia and hannah meet and plot against marina , planning to steal her magical archive , only for marina to plant a trap to kill hannah in retribution . confronting julia , she apologised before warning her against messing with her . the two would not cross paths until marina was contacted by julia after she had been raped by reynard the fox , a god who tricked our lady underground who proceeded to kill almost all of the coven members . worried about her , marina offered to help , agreeing to wipe her memories . in a plan to stop reynard , marina would be used as bait . she performed the ritual to lure out reynard but was stalked to her apartment , having had set wards up without realising the god had followed her . he attacked her , biting her fingers off and killing her cat . she was able to break free of the binding spell , but was left to fend for herself against the god . as for what happened afterwards ... the easy answer is she died . how much she suffered prior to that ? well .

MIDDLE — marina still goes by marina andrieski in her life in the cloud . after one too many coincidences , she realised she had magic and started honing it . she had gotten the letter to go to hogwarts and had initially rejected it . the thought of going to an institution to learn magic made something churn heavy in her chest , instead learning magic through magical items themselves . she had been asked again to attend as a university , and -- only then -- did she agree . she graduated and set up shop working in dark arts and oddities in diagon alley .

END — marina remembers everything , even to her untimely death . it was terrifying , it was unnerving , and the pain weighing down on her , still , phantom aches , is indescribable . while she had initially brushed off the memories by grabbing a drink at the factory , it wasn't enough to tear her mind away from her new found reality . it was almost -- almost -- enough for her to have a breakdown . she would have , probably , had she not been in public . the feeling of loss , of violation , of agony ; it's not one that she'll ever get rid of . it's as if the curtain veil is gone , sees everything with clarity , now . it's odd to her , to have gone to hogwarts , wonders vaguely if the life she has now would be at all the life she would have had if she had graduated cleanly from brakebills . she doesn't regret being a hedge witch , though , and with all of her memories back ... if a trinket in diagon alley goes missing every now and then -- is it really anyone's business , but her own ? she has free range over her magic , again , and while she isn't planning a reckoning : she is going to be taking the reins back on her life . she just has to figure out what she wants to do next . she's got time for that , after all .

SCRIBBLED IN THE MARGIN —

DESPERATE TO CONNECT ,

parents / siblings ; you know the drill , adopted or ‘ biological ’ ! she was an only child in her original family , so it’d be fun for her to have someone in the cloud that might just be able to be the closest thing to family for her .

hookups ; ( m/f/nb ) , whether they be active hookups , past hookups , one night stands or even a friends with benefits situation going wrong ; she’s definitely gotten around in the cloud , and it’s not like she has any regrets about that .

friends ; while marina is staunch in her beliefs that she doesn't really have friends , she has people she uses as acquaintances , it’d be cool for her to have people she actually has weak spots for . or , even someone she can be a bad influence to .

former classmates ; marina went to hogwarts for her university level education and went to the non - magical schools otherwise ! it'd be cool to have her run into some of them whether they were friendly or adversary .

mentee ; marina was a powerful witch even before the veil was lifted , and with her full knowledge from her time as a hedge witch back ? she’s an incredibly strong and competent witch , it’d be fun for her to have a student she can take on .

exes ; ( m/f/nb ) , suffice to say , marina probably isn’t an easy person to have a relationship with . she’s not above using people just to feel something . whether it ended amicably or horribly , if you need an ex ? she's around !

TAG DIRECTORY ,

iv. top bitch in new york / abt. about . iv. you don’t know cut off / beg. starters . iv. connections in certain places / vis. visuals . iv. you don’t scare me / ism. musings . iv. don’t let in a lot of people / int. interactions . iv. think about how much you learned / aes. aesthetics . iv. something clicks when you're all in / sol. solos . iv. you want a problem with me / ask. ask responses . iv. some kind of kindred spirit thing / dyn. marina andrieski & the way she let julia wicker past her walls .

#cloud:intro #iv. top bitch in new york / abt.#iv. you don’t know cut off / beg.#iv. connections in certain places / vis.#iv. you don’t scare me / ism.#iv. don’t let in a lot of people / int.#iv. think about how much you learned / aes.#iv. something clicks when you're all in / sol.#iv. you want a problem with me / ask.#iv. some kind of kindred spirit thing / dyn.#tags.

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chnsfairy · 6 years ago

Text

name please ? | han jisung

words ; 3,441

genre ; fluff, a bit of crack

requested ; yes, who prompt 1;iv ( @skzrequests )

warnings ; barista!reader, guitarist!jisung, like two curse words

a/n ; ok so i bent the prompt juST a lil bit but it has the same general idea and i think it turned out ok so i hope you enjoy it lovely !

m.list in bio

“you know y/n, one day you’re gonna have to learn how to make latte art properly,, (￣￣|||)” woojin complains before once again guiding your hand over the small mug which at this point is just a huge mess

“and on your own”

(￣ε￣＠) (￣ε￣＠) meanie

“you’ve been what ? working here for half a year and you still dont know how-” woojin tried to continue, but unfortunately for him, his attempt to teach you how to correctly use steamed milk has come to a crashing halt as a loud bang followed by groans was heard by the front door

you turned on your heel and headed towards the front of the counter,, trying to figure out what exactly caused the ruckus in the usually peaceful coffee shop

excluding your’s and woojin’s bickering in the back

“uhhhh excuse me ???” you ask,, carefully peering over to the giant mess that was now on the floor

“you ok sir ?” (・人・)

sprawl across the floor, carrying a guitar case, it seemed as if the stranger misinterpreted both the speed he was entering the door at and the size of the case,, cause it seemed he got caught at the door ahfjksadhfkjsa poor kid (｡╯︵╰｡)

he came dressed in some simple ripped light jeans, white t-shirt, and light jacket, plus his fluffy brown hair messily laying atop his head as if he just got out of bed

i mean who knows maybe he did

yes he did

“aH ! im um,, so sorry im late....”

after finally collecting himself the stranger stood up and picked up his guitar case,, pink tinting his face from embarrassment and like...you know... he kinda cute (*/ω＼)

no tea no shade

especially when he started messing with his already messy hair yeah there was no use trying to fix that mess but uWU LOOK AT HIS CHEEKS AND SPARKLY BROWN EYES AHHH !!!! (/▽＼*)｡o○♡

woah woah there cool in y/n he just walked in

it’s not your fault he just happens to be absolutely adorable

but maybe it would be best to stop staring at him,,,,

when the boy started walking towards the counter you found yourself quickly shuffling behind woojin, who was now confused, as you pushed him up front to handle with the newcomer,,

CAUsE SORRY BUT THERE WAS NO WAY YOU WERE GOING TO BE GETTING THROUGH A FULL CONVERSATION WITHOUT MAKING A FOOL OF YOURSELF SO WHY DONT WE STOP THAT POSSIBILITY NOW

“hi so i was hired a couple days ago to play a few nights a week ?? this is the right place yeah ? im sure i got the address right....if n-”

woojin interrupted his ramblings before he could continue any further,, bless him

“ oh !! so thats who the boss was talking about !! yeah let me just head back to make eveything’s in order, um y/n can you get him a drink or something ?”

walking away from you he left you completely exposed,, giving the other boy across from you an awkward laugh you grabbed woojin’s shirt quickly to stop him from leaving

“woojin you didnt tell me we were getting a new guitarist !!” you whispered harshly

“ᵒʳ ᵃ ᶜᵘᵗᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ”

“well sorry i didnt think it was important ¯\_(ツ)_/¯”

“does our friendship mean nothing to you”

woojin laughs quietly as he walks through the the door leaving you alone with the cafe’s new guitarist who just so happens to be looking like a whole ass model

“so um,, ” you started nervously,, mAN who thought this one person you make you so fLUSTERED JHASKKSAFKL

“want anything to drink ?”

after staring at menu up on the wall for a couple seconds the guitarist gave you a small smile JHFJKAGJISFIJEHUIGH before nodding his head

“sure can i have an iced latte ?”

out of habit you immediately asked “name please ?”

“oh you know... just your friendly neighborhood squirrel”

(・・ ) ? (・・ ) ? (・・ ) ?

you eyed the boy who was now leaning up against the counter smiling to himself

“i- oh come on wh-”

“thats the name,, you better write it down”

sighing to yourself you carefully wrote it down,, not necessarily sure if you even need to but who cares

as the musician pulled out his wallet to pay you put up your hand to stop him

cause no way you were letting this cute boy pay for his drink

plus he’s an employee as well

“it’s on the house”

“no please let me pay for it ( `ε´ )”

“nope”

so without anyone else there to help, you stepped away from the register and started prepare this strange guitarist’s drink

quietly laughing to yourself as you do so

moments later woojin walks back through the door and out from behind the counter and motions for mystery boy to follow him towards the small stage the cafe had

it was small and shoved into a corner, all wooden as most of the cafe was and it was covered with many different plants and decorated with fairy lights

vv aesthetic if you do say so yourself

then in the center of it was a stool and microphone for performer to set up with and use when they were performing

a couple months ago you had a band play here on friday’s so you had some other equipment in the back but it seemed unnecessary for a simple acoustic guitar

you watched as the boy looked at the fairy lights and the actually quiet beautiful set up in awe

the musician started to unpack his guitar case as you finished off his drink and started walking towards the stage where woojin was showing him where everything was

“you know now that i really think about it ‘squirrel’ kinda suits you”

the sparkly eyed boy laughed as you handed him his drink,, unknowing of what you should say you ended up standing there awkwardly for a few seconds before realizing there was another customer back at the register

“ah- i should,, probably go” you said jabbing your thumb towards the counter before awkwardly heading back

what was tHAT AHHH !! STOP BEING SO WEIRD Y/N OK

ITS REALLY NOT YOUR FAULT HIS HAIR JUST LOOKS PERFECT AND HIS EYES ARE BRIGHT AND HIS SMILES CUTE AND OK TIME TO STOP NOPE NOPE NOPE

you dont even know his name....(｡•́︿•̀｡) (｡•́︿•̀｡) (｡•́︿•̀｡)

lil thot wont give it to you

but thats ok

if he wants to play it like this then thats fINE

you can deal with that

hopefully....

by the time you had finished helping out the other customer you started to hear the sweet sound of an acoustic guitar being played throughout the coffee shop

“you know he’s not half bad,,,”

woojin had returned from helping the musician get settled and soon found his regular spot on a stool in the corner

“yeah,, he’s pretty good isn’t he”

and then a few minutes later you found yourself completely absorbed in the brunette’s angelic voice filling the shop, his guitar only making it even more beautiful

your staring was soon interrupted by woojin pushing you off to the side so he could help a lady who had walked in about a minute ago,, which you hadn’t realized (＞﹏＜) oops

“y/n would you like to go take your break ?”

(´♡‿♡`) (´♡‿♡`) (´♡‿♡`)

!!!!!

“ can i ???”

woojin motioned you to go once again,, and as you were already so distracted it wouldn’t have made much of a difference

you found yourself sitting at an empty table in the corner,, you’ve heard some other guitarists perform many times in your life but this one takes the cake

you’re not too sure what it is about him but,,, he just looked and sounded so sincere with every word he sang ??? the guitar and him looked like they were a single creature,, knowing exactly how to work as one

it was just really beautiful

he was playing a cover of a song you’ve heard a few times before called ‘better days’ by jaie,, he also seemed to have ended up adding some extra elements to fit his voice better and overall it made an incredible impact

almost everyone else in the cafe had their eyes on the musician singing up front who looked so immersed in his music there would’ve been no time for stage fright

“i’ve had my better days, and you’ve had your better days too” he sang quietly

soon after the song had ended there was a light applause from the customers in the coffee shop,, including you who soon.... realized that you need a paycheck....

yeah ok the cute boy is gonna have to wait we gotta get that bread kids

(╥_╥) (╥_╥)

after making the short walk back to your position behind the counter where woojin found his spot once again on his stool until he had to go make up some drinks you started to hear an acoustic version of million dollar man by lana del rey flow through the cafe

it was simple and elegant and you felt kinda sad you couldnt sit and watch :(((((

there was only a couple hours left before you had to close up so you guess it wasnt that bad,, at least you got to listen to some pretty music during the normally slow and quiet closing shift

honestly at this rate you might fall asleep if the guitarist kept the atmosphere this peaceful,, i mean you weren’t complaining bUT THAT PROBABLY WOULDN’T LOOK GOOD TO THE BOSS

so instead you ended up reading for the most of the time until all the customers had all left and woojin had begun wiping down tables and sweeping floors as mystery boy packed up his guitar and papers

then after you finished cleaning up the counter and throwing all the trash out back you collected your own belongings and changed back into your own plain jeans and sweatshirt before clocking out for the day

as you headed back towards the front you saw woojin talking to the unnamed guitarist and waved at the pair before finally walking out the door and into the early spring air

“bye jinnie !! i’ll see you tomorrow !”

nodding his head woojin continued to chat with the brunette as you started heading down the block and towards your apartment

man,,, why did he have to be so cute ??! >:((((

its not fAIR HE DIDNT EVEN TELL YOU HIS NAME HES MEANNN

(ノ_<、) you’ll have to get it from him tomorrow

aAAH even if it’s the last thing you have to do

ok so maybe you went to sleep thinking about the sparkly eyed boy who played beautiful guitar and had an aMAZING voice but like ajdhjsahd who wouldn’t

the next day was mainly the same,,, you had your regulars and a few newcomers who just so happened to be in the neighborhood and stopped in for a drink

and of course the guitarist walked back into the shop a little after 4,, this time slightly more put together

his hair was styled a bit and looked even better but how the fuck is that possible,, today he was also wearing a leather jacket over a yellow hoodie and black jeans

although you hadn’t realized he’d come in yet ahjksfhasdjk

but when you finally looked up you were pleasantly surprised

but jeSUS HI YOU’VE SEEN WHAT AN ANGEL LOOKS LIKE BYE YOU CAN GO TO HELL NOW YEET

“what are you a ninja ? ”

“yes y/n,, i am in fact a ninja ”

“hEY WHY DO YOU KNOW MY NAME >:CCCCCC”

its nOT FAIR hE JUST- HNGGG

“it’s on your name tag”

“oh yeah”

you slightly pouted at the boy in front of you who had become slightly amused by your reaction,, you were cute uwu

“and what would you like today ?” you proceeded as you tried to keep the conversation going

“hmm how about a cappuccino”

he responded after a couple of seconds

“nO i cANT DO THE FANCY ART THINGYYY (╥﹏╥)”

you sighed once again before talking out a paper cup sharpie in hand

“and name ?”

"you said it yourself,,, im a ninja”

you laughed again before rolling your eyes as you scribbled down ‘ninja’ on the cup

“you’re funny you know that ?”

the male shrugged his shoulders and picked up his guitar case once again

“actually no beCAUSE MY JOKES ARE NEVER APPRECIATED”

he then laughs hysterically before heading back towards the lit stage,, leaving you puzzled

“heY uM woojin ????” you needed to find that man to help do the steamed milk,,, or maybe the whole drink all together

luckily he just came back from his break when you shoved the paper cup into his hands

“ninja ?”

“dont ask. pretty art. make. plEASE ? (ಥ﹏ಥ)” you had started tugging on your friends sleeve because you just really didnt want to give a cute boy a cappuccino without pretty art on it :(((

“fine fine fine,, but this is the LAST time,,, im teaching you this weekend i swear...”

“woojin i loveeeee youuuu” (´ ε ` )♡

“(￢_￢) i know”

minutes later after the musician had gotten set up and with his pretty decorated cappuccino the sweet sound of his voice and guitar filled the air,, having all other customers in the room turn their heads to find exactly where it was coming from

especially as he started doing a cover of instagram by dean,, which was yA KNOW AMAZING

he continued to play for a couple hours until you had to close up,, although every so often he ended up glancing your way,, to find that you were also watching he quickly turned away as he felt his face heat up (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)

lucky you,, he didnt see you freak out at the exact same time

and thats basically how it went every day for a while

the still unnamed guitarist would walk in some time after 4, ordered a drink and then played for a couple hours before it was time to close up

nothing out of the ordinary

i mean maybe nOT GIVING HIS NAME

CAUSE GODDAMNIT YOU’RE GETTING ANNOYED BY ALWAYS WRITING SOME RANDOM NAME ON HIS CUP

HE CUTE OK YOU WANNA KNOW HIS NAME AHHHH

oh why dont you ask, you question ????

YOU’VE TRIED

“ok real name this time”

“y/n i’ve already told you”

ψ( ` ∇ ´ )ψ ψ( ` ∇ ´ )ψ ψ( ` ∇ ´ )ψ NO

“well tell me again”

“yeah i decided that it changed today”

sighing you completely gave up on this argument and motioned back to the sharpie in your hand

“kermit the frog.” he said before crossing his arms in a fake pout

“fuck you i love kermit the frog”

“oh i didn’t know you loved me”

((╬◣﹏◢)) aAHHHH NDHFJKJK WHY CANT HE JUST LEAVE YOUR HEART ALONE ALREADY HUH

“nO I- HNGG T^T ....φ(・∀・*)”

you once again angrily scribbled down this boys fake name,, damn you just wanted to knoW AHHH !!! (╥﹏╥)

those were days where five minute arguments were involved with the name picking yet there were others that lasted only 30 seconds

“ __〆(￣ー￣ ) and name please ?”

“ironman”

“yeah no im just leaving this here today”

so after a couple weeks it was just a thing between the two of you

it was your bit per-say

ok maybe you have a tiny crush on the guy but like ???? who wouldn’t ???? he’s just AHhfhasjkf

words cant properly explain it

the two of you clicked almost immediately and you dont feel as if it would be completely wrong to call him a friend

except most friends know each other’s name...so there’s that bit to work out

iF HE WOULD JUST GIVE IT TO YOU

so after a month of random names on paper cups you had a mission today to get this cute boy’s name on his drink today >:(

“ok please please please please please please your name????”

he gave you another one of his bright smiles before simply saying “han”

(￣_￣)・・・ “han what?”

“just han”

(¯ . ¯٥) the lil liar

you know it’s a last name you’re nOT STUPID

“it’s my stage name”

“＼＼٩(๑`^´๑)۶／／ WELL THAT DOESN’T COUNT”

“TOO BAD Y/N”

you pouted once again at your failed attempt to get his real name,,, the meanie,,, why does he tease you like this >:ccc

but you gotta get paid so you grumpily write down his stage name on the cup as he walked over to the stage

“get his name yet ?” woojin comes up from behind you as you hand him the cup

“no :((( bUT why cant you tell me ????”

“i’ve been sworn to secrecy”

“wHY IS KEEPING A NAME A SECRET” you argue as you watch woojin prepare the drink

“because he finds you cute when you get flustered like this”

“bECAUSE IT’S JUST A NAME LIKE- wait what (・・ ) ”

“oops that was another secret soRRy”

you turned back around and grabbed your friends shoulders and shook him probably a bit too violently

“WOOJIN YOU DONT KEEP THINGS LIKE THIS FROM YOUR BEST FRIEND OK WE HAVE A PACT”

“what pact ?????”

“it was an unspoken pact.”

“thEN HOW AM I- you know what never mind i shouldn’t question your insanity” he waved you off so he could finish making ‘han’s drink leaving you both flustered and confused behind the counter as his guitar soon started filling the empty sounding coffee shop

about two hours later there only remained a few other people left so you decided to take your break for the evening as by now there probably wouldnt be much to do

soon a new song had started playing throughout the cafe and your head turned to see the guitarist giving you a shy smile

it was one you had never heard before so the gentle acoustic guitar and han’s comforting voice drew you back towards one of the shop’s tables where you then sat until all other customers ended up leaving

as the two of you were completely unaware of woojin cleaning up the shop, han continued playing and you continued listening to the mystery song before woojin shouted from the back room, forcing you to break eye contact and awkwardly smile at the guitarist

“y/n im clocking you out ok ?!”

“ ok !!” you shouted back before once again turning towards han who was now packing up his case

“what was that last song?”

he muscician scratched the back of his neck before laughing sightly

“uhh it was an original although i haven’t actually titled it yet,, i just wanted to test it out”

“oh wow !! well it was really good, you have my approval ☆⌒(≧▽° )”

“woah really ? thank you that mean a lot...”

(・人・) (・人・) (・人・)

ok woojin it would be great if you could just walk in here and break the awkward silence by now hnNG

“jisung”

∑(O_O;)

“sorry what ??”

“han jisung,,, thats my name”

(O.O)(O.O)

“i think you deserve it by now”

Σ(°ロ°) Σ(°ロ°) Σ(°ロ°)

“aWE A CUTE NAME FOR A CUTE BOY LOOK-”

oh shit (o_O)

well you certainly did not mean to say that out loud

“oops sorry heheheheh”

jisung was GONE

this barista who he had been secretly pining over for a month just called him cute all his insides are just HJSADHKJAKDSA

help the poor boy

his stomach is doing flips as we speak

i mean he couldn’t just leave it as is

cOME ON WHERE’S YOUR CONFIDENCE ヾ(。��＜)シ

“so um,, does that mean i can take you out to coffee sometime ?”

(;;;*_*) (;;;*_*)

“although unless you dont want to-”

“yes.”

“i get that like you kinda just learned my name”

“yes.”

“not too sure why that was kept a secret so long but- what?”

“jisung 1. ahhh cute name, 2. yes, i’d love to (／。＼)”

jisung gave you another one of his adorable bright smiles that felt as if it could light up a whole room,, which is did as always,, although this time he looked almost even happier

and for once you went to sleep without racking your brain for ideas as to what his name could be

bonus ;

“although if you give them something other than your name i will leave”

“y/n”

“like did me saying ‘name please ?’ cause you to freak out or something ?? honestly i’m very curious”

“wELL when it just so happens to be someone looking very cute...yes i did,,,,”

“aWWEEE JISUNG”

362 notes · View notes

jflashandclash · 5 years ago

Text

Tales from Mount Othrys

Magical Daycare IV

Axel let out a string of cusswords.

“Lou! Get her to the corner with her clothes!” From the shrill in Alabaster’s voice, Pax could deduce three things about Alabaster: he hadn’t realized Pax was a boy, he had never seen a naked girl outside of a magazine, and he was covering his eyes. Either that, or Alabaster had a thing or two to learn about girl anatomy, possibly true if Alabaster had never seen a naked girl.

Lou Ellen took Pax’s elbow. She pulled him towards the shelves. “Come on, before you give my brother a—”

When she quarter turned Pax, she went bright red and burst into giggles. “Oh!” she said.

There weren’t a lot of options on how to react. He could apologize for his nudity and for tricking all of them earlier. He could sprint to the corner and pretend to be embarrassed. (Nudity had never bothered him.) That felt disingenuous. What would Uncle Frasco have done? How could he keep Axel focused on reprimanding him instead of attacking the witches for exposing his face?

Pax winked his hazel eye at Lou Ellen. “My uncle said the best mornings are filled with surprises.” He tried to give her a charming smile.

Pain erupted in Pax’s ear. Axel might have been about to rip it off as he dragged Pax away from Lou Ellen, towards the corner with his clothing. “Don’t be a creep!” Axel snarled.

“Aye!” Pax complained. He switched to Spanish to whine, “I’m young enough; she might have thought it endearing and adorable instead.”

Uncle Frasco said Pax would only have a few more years that he could use age and ignorance as an excuse. Might as well use it.

“Get dressed,” Axel said. The tone cut off any more resistance.

Axel had handled killing the praetor. He’d handled chasing Pax down after Pax had run away—Pax knew Axel would. (Pax had just hoped the rest of their siblings would have been here with them.) Now, one of Axel’s last defenses had been robbed from him. Without the illusion, Pax could clearly see Axel’s massive canines, the gold glint to his eyes, and the way his tufted ears folded back into his hairline, several inches higher than a human’s would have been. Pax wondered if Axel could recreate the illusion when Alabaster was holding the old one or if Lou Ellen’s “Mist” weakening ward would make it difficult.

Without complaint, Pax slipped the huge band shirt over his head and tied the flannel shirt back around his waist. Although now wasn’t the time to investigate, Pax could feel something in the flannel’s front pocket. There hadn’t been anything before. Had Mercedes put something in there when she moved his clothing?

“They just seemed curious,” Pax said. “I don’t think they meant harm.” He was scared of upsetting Axel more. His older brother only ever showed his real features around the circus, where people thought it was costume make up or were performers that didn’t care. When their papa made a big deal about it, saying it showed favor from the gods, it made Axel even more self-conscious.

“Is she dressed?” Alabaster called.

Lou Ellen’s voice trembled with repressed giggles, “Almost.”

If she let him, Pax would hug her later for continuing the farce on the older boy. He liked making Alabaster flustered.

Now that Axel had accepted his features would be visible, he jammed his hands into his pockets. When the two of them approached the witches’ work table again, Axel scowled, making his elongated canines look more vicious.

Once, when their youngest sibling, Hiro, had cried at seeing Axel’s barred fangs, Pax had grabbed Axel’s jaws and opened and shut them saying, “Nom. Nom. Nom!” It sent Hiro into a fit of giggles. Pax hardly resisted doing so now, though doubted it would ease Axel’s tension.

Lou Ellen gave Pax a wink when they returned. “She’s dressed.” From the expression, Pax could tell it wasn’t a flirtatious wink but a mischievous one. Pax got the feeling she liked to mess with her sibling’s heads as much as he did.

Alabaster had uncovered his eyes to pick Axel’s fake face off the ground. He must have dropped it when Pax transformed. After clearing his throat and pretending his face wasn’t bright red, Alabaster held the illusion up. “This is excellent craftsmanship, though completely unnecessary. Lots of monsters on the ship have a combo of humanoid and animal features.”

“I’m not a monster,” Axel snarled, not helping the claim. Best way to convince people you’re not terrifying: bare your fangs at them.

Lou Ellen’s Mediterranean tan shifted to a deeper red. She seemed more enchanted with him now that she could see the shorter, spotted fur below Axel’s ears, where he pretended to shave his hair. “People have animal features too. You should see our sister, Lamia. What are you?”

The question wasn’t said with a scared or harsh tone, just curiosity. The Pax boys were used to hearing it in so many capacities. Pax and Lapis got it about their gender. Hiro, with his monolids, and Axel with his ambiguous bronze skin, got it about their race.

“Maybe some sort of massive cat?” Lou Ellen continued, not seeming to realize how rude her question was. “You don’t have slit eyes—”

“Large cats don’t have slit irises, Lelly,” Alabaster chided.

Axel cut off their conversation by motioning towards his face. “This was not for the public to see.”

Alabaster’s gaze went from distantly considering Axel’s face to narrowing at Axel’s eyes. He cleared his throat and held the illusion out for Axel.

Axel snatched it from Alabaster and began smoothing the mask of brown eyes, human ears, and shorter canines back to his features. He muttered in Mayan while he worked.

“I—I’m sorry,” Alabaster said, “I let my curiosity get the best of me. I’ve never seen someone tweak just a tiny bit of their face before. Lou Ellen is right though. You don’t need to hide your features here.”

“You’re even hotter with your real ones,” Lou Ellen said.

Pax glanced at Axel to see if the older one blushed.

Axel cleared his throat. His mouth moved like he had a response.

He didn’t.

Pax gave Lou Ellen an appreciative grin. That was the best way to disrupt tension: shocking it out of people.

“You guys are cool,” Pax said.

This time, Alabaster blinked in surprise. “That’s not the typical response we receive when turning people into small mammals.”

Most people, Pax decided, didn’t naturally have the disposition for cute, furry things the way that Pax did.

Pax scurried up to Alabaster’s side. The boy didn’t flinch back when Pax tugged his lab coat sleeve. Pax tilted his chin down and batted his eyelashes at Alabaster, the way he’d learned from Kouta’s girlfriends and some of the prostitutes their dad occasionally hired for parties and business meetings. “Can you really do magic?”

Alabaster stared at Pax for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion. “As can the two of you, apparently?” his question was directed more at Axel. “Are the two of you children of Hecate?”

“Half our siblings are monsters,” Lou Ellen said, seeming to forget that Axel really didn’t like the M word.

“No,” Axel said.

Neither Axel nor Pax knew what to say about their parentage. Pax didn’t like saying who his mother was. Not with the mini-cult his father had formed around her and the way that cult treated Pax.[1]

Could they talk about Axel’s heritage with anyone on this ship?

Lou Ellen tilted her head to one side. The black locks of her ponytail tumbled against one shoulder. “Are you even Greek?” she asked. “You two have some other magic that interfered with my vial.”

Alabaster appeared to forget Pax for a moment. “I haven’t read of cat people in Greek mythology. Maybe—Egyptian? Though I suppose that would be your full head. Mesoamerican?”

If Alabaster were throwing at a map of the world, he would have been hitting way too close to home. Axel flinched, like each of those metaphorical darts could blow up the country of Belize. To be fair, Pax thought, Belize was a tiny country.

Something high-pitched chimed.

All four of them jumped.

After a moment, Pax realized the sound had come from a ship’s intercom in the corner of the room.

Alabaster sighed. He went to write something on his flip notebook. “I want to test your magic and how it interacts when combined with Greek magic,” he said. “They’ll want you on the top deck to test you for sword prowess, combat training, and knowledge of mythology. I’ll be up shortly to help with the assessment. They’re split into specific skills afterwards. I expect you to report back here during that time.”

When Alabaster tore the piece of paper out of his flipbook, it glowed green. Axel hesitated to take it. At his pause, Pax snatched the sheet.

He couldn’t read anything on the page. As they always did, the letters looked like abstract art to him. The sheet itself felt warm. “We get to come back!?” Pax asked. He failed at keeping the excitement from his voice.

Alabaster gently removed Pax’s other hand from his lab coat. The motion wasn’t angry, just awkward, like Alabaster wasn’t used to people touching him. Him and Mercedes. Pax vowed to give them both more hugs. “Willing test subjects, especially in their rarity, are always welcome back to the lab.”

Pax wanted to say that Alabaster could test on him all day. He rather liked turning into a weasel and was excited at whatever else the witch boy might have up his white lab sleeves.

Instead, he grinned at Alabaster’s emerald gaze.

Axel took Pax’s arm and pulled him from Alabaster’s side.

Alabaster shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Surely, if you were capable of killing the praetor, Luke will be most enthusiastic to assign you into the Assault and Battery unit. However, it would be a waste to exclusively delve into the sword with talent like that.” He motioned towards Axel’s face. The bitterness to his words reminded Pax of the conversation they overheard between him and Luke. The sentiment was so strong, he almost overlooked the compliment.

Axel grunted. “Don’t touch my illusion next time.”

Pax gave them a shy wave goodbye. Lou Ellen giddily waved back as Axel backed them towards the exit. Pax wanted to point out that the two witches could have turned them into weasels easily, and that Lou Ellen was much more likely to do so to have Axel transform back naked than for any other malicious reason. But, since Uncle Frasco and Aunt Nilley’ murders, Pax knew there wasn’t any reasoning with Axel’s paranoia.

Once outside with the lab doors shut, Axel relaxed.

“They were awesome!” Pax said, “And they want us to come back! They—”

Axel snagged Pax’s ear. “Do NOT drink something without asking what is in it. What would you have done if nuts were in there? Did you even think to bring an EpiPen from home?! And what if they’d wanted to drug you?!”

“Your imagination is boring!” Pax whined. He didn’t want to consider the idea that his new friends could be bad people.

“Yea, and if they were going to drug you, they would, like, totally slip it into the cafeteria’s fountain machine,” someone said directly beside them.

Axel jumped and dragged Pax behind him.

The blond, sunburned Nordic boy stood outside the doors, exactly where they had been eavesdropping before. His grin was so wide, Pax thought you could sell advertising space on it.

“Matthias Severe Hanson,” he said and extended a hand.

Both Axel and Pax stared skeptically at the hand. It clearly had an electric buzzer strapped to the palm.

When neither bit, Matthias lifted his hand, shook the buzzer back and forth in their faces, and tapped his fingers together. Pax wondered how often Matthias shocked himself with the device if he tapped his fingers together so often.

“You two are good. Pax, right?” He pointed a finger gun at Pax. “Did you get it?! That Mercedes Benz chick said that you got it.”

For a moment, Pax didn’t know how to respond. This was the first person to properly introduce themselves, but he’d glazed over the introduction so rapidly, Pax was still back by “Matthias Severe Hanson.” But hadn’t this boy already said that he knew his name?

“Got what?” Axel asked.

The answer hit Pax with a bead of sweat. He puffed up his cheeks and popped them, reaching into pocket of the flannel shirt tied around his waist. As he feared, he withdrew a vial.

Axel was going to kill him.

Matthias bent his middle and ring finger down in some weird hand motion. “Awesome!” he cried.

Pax darted to the side when Axel went to slap him across the head. “Ajax!” he snarled. “When did you even have time to grab that?! You were a weasel!”

Pax dashed behind Matthias as the blond pointed out, “Actually, that’s kind of weasels’ thing.”

“I didn’t!” Pax squeaked, “Mercedes!”

“Yea right,” Axel growled.

She must have slipped it into his pocket when she moved his clothing. He’d unwittingly been part of a smuggling operation. And he’d just stolen from two witches. He knew what happened to people who stole from witches. “These aren’t…. drugs, are they? Am I going to be cursed?!”

Matthias laughed again, snatching the vial from Pax’s fingers. He didn’t seem to mind his meat shield status between the two brothers. “Na, man. This is the perfect thing for a prank! Ohhhhhhh!!!!! Chris is going to owe you some drachma!”

“No, he won’t. You are going to owe Alabaster and Lou Ellen an apolo—”

Axel never got to finish his sentence.

Someone threw an arm around Axel’s shoulder.

Like any normal teenager would, Axel judo-flipped Jack over his shoulder and onto the floor.

Jack’s butt and legs smacked loudly against the carpet. He clutched at the arm Axel had mangled. “Ow—holy titans, kid! That was—”

Axel paled.

He and Pax scrambled to help Jack up.

“Don’t sneak up on me!” Axel said. He puffed up his cheeks and popped them. Clearly, losing his face once today had left him on edge.

Jack gave him a pained grin as the brothers each took an arm. “We finished up our vocal practices and wanted to check on how you boys were doing with your caretaker. You got your dad good.”

“You’re not my—” Axel bit back his own comment. Pax could tell Axel didn’t want to both physically and emotionally assault the redhead within minutes of each other, especially with Jack’s eyes watering the way they were.

A few feet behind them, Flynn stood. She was in the middle of slipping her hair blades back into her bun. Pax realized, in alarm, she must have withdrawn them to use on Axel if things got out of hand. Their new mother was terrifying. Awesome, but terrifying. “You’re late to sword practice,” she said, crossing her arms.

Pax tried not to feel disappointed. He would rather help with the witches all day. Unlike Lapis and Axel, he never did as well during fighting practice, though he did excel at evasion and running away. Running away was his favorite, next to eating Reese’s Sticks.

During their altercation, Matthias must have slipped the vial into his pocket. He’d taken a few steps back, to stay clear of their new parents.

“Are you coming to sword practice?” Pax asked.

Matthias grinned. “If by sword practice, you mean lay down and prostate myself…? I find it discourages people greatly from stabbing me.”

Flynn scowled at Matthias. Unlike most other people Pax had seen, Matthias didn’t cower away from her.

“He doesn’t have to come to this training. He makes the traps for it,” Flynn explained.

Matthias pinched his thumbs and forefingers at his collarbone, like he was wearing suspenders. He rocked forward. “I’m a mechanic.”

Pax’s mind buzzed with ideas. He could be part of this violent cult and not fight? That sounded awesome. Mercedes mentioned the Spy Unit that she wanted to create, but how long would that take to make? “How do I become a mechanic? Or a witch?!”

Jack choked on a laugh. He ruffled Pax’s hair. While talking, he shooed Axel and Pax towards the stairs. “Be a child of Hephaestus or Athena, usually. Or Hecate for the other. There are some people that are naturally skilled at it—”

Matthias scurried alongside them. He, like Pax, struggled to keep up with Jack’s long strides. “Ximena is a daughter of Ares and she’s really naturally adept with engines, so she helps us a lot.” Matthias bobbed his head to unheard music and tapped his fingers in the air.

Pax’s shoulders sagged. His mom definitely wasn’t one of those gods. He liked to sew and draw; he’d never been good at fixing the beat-up cars that their Chiich’s boyfriend brought back to their house.

“Does Luke run all the fighting drills?” Axel asked.

From what Pax had seen of Axel’s fighting, his older brother would be genuinely curious. Axel always wanted to learn more so he could better protect Pax. After seeing how powerful the witches were, he probably wanted a confidence booster.

Jack beamed at them and looked at Flynn, his bright eyes wide. The way he whipped his head made his red locks flop into his eyes.

“I run them,” she said, staring ahead as they twisted up several flights of stairs. Pax wished he would have counted how many they descended so he could make a countdown going up. “And, since I can’t show favoritism towards our… children,” she said the word with distaste, “I will need to be harsher on the two of you.”

Axel beamed at the thought. Leave it to his brother to be excited about a good ass kicking.

Jack grinned back. He poked Axel in the chest and nodded to Pax. “Before Flynn beats you up, you two are in for a surprise today.”

They finally crested the last flight of stairs, to a pair of glass sliding door. As their sensors went off and they automatically slid open, allowing a burst of warm air to blast Pax in the face, he almost squeaked.

Waiting outside the doors was a smirking Luke.

He tossed a sword to Axel, then Pax.

Matthias, seeming to sense the gravity of the situation, bolted.

“You’re getting private lessons with me today,” he said.

Remembering what Alabaster said about Luke’s mood and the way he’d struck the witch, Pax swallowed. They were dead.

***

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D Next week, I’m taking a short break, but I’ll come back the week after with Luke’s two-parter Big Boy Conversations.

***

Footnote:

[1] Mel betanote: “cults everywhere!” Jack, “Now you get a cult! And you get a cult!” the Greeks will be so pleased XD

#Tales from Mount Othrys #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #PJO #hOO #TFMO #fanfiction #Axel #Alabaster #Pax #Lou Ellen #Matthias #Jack #Flynn #Luke #Axel needs a leash for Pax #And a restraining order for Lou Ellen #He doesn't yet realize she can sneak into his room at any time with Pax's willing help

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chocoholicannanymous · 5 years ago

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If the Spit Hits the Fan (Glee) pt VIII

Follows pt I, pt II, pt III, pt IV, pt V, part VI. and pt VII.

Readjusting to life at Dalton is a lot easier than Kurt had feared. It helps that he isn't scared witless this time, of course. It also helps that Blaine isn't there to monopolize his time – which, in hindsight, had been the root of a lot of Kurt's isolation. Now he's got the Warblers for real, and Sebastian. He's also got a much better understanding of what it'll take to keep on top of academics, and how much he can allow himself to relax. He hadn't known that last time.

(There's a nagging thought that Blaine must have known, yet said nothing, that refuses to leave his brain. It's not a pleasant one.)

Another difference is that this time Kurt's not looking to return to McKinley. Last time he'd wasted valuable time and energy trying to come up with a way to return, and daydreaming about being back. This time's different. He chose Dalton this time, and he's staying no matter what.

Also, things being what they are he's not spending large chunks of his time with Mercedes and Rachel. From what Finn reports Rachel is furious – that Kurt's left, that he's not getting punished for the election and that he's left them another person down for Sectionals. Kurt's okay with that, seeing as she hadn't exactly been a great friend before he left. As for her rantings, well. If she spreads the cheating rumors too far Kurt'll deal with it – or his dad will – and the rest is easy to ignore.

He does miss Mercedes, but at the same time he's not willing to bend enough to fix things between them. Not this time.

She didn't believe in him.

It's that simple. He was on the verge of suspension, and Mercedes didn't believe in him. She wasn't even enough of a friend to pretend she did in public. Adding her behavior over Blaine's disappearance and West Side Story.... It's up to her to make the first move, and there's nothing guaranteeing their friendship can be salvaged in the end.

So instead of spending time and energy on the mess that is the New Directions – because even with the split that's who they are – Kurt throws himself into making the most of his time at Dalton.

“I'm sorry we can't give you a solo.”

Kurt stares at Sebastian. A solo? Where did that come from? Because honestly, Kurt hadn't expect one, nor had he entirely decided if he should audition for one or not.

“We talked about it and we all know you could use it, and none of us is applying to performing arts' schools. It's simply too close to Sectionals for us to rework our setlist. Not if we want to go on to Regionals. If we do though, then we've agreed that you get a solo.”

There's a hint of pink on Sebastian's cheeks, but Kurt doesn't have the energy to try and analyze that now. It's probably Sebastian's way of apologizing or something.

“Auditions?”

“Right. I guess that this is when I tell you that the Warblers have changed how things are run. Used to be someone auditioned, and then the council decided. Only everyone knew that auditions pretty much were a sham. David and Thad admitted as much themselves, once the others started pushing. After all, it is kind of hard to pretend auditions matter when the person ending up with all the solos never even participated in the auditions in the first place.”

Which... True. Kurt just never thought the Warblers would become aware enough to see that. Maybe it's a side-effect of Wes being gone. Him and his cursed gavel...

“So now the council is gone, and everyone gets a vote on solos. And this time everyone agreed that if we make it to Regionals it was only fair to offer you a spot.”

And well, that changes things. Hopefully.

“Well, it's much appreciated either way. It's a little too late to add a Regionals solo on my NYADA application but I should be able to add it to some of the others.”

Because he is applying to other schools, regardless of what he and Rachel agreed to. Only applying to one school? Insanity. Especially a school like NYADA, which accept only 60 students per year, and only 20 of them for the concentration Kurt (and Rachel) had applied for. What if they doesn't accept him, then what? Was he supposed to stay in Lima and reapply? Spend a year or several working at the garage or in some store while his meager CV became more and more dust-covered by the minute?

No. He's applying to every school in New York that'll suit him – and a few that won't – plus another couple elsewhere. He's even considering throwing in an application to Ohio State, since the campus in Columbus offers a couple of options when it comes to theater and music. Not that he wants to stay in Ohio, not really, but he'll go just about anywhere as long as it's not Lima.

“Well, dreaming about Regionals is all very nice, but we're not there yet. Also, there are other things to consider as well, like passing all my classes. You wouldn't be willing to lend me your notes for French for a night or two, would you? Oh, and I'm not sure I interpreted the third question for our advanced reading homework correctly, so do you think we could sit down and talk it over?”

It's easier to focus on schoolwork, on grammar and linguistics, than on the strangeness of Sebastian's actions. Much easier.

Sectionals comes and goes – and leaves a trophy behind. The Warblers celebrate, and Kurt with them. If his joy is also about the possibility of a solo... Well. Who can blame him?

That is, of course, if what Sebastian said still goes. There's no reason to think it shouldn't, not really, but Kurt remembers being burnt too well to not be cautious.

Regardless, they won't be competing against the New Directions at Regionals. The Troubletones had wiped the floor with their former teammates, and Kurt can't say he's surprised. Finn isn't either, even if it's obvious that he's unhappy about it. Oh, he tries to hide it, but. He's used to winning, loves it, and was already thinking about how to do better at Nationals than last years.

And now that's not going to happen.

“They deserved it, I don't care what anyone” read Rachel “thinks. I know how much they've been rehearsing.”

And the New Directions, true to form, hadn't. Or so Kurt supposes. After all, they hadn't had a setlist when he left, and Finn hasn't complained about suddenly ending up with a ton of extra rehearsals.

“Finn? I know they are good, but I also know you guys are. And it's okay if you're not happy about losing, even to them. It sucks to lose something you really want and losing to your friends doesn't make it easier. Not at first at least.”

“Experience talking, huh?”

“Mmmmmmm.”

Kurt still remembers how it'd hurt to lose to his friends, and not even going back to them had made it feel better. He'd gone to Nationals feeling that he didn't deserve it, and knowing that Mr Schue thought the same.

“You know what really sucks about all of this? We had a suggestion for a setlist that would have given us the win. Michael Jackson songs, solos for everyone... I think it would have been awesome.”

“Let me guess, Rachel flipped.”

It's not even a question, because obviously she would have. Allowing everyone solos? No matter how small, that would have meant less time in the spotlight for her. Just as it wouldn't have mattered how great the suggested songs were, because Michael Jackson isn't something Rachel would be able to do well.

And of course Mr Schue would have folded faster than wet cardboard once she started complaining, neither of them caring that by catering to Rachel's demands they weakened the group.

“Oh yeah. And now she's on a 'woe is me because NYADA' tear, and it's driving me insane. Well, everyone. I'm pretty sure Tina's on the verge of punching her. Plus, she... Anyway, Glee sucks now.”

“She's blaming me, isn't she? For leaving, and for supposedly making Blaine leave.”

It makes sense, in a totally-not-unless-you're-Rachel-Berry way, and it's nothing less than Kurt's been expecting if he's honest. Because there's no way Rachel would ever lose gracefully, just as there's no way she'd accept the rightful blame for having messed up.

“You guessed that, huh? Yeah, sorry. I don't know what's gotten into her, I swear.”

“She's being the worst version of herself. I knew I made myself a target by leaving, I just didn't care. Then again I already was one, so I guess that's 'bigger' target. And I can't imagine she took it any better knowing that the Warblers won our Sectionals.”

Kurt can practically hear Finn wince over the phone, which is never an encouraging thing – and yet, much too frequent with Rachel Berry in the picture.

“I...might have told her that I wouldn't talk to her about it, and walked out the door when she did it anyway?”

Kurt removes the phone from his ear, stares at it, shakes it to see if anything is broken inside, stares at it again and then replaces it.

“I'm sorry, you what? Are you telling me you finally located your balls when it comes to a girl?”

And then it's Kurt's time to audibly wince, because while true that's also extremely rude – and crude – and Finn doesn't deserve it. Not even though it's true.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

“Nah, it's nothing I don't deserve. I just, I've had it okay? I love Rachel, I do, but sometimes I'm not so sure I like her. And the past few weeks have been worse than usual. When we got back together it was supposed to be for this year, since she's going to New York after graduation. Which I figured I could get around, you know? Part of me wants to ask her to marry me and commit to going to New York with her. Another part figured it'll never work since she can't respect anything or anyone outside of herself and her dreams.

“She only changed her mind about sex because Artie told her she wasn't credible onstage otherwise, and she didn't even tell me at first. Then she's been an absolute bitch about everything with you. So let's say I change her mind and we get married. What else will she do?

“I'm not sure about being with her at all anymore, and it's not breaking my heart like it should.”

Hearing that? Kind of breaks Kurt's heart though. Once upon a time he'd have been ecstatic to hear something like this from Finn. Now he's grown beyond that, and all he wants for Finn is happiness. (That he's not sure Rachel can provide that isn't really the point. Up until now Finn has believed it, and that's the only thing that matters.)

“I'm sorry. Do you... I'll be home Friday evening. Want me to bring some cookies and watch a movie, or do you have plans?”

“Peanut butter chocolate chips? Plus, Captain America comes out on DVD this week, and I know you like Chris Evans.”

“I really really do.”

They both laugh, and if Finn's is a bit strained neither of them are going to admit it. What's important here is that regardless of everything they've got each other.

#chocoholic fics #kurt fic #kurt hummel #a wild sebastian appears #in 2019 we finish our wips #if the spit hits the fan #scraps and snippets #brotherly furt

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momentsinsong · 5 years ago

Photo

Moments In Song No. 021 - Tromac Pineapple

“Moments In Song” asks people one simple question, “What are you listening to?” For every installment we ask someone to make a playlist of 10 songs they’re listening to, whether it be something new they stumbled upon, or a song they’ve always loved, and explain the story behind their choices. We aim to show that no matter where we come from, what we do, or what we look like, music has the ability to bring us together.

DMV producer/rapper/DJ Tromac Pineapple reaches every corner of Hip-Hop and brings it together in his playlist. We talk to him about digging through Bandcamp for music, what makes a good DJ, and his new project the Velour Vandal EP.

Listen to Tromac’s playlist on Apple Music and Spotify.

Words and photos by Julian.

_________________________________________________________

Julian: First thing I wanted to ask you is what the thought process was behind making your playlist? People always say it’s hard picking 10 songs to squeeze into it.

Tromac: Well I wanted to spread across my taste as wide as possible. I actually had a hard time once I got to like 7 songs because I was like, “Damn, I can only put in three more of those joints, but I know 5 that I could pick.” I pretty much just wanted to touch on the different types of music I like. I still didn’t even get across all of it.

I noticed that a majority of the playlist was Hip-Hop, but different types of Hip-Hop. You have some boom bap stuff with “Free (Type Shit),” Dilla, and Anderson. Then you have more turn up stuff like WiFIGawd and Ghostie. That Ghostie song caught me off guard. It has a little house feel to it that I wasn’t expecting.

Yeah see I had to add that, because Ghostie is one of the most versatile artists I know. As versatile as this playlist is, he’s six times as versatile as that. As a fellow producer in this area, I have a whole lot of respect for him. And that’s my mans, so I’ll be listening to it anyway. Shit be cranking, no matter what genre he tackles. And then I also have the “Free (Type Shit)” joint because it’s just so smooth and it hits. The beats, the boom bap. That’s one of my favorite things in Hip-Hop. It’s just so powerful. That’s also why I got the J Dilla joint on there. That’s like my favorite Dilla beat of all time. Straight slap, the drums, the snares. The whole thing. It's just hard. Classic. Undeniable.

When did you first really start listening to music and developing your own taste, instead of just listening to what was on the radio?

Pretty much when I was in 9th or 10th grade. Back then my main taste was just mixtapes and shit. The first favorite rapper I ever had was Lil Wayne, and he’s still like top 5 to me to this day. I would just listen to endless mixtapes, because before I graduated High School I just loved to listen to underground shit. I literally didn’t listen to albums and would only listen to mixtapes. I would listen to the first three Droughts, Sorry 4 the Wait. That was my favorite mixtape of all times for like 18 years (laughs).

Were you on DatPiff and all those sites?

Oh bruh, I had a DatPiff account, LiveMixtapes, Sprinrilla, all of that.

So how did listening to mostly mixtapes branch off into listening to other types of artists and other types of music?

Well basically every now and then I would look into what was new that week…

Still on the mixtape websites, or is this on something else?

Yeah still the mixtape sites but at this point I also got into Bandcamp, and that was some real underground type shit. When I got into Bandcamp I was also making my own music at this point and was posting it on there. I would hashtag that shit and then click on them to see who else was posting music from Laurel, MD, or PG County, or just Maryland in general. That’s how I found a bunch of other local artists, like my homies Fonlon and Kente from NASA8, Tek.Lun and other guys. They had the same hashtags because we were all from Laurel. And then from there I would look at other hashtags like #HipHopBeats, and I would discover artists like Madbliss. Searching through hashtags led to me finding a bunch of random bands on Bandcamp, and I feel like that really opened the door for me to be on the lookout for other genres of music.

You said earlier this is when you started making music?

Yeah I started making music in 10th grade.

So is that writing rhymes? Making beats? Both?

Making beats. I mean I was freestyling with my friends all the time, and writing rhymes down in my notebook, but I wasn’t rapping on beats until 11th grade, which was around 2013. I didn’t rap on my own beats until 2014 because I knew my shit wasn’t good (laughs). But it eventually got to a point where I could hit my own stuff instead of YouTube “type beats.” I knew early on “type beats” wasn’t the wave. It is the wave for some people, but it wasn’t the wave for me. And I knew that early on because you can’t really build a solid body of work just taking random beats. Even if you get a bunch of random beats from different producers, it’s more that needs to go into a project than that.

When you first started making music, who were some of your influences when it came to producing? I would assume Dilla is one, or did that not come until later?

I knew about J Dilla because I would hear my parents listen to Erykah Badu and Common, so when my Dad found out that I was making beats he would be like, “Oh so you wanna be like Dougie Fresh and J Dilla?” and I was like, “Who the hell are these people?” All I knew was like Mike WiLL Made-It because that was what I was hearing. I wasn’t too keen on producers at that level. The producers I did know were like Flying Lotus, Tek.Lun, Kaytranada, Sam Gellaitry and that was all through Soundcloud. Some of my favorite producers would be the ones I randomly found on Soundcloud.

Can you talk more about how discovering these local artists’ music on the internet led to you linking up with them, and not just working with them but them becoming your homies.

Literally just through showing love and support through the music. I started coming out here to Baltimore for events and chilling with the homies as a way to immerse myself in the scene. Of course, you met people, you tell people you do music, and eventually the link forms itself. And if you’re good the link grows with a lot of people. When you’re genuine, genuine things happen for you. I’ve never been a “clout chaser” or anything like that. It’s always been, “This dude is really dope. He’s the homie of my homie.”

I agree with that 100%. I feel like every connection or relationship I’ve made with someone in the arts scene has been on some person to person type stuff. Not even like artist to artist, or creative to creative type stuff, but just like as a person. And I feel like you were saying it just grows from there.

Definitely. People who are just creative in general. Photographers, painters, dancers, even like fucking bartenders. Athletes, anyone who’s mind moves faster than the normal individual. I remember when I was learning how to drive my driving instructor told me that people who are athletes and artists tend to get adapted to driving easier, because their brains work more than the average individual because they have a craft they need to constantly focus on. Whatever activity you’re involved in, your brain works harder to adapt to that.

So beats came first, and then the raps. Where does the DJing come into that?

So the DJing came in because I had probably performed 3 or 4 times rapping, but then I was really confident in my beats and I wanted to start performing my beats. By this time, 2015/2016, I would be seeing videos of dudes like eu-IV, j.robb, other producers I looked up to, random Boiler Room videos, and was thinking, “Why can’t I perform my shit?” So I started creating mixes in FL Studio, and learned to DJ through that. It was tedious as fuck, but I had time because I was kid and didn’t have shit to do (laughs).

I feel like that shows in your sets now. The last one I saw from you, you had a transition from some house song to a Gucci Mane song that was crazy. Never would I have thought to put those two tracks together.

Literally when I DJ, I just play the music that I like. That Gucci Mane song just came back into my rotation like a week ago and I was just like, “Damn I don’t remember this shit being so hard. I gotta play this at a show!” A lot of it is on the fly. I don’t really plan too much outside of downloading the music. I always go off of the crowd and how I feel. Sometimes I’ll download 30 songs for a set and only end up playing like 13, and the rest of the set would’ve been made up of songs I’ve played at other shows.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a show, and have been practicing the week before, and had a playlist ready, and you go in and the crowd is totally different, the energy changes, so you have to play off the cuff. I feel like as much emphasis you put on practicing and preparing, you also need to have the skill of being able to be on your toes and change on the drop of a dime.

I feel like if you’re a good DJ, that should already be a thing. You should know. You pick up on things like that automatically. The shows are practice. You’re not gonna get the same experience at a show, practicing at home. That’s why I feel like if you’re just starting out you should take as many opportunities as you can, and get a feel of what your lane is. I used to take any show I could. I would DJ baby showers, college pools parties, everything. You gotta find your lane, figure out what type of crowds your best in, and switch it up every now and then.

What can you tell me about the new project you got coming up? What kind of sound and themes can people expect from it?

So the new project is called the Velour Vandal EP, and it’s basically establishing myself as a rapper in the game. I’ve had rap projects before, I’ve had beat tapes, but this is my first official EP. I want people to hear this and think, “Ok, Tromac is actually trying to make it type shit.” It’s really just a lot of crank on this joint, but it’s not like I was in this joint like, “Fuck your bitch…”

You put some thought into it.

Yeah! There’s some lyrics that you gotta ask about. I’m trying to make something that’ll hit, stick, and has good content. All the people I’m working with on it are people I know care and are passionate about music. The intro is produced by me and Koleco, I’m recording all of the songs with Martin J. Ballou, I got Vlad on a song, I got Ghostie. Pretty much have all people I know are serious about music. I want this project to be something.

Yeah it’s like your introduction as a whole artist.

Yeah. And the whole thing behind the title is for like the last year or so, I’ve become really fond of velvet and have been buying a lot of it. People would always tell me I’m a bear, because I’m big and shit, soft and cuddly, just a cozy ass nigga. I have a thing where I give myself a bunch of alisas, and Velour Vandal just happen to be one of them, and I was like, “Hmm. I can do something with that.”

Any last words about your playlist and what you want the people to get from it?

I want people to go into it with a blank slate. Almost pretend like you’ve never heard music before, be reintroduced to all the different genres and aspects of these songs, and cultivate a new taste from that.

Connect with Tromac Pineapple:

https://twitter.com/TromacPineapple

https://www.instagram.com/tromacpineapple/

https://soundcloud.com/tromac

Connect with Moments In Song:

https://www.instagram.com/momentsinsong/

https://twitter.com/moments_in_song

https://tinyurl.com/MISAppleMusic

https://tinyurl.com/MISSpotify

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abyss-mal-blog1 · 5 years ago

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current mind-space//word vomit

it’s amazing how much can change in a few days, but it hasn’t been a week since my finals ended and i already felt so different. i have been doing f45 everyday this week (if not then some kind of workout, but i’ve really been into that recently). i am feeling so much better now without deadlines, sometimes i don’t know if i function better under pressure or not. i guess not, but then it’s amazing how much i can do and achieve under pressure. i need the right amount of pressure, and this semester it has been a little difficult for me to get around that.

last friday was kinda my last day of finals, i just had an essay to submit, and i am disappointed in myself and my work ethic because i submitted it at 9pm, went to my cousin’s (disappointing) party, and then professor emailed me to say that she cannot read Pages format (seriously smh @ my tardiness!!!), only got back at 1am that night and sent my mediocre essay. i am a little sad about it because i know that is not my 100%. idk why but college so far has just been a series of 80% effort. this paper was an interesting one, on airbnb, on the sharing economy, it’s a performance studies paper where i analyze the hospitality platform in terms of host-user relationship, parasitism and (attempted) to talk about free online labor. it is a little too late now but i kinda want to work on it again and like, submit for feedback. maybe ill ask taylor.

last saturday was kinda meh, i agreed to go to a *social* kinda event at a bar/club at chelsea, held for Asian-ivy-alumni-people that yanlin invited me too. it was at up&up and honestly a little...i didn’t enjoy it at all. the music sucked, the people were either too dorky or gross or old or weird, and the whole time i just kept saying to myself, “never again”. they said it was open bar but they only served absolut, which was shit. and then my friend’s two friends were...i feel sorry that this was their first clubbing experience. at the beginning my reaction was look at all these ivy alumni! get hitched with one of them for ~da connectsx~ (and nothing else) but no kidding i was actually interested in talking to them just to get to know what people who graduated from ivies are up to, and what are they doing at such events...and are they actually enjoying themselves because it was really kinda gross. met my friend’s friend who seemed like a really smart engineer (he asked for my number the next day lol), and a german dude at the bar who didn’t want to get me a drink. all i needed that night was a drink.....(i’m glad i didn’t drink tho because recently drinking has made me feel all kinds of bad) we had ramen after at ramen-ya (most probably the worst ramen and charsiew i’ve had but what can we do at 3am and my friend wanted noodle and soup...)

on sunday i KNow i should have left my house earlier to workout but i didn’t. i was angry at myself that i didn’t. instead, i stayed at home and emotion-ate. i must have eaten more green bean soup than my stomach would have liked. what else...avocado? i remember..two bananas? god. this was the day i felt like i was n’s boyfriend because i had to do what she wanted to do. i know i had agreed on going, but at that point i really wanted to go thrifting or something. i mean when i got to central park it was fine and things were good but the whole day just felt like i was kinda pulled into doing something that wasn’t my first choice of plans, not that i didn’t enjoy myself lying under the sun at the park. it just felt like i was accompanying someone. i was half an hour late to meet her as well, and half heartedly got a burrito-wrap at newsbar. if you think about it it is really kinda funny, we’re just buying food and taking the subway to this grass patch 50 blocks away. we didn’t walk much, we literally only stayed at a little grassy slope overlooking the baseball pitch. anyway we went to a dance class after (the class was an hour long but i felt like n had asked me about when and what time we should book the classes for more than an hour by text so i just got really sick of it) i rushed home and got dinner with my uncle who’s in town for my cousin’s graduation. i was surprised that he chose the same japanese restaurant again, after dissing it half a year ago we ate here. the omakase was crazy and it cost 230 per person. (for the most expensive set) it was also kinda dumb because you aren’t allowed to order a different omakase set from anyone else - everyone on the table has to order the same - because of “timing”. i wonder if this is how it is in japanese omakase etiquette, but in any case it really earned them a hefty amount because my uncle decided to get 230 for all of us. qiyang didn’t like and said qiqi had bad taste, hahaha. the food wasn’t bad, i mean it’s japanese fusion, but the prices were way too steep for the taste. anyway enough about the food, during the dinner i think we talked about many things though. i kinda wanted to talk to my uncle individually because i think he is the only one who knows about ah gong, but he was sick, and i could tell he was exhausted. my aunt got a little impatient because i didn’t arrange plans to take their furniture and they were going to throw all of them away and it was actually the first time i’ve seen her get so worked up - but at the same time trying to control her emotions - because she was talking to me. i could tell she was annoyed though but i tried not to take it personally, and arranged it tomorrow.

arranging the moving stuff was kinda last minute, i was walking to the library for work one day and i saw a truck that said MakeSpace. i assumed it was a kind of moving company and so i looked them up. they seemed to be pretty okay in terms of their services and so i decided to try them out. confirmation and setting up an appointment went pretty smoothly, except for the part where the guy i think his name was joseph, asked me to give my credit card details over the phone. idk why i did that! i stopped though, and asked him why, to which he replied he wanted to key in with the coupon code. this service has so much gimmicks within the first 2-3 minutes on the phone he was already telling me about how the first pick up is free, and that he will deduct 100$ off the first month...when people give you discounts too easily it just feels like a ploy and a thing they give to everyone, it’s not anything special and it’s probably calculated inside whatever we have to pay. anyway, i was just thinking it would be cheaper (assuming the maximum that i would have to pay is ~$500, as i confirmed with them on the phone yesterday), it’d still be cheaper than starting an apartment lease now and going through the trouble of finding two subletters.

well. idk, it’s also easy to have things all moved in, i have to find a place to store my perishables!

moving is so much work, and storing things. this reminds me of my paper on airbnb and about the digital nomad lifestyle. it is interesting though, that this is what it has become. but the homogenized aesthetic is something i really cannot stand, in airbnb, in coffeeshops around the world..i am sure you know what i’m talking about. a new york times writer did something about this - he termed it “Airspace” - and apparently it originated from Brooklyn. I guess that’s where the art/avant-garde stuff started. well. keep a look out im gonna write a blogpost about that

moving on

nat came to sleepover on sunday night and a few days after because the school kicks you out of the dorms you pay so much for right after your final ends. i forgot if we did something fun but i probably just fell asleep.

on monday i think i went to f45 and did cardio at Dumbo with Gi. he seems like a pretty nice trainer, the first time i went it was him and another girl Bertha (i think my first f45 was last tuesday) and i felt like i had two personal trainers with me - Gi was cheering me on and Bertha was doing it with me. it felt like such a good workout, one of the best ive had in a while. then work, where i arranged the movers stuff. i also realized i bought the wrong date for my flight ticket as my friends and had to buy one more...............

tuesday was the same f45 in the morning, and the bobst after. didn’t really get much work done at bobst. oh i also viewed a 3BR flex at 160. hella expensive and small, and dates didn’t work out anyway. also the broker who brought us to view the apartment was a very nice tall french man and his name was jean-francois which i couldn’t pronounce and asked nat but still called him jean as in jeen instead of john. this is why i have to learn french. you’re embarrassing. i also went to the itp/ima spring show with shubham which was super cool. there were many cool ideas, and i just wonder if i could create something like that. i didn’t get to see all of the exhibits which i regret, but i remember a few notable projects. one was an installation made with keyboards that randomly clicks, but when you hold your phone up it’ll stop. it’s made using 3d gestures. there’s also one at a gallery for surveillance, this team had a thing they call facebox, and it’s literally a box, that when you open it has a webcam that would capture your face, find you on facebook, and print out an invoice/receipt on how much you have earned for this giant tech company. what else...an AR project that when you scan a food, it shows you where the food comes from. nat said that she would love it if menus have something they could scan and then have pictures appear in ~holographic~ format, or maybe in the nearer future something on your phone that shows you a picture of the picture of the food. but isn’t it a surprise tho? sometimes the fun’s in the surprise, you read the description, you know what are the foods you’ll eat, leaving room to imagine or be surprised by how the chef puts it together! anyway, went for dinner with nat and jenny - got vegan shwarma (definitely wasn’t worth $14) and went to get crepes with will after.

wednesday we were gonna go to the dmv but we weren’t prepared. nat also needed to get her passport and she was lazy. wow the number of times i mentioned her, it feels like she’s my boyfriend at this point. talked to famz, sister, and beatrix. am currently considering if i should even go to beijing or just go straight home. fuck. went to bobst for work but no one was there i was just really sleepy. viewed an apartment at 55 morton (it’s a nice quiet residential street that seems to be tucked away from the loud cars and bars and people) then i went to f45 again-varsity!!! cardio!!!, walked across brooklyn bridge (a little regret although i wanted to walk, but my bag was heavy and there were too many tourists to brisk walk)

also the reason for this is that after my soba/miso/salad/shrimp dinner last night i was just watching a bunch of netflix shows and it was probably the caffeine from puerto rican roasting company - the barista made me a chai cappuccino with almond milk (3 SHOTS!!!)

me and nat couldn’t sleep, i really think i slept for an hour. i watched so many different shows, yoko and john’s documentary, while we were young, anthony bourdain, i was seriously flipping through all the shows and alternating between amazonprme and youtube and netflix and i even tried watching peaceful cuisine and making the brightness lower and had the sleep mode on and wow i just couldn’t sleep

so yeah the birth of this word vomit

i am going to create more things

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preevelynn-blog · 6 years ago

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ManyVids Interview

Tell us about your cult:

I am the High Priestess of the Cult of Yith. We are a cult that is dedicated to learning all there is about consensual sexual perversion and deviancy. We accept every kind of gender identity and expression and sexuality. The main goal of our cult is to collectively have as many different kinds of sex and orgasms as possible for the sake of knowledge. We only condone fully consensual sexual interactions and fully condemn any kind of nonconsensual sexual act. The Yithians collect data on all the different kinds of sexual activities that our cult members are a part of and they add it to their grand libraries that hold knowledge from infinite places and times.

The Yithians are a species of highly evolved extraterrestrial (and sometimes terrestrial) beings who can swap their consciousness with individual creatures through not only space, but also time. A Yithian living on prehistoric planet earth could potentially swap bodies with Genghis Khan, or Abraham Lincoln, or a random person living in the year 2045. They can swap their consciousness with creatures and beings from anywhere in the universe at any time. This is how I first came into contact with them. They must have taken control of my body in the past because I now exist in strange dreams that involve them. I understand that all they seek is knowledge and I’ve always seen knowledge as power, so I’ve created the Cult of Yith to use my own talents as a sexual deviant to help the Yithians gain knowledge about human sexuality. It’s very convoluted, I know. The bottom line is that if you join the Cult of Yith and you have interesting, fun, consensual, and unique sex eventually when the Yithians come back to Earth and claim their rightful place as rulers of the planet, we will be given the role of librarian in their grand libraries for our contributions. Plus your life will just be better with a religion that fully supports your odd kinks.

What role does music play in your life?

Music plays many different roles in my life. The biggest role music plays in my life is that of a way for me to communicate. Music is also a friend, an enemy, a religion, and many more things. I am almost always listening to music unless I am sleeping and I create music every single day. It has a near constant presence in my life. I create music for all the porn that I make. It may not be very good, but it’s something I made and that makes me proud. My favorite art has always been art that is provocative and socially conscious. I think in American society right now we need to be pushing for sex work to be more protected, socially and legally, and music is a great medium to do that. Music can be a wrapper for a message that makes a message an easier pill for humanity to swallow. I love to make music that focuses on and is influenced by sex work, intersectional feminism, and the rights of genderqueer people while theatrically wrapping it all up in a recognizable package, such as the imagery of a religion or cult. *hint hint nudge nudge* Music, and all art forms that I indulge in, are a way for me to unapologetically say what I want to say.

What do you see as the major issues facing the LGBTQ+ community in adult entertainment?

I think one of the most glaring issues faced by LGBTQ+ people in adult entertainment is the remaining stigma around trans and gay performers and the silence of many cis industry members about this topic. Performers and managers steer away from gay and trans people for a lot of different reasons and some of these reasons are direct reflections of a past that’s already been thoroughly gutted and exposed as idiotic and queerphobic. There are some very stark differences between how cis and trans performers in the adult entertainment industry are treated. For example, segregation between cis and trans women is alive and well on MyFreeCams to the extent that MyFreeCams doesn’t allow trans women to perform on their site even though they are supposedly a “women only” cam site. In their rules and wiki there is a lot of trans exclusionary language. On their wiki it says “Natural-born women” only and on their official site rules they say nothing about disallowing trans women, but they do say “No men.” So if a trans woman can get through the background check (Which I did because they don’t ask for a picture of your genitals) and gets banned from the site, what rule did she break? It’s pretty safe to assume she only broke the “No men” rule even though she isn’t a man. MyFreeCams won’t address the issue at all and when I got banned from their site my account was deleted, they took all the money I had earned during my show, and I never got a response as to “why” I was banned. Their silence protects them.

This is a really important issue because MyFreeCams is probably the biggest cam site in the world and they sponsor so many huge events and conventions related to sex work. So you’ll have safe spaces and events for MyFreeCams models that are essentially spaces and events for women, but trans women are excluded. MyFreeCams is a huge part of the industry and they should treat all women equally, we should demand better from the large companies that represent the different aspects of sex work. Just a reminder to all cis models on MyFreeCams, 40-50% of your hard earned money is going to supporting this behavior. I understand you might not have the privilege to leave, but that’s not stopping you from emailing MyFreeCams asking why trans women aren’t allowed, or from putting them on blast on social media. On other issues too, we should not be silent. When MyFreeCams is transphobic we need our cis allies to call them out and be loud because they don’t care about what trans people think. If you’re an ally and your manager is being homophobic don’t be silent, call them out. Homophobes and transphobes don’t care about queer people, they will mostly only listen to other cisgender straight people. Power structures are torn down from the top, not the bottom. Please help.

What are your favorite fetishes? Are there any you got into thanks to making content? Any you keep for your private life and don’t film?

I think my favorite fetish is blasphemy targeted at Roman Catholicism. I got into blasphemy from doing private shows for ministers and active church goers who wanted me to really dig into their religion and basically replace their God with myself. I was raised Roman Catholic and I find the King James version of the bible to be very problematic and anti-queer, so I revel in the opportunity to tackle something that often puts me down. Whenever I do one of these shows I often start by detailing to my submissive the passages in the bible that condemn me as a trans woman, specifically the ones in deuteronomy, and explaining how their God wanted me to be in league with the devil by creating me this way. Then I will go on and explain how Satan and I are converting God’s own angels and humans against him by helping them to see the light of sexual deviancy. Then we do all kinds of naughty things in MY name instead of God’s name.

I find it refreshing and empowering to fight against something much more powerful than myself that actively oppresses me and people like me. The Catholic church is one such force and I revel in the opportunity to not only voice my opinions about the Christian mythos, but also to get someone who is a part of it to realize how anti-trans their own book can be. It is beneficial and positive for both me and the submissive and every single submissive I’ve done a blasphemy show with has returned more times than I can remember for the same experience.

Who are your: musical heroes, adult entertainment heroes, and political heroes, and why?

I don’t really have many heroes. I think some of my biggest influences when it comes to music and porn are Marilyn Manson and Natalie Mars. Marilyn Manson’s provocative style just really makes my inner goth girl squeal, and I think Natalie Mars is just so gosh darned physically talented. I wish I could take the things in my butt she does.

What is the most heartwarming thing you’ve ever seen?

That scene at the end of the Witch where the girl talks to the goat.

What is the most annoying question that people ask you?

It’s not a question, but I hate when guys want to talk about how they are straight, but they would still fuck me. Like, yeah… duh… if you were gay you would probably want to fuck a man?

What is something that a ton of people are obsessed with but you just don’t get the point of?

Ariana Grande

What sexual fantasy would you like to make a reality through making an adult vid?

I would love to recreate the exorcism scene from the Exorcist, but instead of Regan and two male priests I’ll be possessed and two sexy female nuns will fuck the devil out of me.

Say something to your fans:

I appreciate you all and if you respect and support me I respect and support you. <3

Fast 10:

The Best Topping/Ice Cream Combination Is:

Spaghettieis from Germany

One piece of entertainment I wish I could erase from my mind so that I could experience it for the first time again is:

The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion

If I could have an orgy with anyone on Earth it would be the following people:

Marilyn Manson (1994 version), Katie Marovich from CollegeHumor, and Peter Steele (Also 1994 version).

If you wanted to talk dirty to me you should say:

Describe giving me oral sex and then cuddling me.

The sexiest outfit I own is:

A lace bodysuit that one of my biggest supporters of the name Ser_Koopa bought me!

This sex toy I love and this sex toy I dislike:

I love my fleshlight and I’m not a fan of plastic prostate massagers.

If I could time travel I’d visit this era:

1994 for the metal or some time in the future when I’m not living way below the poverty line and I’m comfortable.

The best way to start the day is:

Yoga!

One thing I wish I knew more about is:

Stocks and investments

The one major sex tip I have for people is:

Communicate. It’s always a good idea to ask someone if they are ok during a sexual experience.

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essilt · 6 years ago

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Fic: Mnemosyne’s gift (WIP)

Autors: @katerina150 , @essilt Theseus Scamander / Leta Lestrange, Canon Het Relationship, Het, Alternate Universe, Epistolary, Drama, Romance, Family Feels Notes: BC THEY ARE OUR BBS AND JFC WE JUST CAN’T! Notes2: We’re sorry for mistakes, english isn’t our native language. Sum: Fantastic Letters and what are they hiding.

ao3 link

Chapter 4: The Corvus IV Lestrange's cunning plan

It was oddly, but they met again at the ball. Mr. Scamander and Miss Lestrange were invited to the annual Christmas Ball at the Ministry of Magic and, of course, separately.

Theseus led the Auror Department in 1925: the war hero, who was one of the first to go against the emergency legislation of Minister Archer Evermond. He returned from the mainland at the end of 1918, started from scratch under the guidance of Torquill Trevers and literally took off on the career ladder. The position and aura of heroism made his Irish appearance much more attractive in the eyes of the majority of free girls for betrothal, but Theseus was equally formally amiable with all of them. It was rumored that his heart was broken.

Leta Lestrange was a Hogwarts graduate, as well as Theseus. She once was friend to his younger brother Newt - and even for a couple of years she imagined she was in love, or maybe Newt imagined that for himself and for herself. Once she spent the whole summer at the Scamanders: communicated with the whole family and enthusiastically watched the hippogriffs. Theseus had often heard about her before: Leta Lestrange was at the tip of the tongue of a non-talkative Newt. Although the circumstances of the very first meeting could hardly have passed for auspicious, when Newt was expelled from Hogwarts, and his older brother had to push thresholds in the pose of the petitioner. Theseus never thought that he would communicate with this girl seriously. He was almost ten years older, she was from a different social circle. He went to war early, she continued her studies, learning how to do magical sciences as Muggle ones, and this was what later allowed her to work in the ministry, and not her father’s money, as many thought. Of course, they happened to cross at Trevers' department, but hardly all of these meetings could have passed for the renewal of acquaintance.

Theseus went to the reception without much inspiration: on the Christmas eve, Mrs. Scamander (Ma, as her sons called her among themselves) depressed by the blatant celibacy of both, in turn brought down her bad mood for a hopeless future, a lonely old age and other mischief from the day they were born. Newt crawled into himself, as if in a sink, and silently suffered, Theseus languidly dissuaded as just as languidly threatened not to come next Christmas, if these conversations did not stop. But Ma, having read the gossip in the Daily Prophet, where were only notes about beautiful lonely young women, went to storm with the determination of a soldier who had no other maneuvers left and who ignored the threat - especially since they never were performed.

"Do not roll your eyes, Theseus Scamander!" She always called children only by their full name being in anger. “You're worse than brother. You're almost forty. Almost forty, Theseus! Soon you will have no chance! You can expect only a twice-divorced woman or a widow with children from previous marriages!"

"Mom, are you sure that this is a suitable conversation before the ball?"

"This is always a suitable conversation!" She pursed her lips. "Theseus, I can not live forever, who will take care of you twenty years later? You think it'd be your brother who can't even take care of himself?"

Theseus thoughtfully considered a tuxedo.

“Mom, in the name of Merlin, I and Newt live our own lives a long time ago, and if I need a nurse one day — although I hope I won't get to such misery — I will just hire her. Marriage, as far as I know, is not for this."

“Of course not,” she snapped back, catching a subtle subtext. She paused and called on the other side: "Soon I will be too old to raise my grandchildren..."

"Grandchildren are for joy, mom. For everything else, you can hire a nanny."

"What can you know about this!" She let a little tragedy into her voice, and then got angry: "You measure everything with money, Theseus. Gathered all this of Muggles."

“Mom, money is convenient, after all, why not use it,” Theseus shrugged his shoulders, took the fresh issue of the Prophet from the table. "Well, and who do you offer me as a bride? Let's go through the list. The first in it turned eighteen last spring, and I, as you kindly and fairly reminded me, am almost forty..."

Mother snatched the newspaper out of his hands and threw into a corner.

"Don't clown around! You might think that there are no brides outside of this list!" Now the drowning man’s prayer sounded in her tone distinctly: “You had that girl in France... Why not marry her!"

"I am sure there is, but my work does not allow to communicate with them. With that girl, as you call her, there was a relationship that did not include the concept of marriage." He didn’t lift an eyebrow when his mother portrayed something between indignation and embarrassment, and ruthlessly added: “In the name of Merlin, mother, that time there wasn’t any relationship to marriage."

"So, you must work less!"

“And a woman who has worked all her life tells me this,” Theseus could not refrain from an ironic smile.

"It did not stop me from having two children!"

Theseus took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. Poor Newt is probably listening to all this.

"I do not argue." He tried to go on another truce, letting a little sincerity into the conversation: "I just didn’t meet a woman I don’t want to let go. And who'd endure me. No one likes redheads."

“Well, that is, we are to blame with your father, it was us who gave birth to you the redheads,” said Mrs. Scamander’s voice with a harsh note hinting at humility, and Theseus embraced her.

"Do not worry. If Newt and I are lucky, you will have daughters-in-law and grandchildren. You will grumble when they will overrun the house and climb where they don’t ask..."

"I will not live till that moment with such sons!"

Mrs. Scamander said this loudly enough for Newt to hear every word too.

***

Leta Lestrange was preparing to the ball alone. She received strict instructions from her father. Everything about her rebelled at the thought of what these instructions were about, but her tongue did not turn around to say "no". Corvus IV Lestrange had enough of a glance so that all the Leta's rebellious nature, who did not let anyone in Hogwarts descend, would wilt and freeze. The secret, shameful fault, about which it was impossible to make and sound, immobilized her and the overwilling glance smeared Leta at the feet of the father with a thin layer. You want to earn my trust, said this glance, you need my forgiveness, you should try and be a good girl, then I will approve of you - and Leta mentally replied: "Yes, Dad." Her father's authority was still indisputable for her.

She gathered her hair in a neat strict knot and stabbed her with sharp raven feathers. A black silk dress with a train and straps crossed at the back, studded with glass beads and sequins, was put on right on a naked body. Black velvet shoes on a tall thin heels, walking on will be almost an art. Her favorite silver snake with emerald eyes wrapped around her arm, from shoulder to wrist. The jewelry belonged to her mother - in fact, it was the only thing which Leta inherited by her mother.

***

She was late for the official start of the celebration and appeared in the ballroom when the performance had began and the frail ballerina, making the pas in her flying white robe, let go of the shawl into the air - but the performance did not interest Leta, she only looked ahead.

And it was Theseus Scamander ahead. Her Aim. Of course, they were familiar and although they didn’t really communicate for many years, moreover, Theseus was the first after precious animals that Newt could talk about incessantly: he found a thousand and one more reason to be angry with his older brother and to condemn him - and desperately admired him. So Leta, unwittingly, knew about Theseus Scamander much more than it was decently to know a young girl about a man almost ten years older; and since Newt Scamander was her the very best, the most intimate — and the only — friend, she involuntarily took from him an explosive mixture of condemnation and admiration for Theseus. They were even lucky enough to spend the whole pre-war summer together, when Mrs. Scamander invited her younger son's girlfriend to stay with them on holidays. Theseus was tall, scrawny, red-haired, freckled, just like Newt, wore a canvas shirt with rolled up sleeves and pants with suspenders, preferred to tinker with the rod and fishing line without the aid of spells, and he had an unusually ordinary girl. Nothing foreshadowed the hero of Arras, Messina, and Amiens.

Theseus was at the other end of the ballroom and noticed immediately the excitement among the guests and his reason. Silk dress to the floor, flowing gait, dark skin with an olive tinge. Densely dilated eyes with languishing and barely touched lipstick lips. At first it seemed to him that she was looking for someone, then - that it was him with Leta Lestrange met her eyes. Not for long: just a moment or two. He was amazed how lonely she seemed. Theseus did not follow her life intentionally, but he read the issues of the Daily Prophet, where were often published articles about her and all the enviable brides of the wizarding world, including Leta Lestrange, who, even crossing her twenty-five year line, did not lose ground in the top ten. He was even interested, because Leta occupied a considerable place in Newt's life - until the number of her supposed suitors reached ten. Then Theseus just stopped looking through the column about the secular life of the magical community.

She seemed relieved to see an old acquaintance.

They met with their eyes every now and then, until the performance was over, then the crowd separated them. Theseus was distracted by the conversation Minister of Magic Fowley, Leta was pulled aside by familiar witches from pureblood families. It took a good quarter of an hour and a lot of tricks and tiny steps in the direction of the Aim, before Theseus and Leta finally found themselves face to face.

“Oh, Miss Lestrange!” greeted Fowley. "How are you tonight? Do you enjoy the show?"

“This is a wonderful evening, Minister,” Leta gave Fowley a hand for the duty of the kiss and turned her gaze to his companion, nodding in recognition. Theseus tilted his head in response.

“Miss Lestrange, I regret that your father could not attend our Christmas party, but I am glad that you decorated it with your presence. Of course, you are familiar with our heroic Head Auror, Theseus Scamander, but it will not be superfluous to introduce you to each other again. Theseus, this is Leta Lestrange, the daughter of a respected friend of the Ministry."

Leta smiled radiantly.

"My father was very sorry that he could not attend, and asked me to convey to you wishes of well-being and remind you of the return visit, which was previously promised. Mr. Scamander, glad to meet you again," she gave a hand to Theseus.

How tall is he! She forgot. Or maybe in childhood it is natural that everything around is much higher. Leta had to throw her head back to look at Theseus' eyes, but he easily relieved her of the inconvenience, leaned in the old-fashioned way to kiss his hand, and did not raise it to his lips, as almost all men now did, trying to get rid of conventions.

"Mutually, Miss Lestrange."

She was so busy thinking about his height that she didn’t have time to think about his voice. Theseus detained her hand in his not longer than decency required, but Fowley did not allow the conversation to develop.

"Yes, yes, Miss Lestrange, I will definitely return the visit, would you like to accompany me and see our program?"

Leta had no choice but to agree. She wouldn't to refuse the Minister with whom her father was friends, although at that moment she wanted to stay and speak with a completely different person. Theseus was forced to accompany the wife of the Minister, a strict fair-haired lady who set off her bright charismatic husband.

The program of the evening included several more dances and a magician's nice performance, combined with drinks and light snacks. Leta was next to the Minister, realizing that Theseus Scamander was standing behind her. Directly behind. Touch me, she mentally repeated, touch me - until she realized that it was not an order, but a request. She really wanted to know how Theseus Scamander touches a woman, appreciate what is waiting for her, check with her skin whether all this chatter about a broken heart is true - although she already senses: not true... She even shifted her shoulder blades, almost feeling his fingers glide on her back. When white snow, so similar to the real one, began to fall from above and began to turn into flowers right in the air, she turned around and saw an asphodel flower in Theseus’s hands. Strong hint! Guessing how far the Head Auror could be suspected of indecency, Leta turned away as soon as she caught his return glance, and spoke to the Minister about something unimportant.

During the reception, her friends surrounded her again, without giving a minute of peace. Conversations, on-duty smiles, fake wishes of well-being, gossip, invitations to spend the weekend at someone’s estate or in the mountains, or at the springs. “And let's flight to Bulgaria!”, “Yes, yes, it’s very good there now, snow, they say, piled up, you can ski. I like to descend from the springboard "and so on and so forth. Her head ached so much that, after apologizing, Leta moved away, pretending to have a snack. She would not be reproached: the appetizers were excellent, to match the champagne. In the absence of a good cook, the current minister could not be blamed.

“Persephone plucked the asphodel flower, and the firmament of the earth opened up before her, from which the four dark as the night of horses escaped, and the underworld king Hades ruled it..."

She shuddered, turned around - and came under the spell of Theseus Scamander's smile. And, oh Merlin and the Holy God, this growth...

"Sorry, seems to me I've scared you."

"Don't worry, Mr. Scamander, I'm just surprised. Do you like ancient myths and legends? Or do you want to put my vigilance down?" hinting at the most innocuous name, Leta pointed at the flower.

Theseus laughed, and the asphodel disappeared.

“My job is, these myths not to become a reality, Miss Lestrange.”

“I hope that today you are not here to work, Mr. Scamander,” Leta smiled and took a sip of champagne. Her head was spinning slightly.

"No, today I intend to rest. Do you like ancient myths and legends?"

“Some ...” She paused, trying to get at least one suitable memory out of her: “I remembered, in my youth, I was amused by the legend that one hero went down to Hades and unsuccessfully sat down on the wrong chair. We often laughed at this with Newt."

Theseus grinned, apparently realizing what kind of legend it was. Newt once said that his brother in school was also teased by the misadventures of the great Greek hero, not always successfully, which, of course, was reflected in the number of points of his faculty.

Taking a sip of whiskey, Theseus leaned toward Leta a little closer.

“I argue that it was Newt who told you this Athenian gossip, it will be from him. And I'm not at all surprised, considering how my brother likes to laugh."

"How is he?" Leta did not retreat, only elegantly intercepted canapés from a passing by tray.

"He returns from his long journey soon. I think it will linger for a while in our area."

Damn well with his height sits a tuxedo, that's what, Leta thought - or champagne helped her think so. Newt wouldn't ever be dressed like this - noone would ever have a chance to rake him out of his beloved coat.

“Does Newt still love his outlandish animals?” Leta smiled, recalling the scary care of Scamander Jr. about his strange, but in her own way beautiful pets. “Does your mother still breed hippogriffs?”

“Yes, to both questions,” Theseus finally smiled sincerely, making his face completely transformed. Leta did not expect that his smile would make such a strong impression on her. "Newt is collecting material for his book, which he has been writing for many years, and mother is waiting for him to show another brood. And to persuade to find a more rewarding occupation..."

Talking about Newt awakened a cat named Feeling of Guilt from a lethargic sleep, and before she began to sharpen her claws about her soul, Leta changed the subject.

"Mr. Scamander, I spent a wonderful summer in your house, I still remember with tenderness."

In the eyes of Theseus it was clear that these memories are shared.

“You had lovely curls, Miss Lestrange.”

“I hated them,” Leta portrayed disgust, “and with pleasure got rid of them!”

"It does not matter. They were all the same cute."

"You are really pushing me to return them!"

“I never thought that my opinion is so important,” he smiled again, and Leta had to take a sip of champagne, because he had his throat tight.

The snake on her hand raised her head sometimes or took a more comfortable position, so as not to interfere with the freedom of the hostess's gestures. A catchy, massive jewelry, which, perhaps, would have gone as clothes. Not the most decent thought, but war wiped out the tinsel of propriety in the first place.

"Will I survive the bite of your beast, Miss Lestrange?”

She was surprised - hard to say, feigned or sincere - and opened her dark eyes.

"What beast, Mr. Scamander?"

“This one,” Theseus stroked one of the metal rings with which the serpent wrapped Leta’s shoulder with his index finger.

The snake did not move. Leta traced the movement with her gaze.

"Oh!" She slightly raised her hand. “She doesn't bite... unless I ask.”

“Warned is armed,” said Theseus in a philosophical tone. "I will try not to give you a reason."

Between her beautiful full lips flashed dazzling teeth.

“I don’t think I’d let her harm you.”

“You still haven't say whether her bite is deadly, Miss Lestrange.”

"Let the answer remain secret."

“Well,” Theseus spread his hands, “I hope that in the extreme case I won't have time to understand anything!”

"We'll see, Mr. Scamander." - Leta brought the glass of champagne to her lips again, and Theseus felt a sudden — and as clear as day — temptation to kiss her. Snake lifted her head from the hostess's wrist and winked.

Damn French women, Theseus swore to himself, no one else can so cleverly put all these women's tricks into which it is so nice to get caught.

"Is your beast trying to tell me something?"

Leta frowned severely, noticing snake's maneuvers, and she peacefully settled down, becoming just an jewelry again.

“She likes you, Mr. Scamander.”

He thought that this could be a family joke of the year: the snake-bride. Why not, in the end, the Muggle fairy tale about the Frog Prince wanders around.

"Does she have a name?"

Leta drank some more champagne, and Theseus remembered of his whiskey.

"I suggest you come up with it."

“I’m not as good at handling animals as my brother, Miss Lestrange.” He grinned. "I can not guess."

"It's just a name, Mr. Scamander." For a moment, she opened her eyes wide. Then the dark eyelashes sank again, Leta moved to him at a small step and stood up on her toes to quietly add: “You will not do anything terrible if you give it.”

Her smell was so close: an unobtrusive smell, reminiscent of languor, which comes during the summer heat, with a slightly bitter cocoa mixture. There was an eternity between the girl with pretty curls, who was visiting Scamanders' house, and an exquisite young woman at the ministerial Christmas celebration.

Some excitement passed behind their backs; the official part must have come to an end. Leta retreated to a small step. The thought that he wanted her was as clear as the thought of a kiss, but not at all sudden.

Theseus reached out to stroke the snake again.

"I'm lost. Ago? Aminta?"

"Ago," Leta thoughtfully held out “o”. - "I like it."

"And your beast?"

The snake lifted her head, shook her, and winked again, twisting around Leta's wrist.

"She flirts with me, Miss Lestrange?"

“I don’t see anything wrong, Mr. Scamander,” Letha laughed. The official tone has finally turned into a playful one. "I think many women in this ballroom would like to flirt with you."

Theseus spread his hands.

"Today they have no chance against your beast."

"It flatters her..."

Damn French women, Theseus thought again, damn French women, eternal punishment to the British for the Hundred Years War.

"And you?"

They met looks. Leta bit her lower lip - rather instinctively.

“I am a simple woman, Mr. Scamander, of flesh and blood.”

Theseus paused, looking for an answer.

"Is your beast jealous?"

“I didn't notice.”

The conversation became extremely ambiguous, the available reserve of the ability to flirt was exhausted, and in the large ballroom the invisible musicians played the fashionable Muggle Quictime Foxtrot and Charleston, and Theseus leaned old-fashioned to kiss Leta's hand again.

“Then she won't mind if I invite you to dance.”

That was a statement.

"Of course, Mr. Scamander."

"But I warn you that I am not very strong in this."

"Do not worry, I will teach you."

He tried to focus on something less provocative than, damned all the French women, she has no underwear, not even the thinnest bottom shirt, it was enough to put an arm around her waist to realize it. On how small she was: even on heels, Leta barely reached out to the top of his shoulder. On how gentle her fingers, decorated with elegant rings, are golden-brown, soft. On an unusually chiselled jaw line, especially noticeable when Leta slightly tilts her head to the side. On how softly she slips in the dance and imperceptibly guides not the most skilled partner.

On the fact that he did not want to let her go.

His smile made her heart beat faster, and Leta tried not to think about it. As for “not very strong”, Theseus Scamander, perhaps, lied: he did not stepped on her legs, he caught all her unobtrusive clues, and they had never encountered neighboring pairs.

“I've heard you were at the war, Mr. Scamander,” Leta spoke in a surprisingly calm voice, although she had almost been shaking with emotion. "What was it like?"

"I would not like to talk about it now, Miss Lestrange, I do not want to spoil the evening. Let's just say war is not an easy walk."

Someday he will tell her everything. For some reason, Leta had no doubt that this time would come. Or the champagne did not doubt - it does not matter.

“And you have scars?” Typical female curiosity pushed her to such an intimate question.

“Yes, Miss Lestrange, I have scars.”

"Will you show me them?"

Theseus did not answer, squeezed her fingers harder and put it on his shoulder, pressed with his palm. Then pulled her closer. The flashes of the wizarding photographers flickered around, and Leta thought that their pictures would be in all the columns of secular news in the morning, but she didn’t care.

By the end of the first dance, Leta understood that her father’s plan went to dust, as her own. They spoke with Theseus less and less often and over the last quarter of an hour they exchanged well if a dozen phrases. It is strange that after all the talk this evening it was so pleasant to just be silent. The third and fifth dances followed the second dance, the score lost its meaning. One of them will certainly end with the fact that they just cling to each other and will be just stay so close. Is that so easy?

"Can I take you home?" Theseus asked when the evening was almost over.

“Of course, Mr. Scamander,” she smiled, letting him put a mantle on her shoulders. Theseus himself ignored the rules and wore a coat of Muggle cut. They left together and, after passing a sufficient distance to the required point, transgressing near the pompous London house of the Lestrange family, where they always moved into the season.

Her father went away on business to the estate, leaving Leta alone to carry out his plan, which had already become her own.

“Do you want to come in, Mr. Scamander, drink some more whiskey? Father has a Muggle collection." Leta turned to Theseus, who was ready to say goodbye.

“With pleasure, Miss Lestrange.”

In the hall, Theseus helped her to take off her mantle, and left his coat and hat on a hanger. The house was quiet, dark and almost empty. The maids, probably, had already gone to bed, the house elves hid — not surprisingly, it was already past midnight, she noted. There was no dream in one eye. She lit a fire in the fireplace, a gleam played on Theseus' brown hair. He waited. Remembering the excuse that lured him here, Leta gestured to his father's study, opened a cupboard lined with pot-bellied bottles, and glanced absently at them.

"What kind of whiskey do you prefer, Mr. Scamander?"

“Miss Lestrange, I prefer not a whiskey.”

The next question literally hung in the air. Leta froze for a second and walked slowly toward Theseus. He waited, but Leta could not escape from his gaze. She raised her hands, buried her fingers in Theseus' hair, crumpled, ruffled, smeared with briolin's hands.

“I wanted to do this all evening,” she whispered, smiling at his bewilderment, “I dreamed of seeing them free.”

"And I wanted this all the evening," Theseus pulled her to him and kissed her.

Then everything happened instantly. In a split second. They kissed, as long as the air was enough, fumbled with their palms on their clothes impatiently, kissed again. Not here, she whispered, and he nodded automatically, of course, not here, though whom to peep; the thin straps of her dress, studded with glass beads, were the most important threat, because hell-take-it-easier-tear. Leta laughed silently, bared long and even teeth, whispered that the dress was worth a fortune; Theseus, close to despair, was looking for a secret "lightning", loops, buttons, and finally, gritting his teeth, he said - no more than the salary of the Head Auror. Leta laughed again and finally relented, sent his fingers to some intricate clasps, disguised by the same glass and sequins; one movement - and the dress was gone. And under it, indeed, there was only naked Leta, as smooth and soft as silk, which rolled from her as a black wave onto the carpet, and she remained standing - the continuation of this wave, dark, olive, golden, with a neat chest, a clear-cut waist and tough hips. She took her feet out of her shoes, and gracefully descended onto the carpet, as she came down from the platform, and turned out to be unexpectedly even smaller than Theseus thought. The snake flowed down from her hand, curled over the dress peacefully and covered her emerald eyes, Leta stood up on her socks for a new kiss. Her palms stained with bryoline had already spoiled the tuxedo, bow tie, vest and ruthlessly took hold of the shirt; not here, for the sake of Merlin, she repeated, there is bedroom, and Theseus hoarsely demanded: show. The dress and the tuxedo were left lying on the carpet, woven like lovers, Leta found herself in Theseus' hands, prompted the way into his ear: up, to the right, straight, the door, the next door... not the door in that sense... The handle clicked, they burst into the bedroom, dropped something on the way, Leta gasped, and they began to undress again. The shirt went to the floor, Leta took up the satin belt, then the buttons on the pants, brisk experienced fingers fluttered from one to the other...

“By all the rules, Mr. Scamander,” she purred fiercely, and Theseus sealed her mouth with a kiss, interrupting conversations and spurring on actions.

They stumbled in the dark, collapsed on the bed awkwardly, Leta gasped again; pulled Theseus to herself, let out a low, hungry moan when he thrusted into her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, eagerly moved her hips to meet, felt his back from the loins to the shoulder blades, every vertebra and every rib... Her tongue touched his cheek. The rhythm of the movements - towards, away and towards again - became more harmonious and stronger. The groans became a bit less hungry - it seemed so.

***

The snow outside the window poured more, caught the light of the lanterns outside the window, threw a small scattering of reflected light into the windows. Leta threw off the blanket when Theseus tried to cover her. She was not cold at all: burning maternal blood, even diluted by the British aristocratic, glacial, remained hot enough to warm the naked body inside. Darkness hid her, transformed her dark skin into ebony-black; Theseus did not trust his eyes - tactile memory covered many times more. And was more receptive. More precisely. All this time, there were a thin stockings on Leta; by touch they did not differ at all from her skin, it is not surprising that they went unnoticed. One garter dissolved, stocking moved to the middle of the leg. Theseus pulled him down, lay down at the foot of the bed, untied the satin ribbon, and pulled off the second, held his bare foot in his palm, stroked his ankle.

Leta giggled, wiggled her fingers.

“Ticklish,” she explained in a whisper when Theseus looked at her. "Accio wand..."

“No, that doesn't work like that,” he grinned.

"It works!" She made an angry growl. "You hinder me to concentrate!"

"On what?"

Leta did not answer. Her hairstyle was hopelessly ruined, and Theseus idly pulled the rest of the feathers out of the hair. He spread the strands on the pillows, buried his face in it. At the roots, her hair was slightly damp from sweat and smelled of not expensive perfumes or rubbing, they smelled... just as Leta, as she smells, probably after a bath. Or now, in bed.

Her wand swam into the room: a little uncertain, as if it was also blind in the dark. Then it became clear that they did not even bother to close the door when they burst into the bedroom.

“Lumos,” Leta said.

The light was faint, a little golden, warm; everything that Leta touched became warm.

“You agreed to show me your scars, Mr. Scamander.”

He grunted and fell on his back, spread his arms. Leta’s wand absentmindedly levitated in the air, while Leta herself, sitting on her heels and biting her lip with zeal, examined his body.

"Where does this one come from?" She poked at the round scar under the collarbone.

"From Amiens." Theseus stroked her knee, raised his palm higher. This was the best of all in appearance and in touch: an exciting, carved transition from hip to waist, steep, like that of an amphora, a drop from wide to narrow. "This latest bullet went diagonally, pierced a lung ... I was lucky to be right through. I stayed in the hospital for about two months or so, and then I was commissioned."

"Right through? Is the same on the back?"

Theseus nodded. Letha opened her eyes wide. Her initial playfulness diminished.

"And this one?" Her fingers held across a wide long scar, which crossed the right side and stretched under the shoulder blade.

"I do not remember. One of the first operations. She was so-so prepared. We ran out of bullets, and the bayonets and sabers went into action."

“Why didn't you ask the healers to remove?”

"It's not face." Theseus stretched and yawned.

He simplified intentionally the behavior and tone of the terrible thing he was talking about.

Leta bit her lip again. The next scar was under the ribs on the left side: uneven, ugly, as if a hook were being pulled under the skin, which fish were caught. She vaguely guessed that she left such traces.

"And this one?" Her fingers flinch when touched.

“And this one I got during the Hundred-Day Offensive. I ran into a wizard... I had to fight in a more familiar way."

“Did you carry a wand with you in battle?”

"Yeah. Behind the boot, instead of a knife. I even used it once... instead of a knife."

They met looks.

"You killed him?" Leta's voice has changed.

"Yes. Straight in the eye."

Her lips parted, but Leta changed her mind to speak. Looked away.

“Now I understand why you are the Head Auror,” she said slowly.

“Because I can kill with a wand without magic?”

Leta shook her head.

"Because you do not fluctuate."

Instead of answering, he intercepted her neck, pulled her to him. The sharp face of the pagan goddess approached the face of Theseus.

“Nox,” Leta whispered. The light turned off.

Lips, on which there was no trace of lipstick, pressed to his lips, and Theseus realized that it was equally and absolutely not enough for both of them.

***

They fell asleep in the morning and woke up, barely beginning to get light, to make love again in tacit consent. Silent, like a backwater, Leta listened to his ragged breathe, his moans and tried to keep in mind how they sounded, how the muscles tensed, when he rested on his arms, lifting himself, pushing deeper into her; she tried to memorize the relief of his lean, sinewy, bony and heavy body, the location of the scars on his back, dug her nails in it, wanting to leave her marks on him, even if short-lived, and she vowed to herself that she would never have anyone, never, and then the orgasm cleaned all the efforts, all the oaths and all the hooks to which the memories clung.

It became quite light. He had to get dressed, thank her and leave. So do all random lovers, whose names and faces aren't remembered.

Why does she think about random lovers? She should not think about them. For their sake, she never wanted to throw a bathrobe, to go downstairs, to make coffee and to fry toast without any wands...

Is it also random for Theseus? Maybe that's why everything turned out so easily?

Something must have changed in her face, because Theseus smiled, touched her lips with his fingers. The movements were relaxed, as if he didn’t care about the morning and he wasn’t going anywhere.

"I thought you like my brother."

"No, I always liked you."

He laughed, and Leta laughed hastily with him: it can always be said that tears came out of laughter.

"You are a shameless little liar!"

“Okay, okay...” She dried her eyes. “Newt and I kissed once, when we were fifteen, and after that I decided that he was too good to allow him to plunge.”

Theseus raised his eyebrows.

“So I’m not good enough?”

“No, but I thought you were smart enough not to plunge.”

"Double shameless little liar!"

Letha felt that her lips were trembling, and turned away, pulled the blanket to herself. Yes, a liar, the liar, covering all life the most terrible deception. Even her birth was just a result of deception.

Theseus' fingers slid along her back, circling the vertebrae...

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, but did not dare to turn to face him.

“I have to repent of something, Mr. Scamander.”

In his silence, bewilderment was most clearly felt.

“I’m not a Muggle the confessor, Miss Lestrange, and I don’t give absolution.” He also changed the tone.

"Anyway, I have to repent." She exhaled. "Everything that happened... there, at the celebration... and here, in this bed... it happened, because my father wanted it so."

She did not turn around, and Theseus was silent. It was silent for a long time. Life passed, then another, the universe ended, and the silence all lasted and lasted.

Finally it stopped with the simplest:

"I do not understand."

She needed to hurry to explain everything, because too much time had already been lost. Otherwise, others will explain.

"He wanted to have influence on the new Head Auror. And this way, this way... this is proven. And now I repent."

At last, she had the courage to look back.

Theseus looked at her without condemnation or contempt - and, as far as she could judge, he was still not going anywhere. Her heart failed.

"I was so bad?"

It was such an unexpected question that Leta’s tears dried out.

"No!"

They exchanged a tense smiles.

"Well, you seduced me. What was the future plan?"

Leta opened her eyes, unable to believe that he took her revelations so calmly, that he simply dropped its as irrelevant. Maybe Theseus did not understand what she just confessed? No, he understood. Almighty Merlin, he interests in her and nothing else? Nothing at all?

"To get into your trust."

“Congratulations,” Theseus said seriously. He sat down, gently took Letu by the shoulders, and peace enveloped her. "You got."

#theseus scamander #leta lestrange #theseus x leta

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fmdrem · 6 years ago

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date: from december 3rd to 19th, 2018 location: seoul, south korea / various ( mars’ dorms ; dimensions’ meeting & dance practice areas ; gocheok dome backstages & stage ) summary: the despair of jeon ahreum warning: uh okay tbh there’s Some Shit going on and i did my best to tag EVERYTHING i could possibly think of so i still really suggest you to navigate with caution because ahreum’s self-destructive thoughts / warped perception of self AND the way he brings harm to himself are not bloody graphic per se, but they can totally be something hitting close home due to how my writing has been conveying them. tl:dr: ahreum can totally be a character straight outta d*ngan r*npa. word count: 17006 words.

it all had started with a sighting of small little candles and snail shaped sugar treats on top of velvety cupcake swirls displayed at the front window of a pastry shop, the scent of cinnamon cookies, and a flinch of ghosts of birthdays past in wintry seasons greetings always bringing the loneliness of solitary years of struggle down his mouth as a reminder that he had to work harder.

no, it actually all started with the absence of reaction from one who was known to be all reactions and all flames —sitting nearby oldest member and companion while fidgeting with a shirt too big for his lithe frame and skinny legs, with many thinking he simply hadn’t had his morning coffee because it was widely known that jeon ahreum needed his cheap latte ( or anything with a dose of caffeine, truly ) in order to properly spritz life as he’s usually much more known for. it started wth himself and many others exchanging confused gazes because they were called so urgently and it was early, too early —mingi rubbing his heavily bagged eyes and his own hand clinging still onto minjae’s shirt as he wobbled in, geun and siwon looking beyond in need of another hour of sleep at least, because the melon music awards happened int even a few days ago and they weren’t still over their new schedule, finding himself barely curling a smile out and missing the chair he wanted to sit at least three times, and with not a single laugh from anyone because even he wasn’t in the mood for jokes and silliness.

it started with the executives arriving ten minutes late and looking ready to leave ten minutes earlier —as if looking at them all was almost an insult to their eyes like he was an insult to all of their efforts, a reminder to keep questions short and non controversial for the sake of brevity, jabbing at accidents that totally weren’t supposed to happen, especially on stage— talking, and talking while poor ahreum could feel his guts rot and skin getting itchy at the way the higher ups of them all kept mentioning other companies with the spite of a stereotypical villain because of how plain wrong that whole meeting felt like.

it was supposed to be fun. it was supposed to make people happy —and he wanted people to be happy. even if it meant performing songs he didn’t like or keep himself awake with iv strings jammed on his left arm while trying to get changed so fast.

yet he would look at minjae almost as if expecting the worst to strike them all, the people pleaser, almost as if the entire routine that kept him barely there was on the verge of shattering once more. minjae would look back wth a worry that felt eons different from his own, give him a pat on the head, but it didn’t feel reassuring at all. nothing seemed to feel reassuring at all —nodding and complying and with every single word feeling like being pulled away from his mouth by a fisherman’s hook, because no matter what he didn’t seem to be able to say no, to say a syllable against the way stars aligned and strings pulled.

not even when his scheduled performance with kang junsu was announced with so much nonchalance by the executives before disappearing behind glass doors —and he was sure, so sure minjae could see the pure horror painting his own face white.

it continued with his forehead meeting the hard floor and the skin bruising blue and violet for the twenty-seventh times in the span of a week. or maybe less. days and nights always seemed to blend together like the millions of facets he’d shatter himself into in order to hide what’s ugly, because that’s what made people happy.

but he was doing something wrong. it must be certainly it.

so he’d get up. he’d twirl and jump and fall again. he’d get up again, repeating that cycle over and over and making it part of an even bigger cycle —as if punishing himself for breaking down at home a few days prior because of how he broke down in sobs and tears after returning home from a meeting he’d rather compare to a death sentence, even if minjae and mingi and everyone consoled him within those walls —even when they’d reassure the the dying sun that was he to be free to let whatever was being bottled inside his heart even when ahreum knew so well that whatever was inside of him was rotten and ugly and completely shameful to even think about.

it was a reason for why he’d push himself even harder, he’d chop himself into even finer pieces. just like his head kept throbbing with ache after telling minjae that yes, he was going to get the errands game going, that he was doing nothing except for dilly-dallying even if in his voice could be felt letting go of an exhale of uncertainty —pushing his hair to part so that the bangs would cover the bruises because he didn’t want to bother the makeup artists for some foundation ( it would bring questions, he didn’t want to answer ), putting a hat on alongside the best and most believable birthday boy face he could muster, sending hearts and smiley faces at whoever decided it was okay to waste a message or two to send for his birthday, because admitting that he was happy to see his friends thinking of him was selfish and he couldn’t be selfish at all, that was ugly and he was ugly and needed to stop at once if he wanted to be better and be more useful to others.

( causing problems after problems, stupid ahreum, idiotic puny thing always wasting everyone’s time )

he felt the ripple of anxiety lacerating his spine when there was people at home and his idea was just to get showered and bury himself into the studio, because he felt like the mask had grown thinner and thinner and was on the verge of breaking. or maybe it was a sign that the cycle needed to be broken and he didn’t want to, no. that meant exposing himself with all those missing pieces and pulverized sides —ugly ugly ugly ugly—, it meant disappointing and disappointment never made people feel happy, it meant failure, complete annihilation.

he’d hop from person to person with a smile on his face while inside he’d screech at them all for coming because they were supposed to do better things, things suiting their greatness and worth and not anything remotely associated with himself. he’d look at the cake on his plate and minjae sitting in front of him, give a small smile, open his mouth and letting the truth go for once in god knew how much time.

the bruise on his forehead still throbbed.

“ i don’t know if i even deserve any of this. ”

kang junsu released songs and pieces of himself were scattered in seven tracks like pieces of himself were now scattered on countless floors, and he felt exposed and disgusted to the core.

why junsu.

( it burns, like boiling water against the skin because he must be cleansed and purged or he won’t be getting any better. )

why.

( it fills the head with pain, against the wet tiles. again. again. again. to punish himself for stupid thoughts. )

why.

( it makes his heart think of himself as a touch number when he’s not. when he craved still the love of someone he was nothing but a stepping stone for. )

why.

its conclusion: gocheok dome could be filled with people to the brim or as empty and desolate as dimensions’ wallet, but jeon ahreum would still feel like he got shoved back in joseon and he was having his last walk of shame towards his last breath, covered in heavy damasks and gold shaped as a cloak to be pulled away from him with virulence and a fake halo fitting the saintly being he was not —gold lining his eyes and the guidelines for tears to follows as the way makeup artists would chirp how much he was pretty when all he wanted to do was to rip off all that gold from himself because it was always and solely meant for someone else.

always someone else, never himself.

he was selfish, ontop of a pipe organ with his whole vision being white and his own balance barely steady. he found himself abhorring. loathing every single bit of this, from the cameras ready to capture every single frame of his contorted despair, the organizations counting revenues over it all, those who were there to even more demean an art he’s given life and soul and happiness just because of his name not holding enough fame, the ceos and their sadism barely fed by money and backstabbing, whoever was the evil mastermind within the troposphere who remotely thought any of this pantomime was a good idea to begin with. hating himself so much for not wanting himself to strive for something better too —he knew the reasons, he knew, let him throw that tantrum, it won’t resurface ever again, promise—, for having never been able to say no when he had the chance because even more so now was too late and he couldn’t pull back from that unveiling tragedy. it was the price to pay because he was a filthy coward, right?

( no, tell me i’m wrong, i’m tired, let me out, let me out——— )

he could see junsu’s hands trembling while grasping at the side of the curtain ( do you miss me for real, he’d ask, but his mouth is sewn shut ) and he felt the urge of punching his stomach for even thinking of wanting to hold those hands into his equally trembling ones, because he lost that right three years ago and most likely junsu would be too disgusted to be touched by one like him.

people gasped in collective shock at the way the pulled curtain fell and a tear fell down his eye.

#fmdyearend #━ SELF-P ✦#self-loathing tw /#self-harming tw /#depression tw /#self-destructive behavior tw /#suicidal thoughts tw /#suicidal tendencies tw /#mental illness tw /#anxiety tw /#unreality tw /

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