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charlemange1 · 4 years ago

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Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 4 Shadow Over Ingolstadt

The churning river was an inky black beneath the moonless night. I met the man Curwen had described standing beside a small sloop in a narrowed channel hidden from the main docks by a stretch of pines. His hat was pulled over his face as he directed the handful of crew members to load the cargo into my newly purchased wagon.

“Thank you, sir,” I extended my hand to the fine fellow. “I cannot express how much these contents will benefit me!”

The man let out a scratchy laugh as he rubbed the strange necklace Curwen had given me for payment with calloused fingers. He stank of peat and dead fish.

“You swim in deep waters, boy. Do you know the contents of this cargo?”

“Dark magic trinkets. Vials and weird mushrooms, I would imagine?” That was what Victor had worked with.

The man laughed again, shaking his head. Feeling my incompetence, I set my cane against a tree and limped over to grab a crate not yet loaded on my wagon. The weight made me stagger as liquid sloshed back and forth inside.

“Careful scamp,” the captain called. “That is the finest chemical France has to offer! Only thing those hounds are good for.”

“I know,” I puffed, though my feet stumbled and the crate smashed against the rocks. A passing sailor snatched it up with a chuckle as the group roared with laughter. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the gashes the rocks had torn in my new pants. I felt the same heat in my cheeks that arose whenever the kids in Geneva had mocked me for being unable to keep up with their games. The jeers evolved in both their frequency and intensity until I had stopped coming outside altogether. Victor had been the one to convince me to rejoin society. He had taken my hand and led me past the laughing faces at the market to buy me a wooden sword for my aspiring career as a soldier. Victor cared little for the opinions of anyone outside our home and took no issue with hurling rocks at my tormentors until they left me alone and I was a happy child once more. Elizabeth had once said that my parent’s extensive travels across Europe when he was a boy had deterred Victor from forming any real connections outside our little circle. Family, he once told me while bouncing tiny William on his leg, were the only permanent forms of fellowship one could count on.

Yet he had ruined ours.

When the laughing crew had finished loading my wagon, I left their mocking behind and led my new horse down the winding backroads. Cannonballs lodged into trees reflected us as we passed. It seemed revolution had penetrated even the depths of nature. My horse clopped along the overgrown paths without complaint until we neared the gates of Ingolstadt University.

“Come on,” I encouraged, lightly tapping him with my cane. The horse bolted up with a sharp bray that echoed through the forest, nearly knocking me from the wagon as I fought for control with the bucking beast. I would never reach Curwen at this rate! If I could not do the most basic of tasks, what sort of assistant was I? Justine’s face flickered in my mind, her hands shooing me away.

“Do not trouble yourself, young master. I can sweep up this broken vase just fine by myself.”

“But I can help!”

“Not with those lungs. You must take it easy.”

“Life is not easy,” I muttered and yanked the reigns sharply toward the gateway. The horse reared up again and flung me from the wagon to the forest floor. I rolled over just as a hoof smashed down where my head had been. From the ground, I saw Curwen’s feet rushing over, a wooden plank swinging from his hand.

“Down you beast, down!” he screeched and whacked the horse between the eyes. The horse struck out his hoof, but Curwen dodged and smashed the plank into the horse’s head again. The creature staggered backward, and the wagon creaked beside me. I jumped up and steadied it as Curwen pulled a glass vial from his pocket and shoved it beneath the horse’s nose. The horse let out a smaller neigh and shook its head with less force than before. Curwen grabbed his chin and pressed the horse’s face to his. “You will obey me, bloody brute!”

Curwen’s usually calm face contorted as he struck the creature again, though the horse had given up long ago.

“Mr. Curwen, that is enough,” I pleaded. The poor animal was swaying!

Curwen’s eyes locked on me, and I felt myself falling into the pits of his eyes. Shaking my head, I hobbled between him and the horse and rested my hand against the creature’s sweat-slick neck. There was something about the beast’s helplessness that pained me.

“I shall lead him the rest of the way,” I said. “He is calmer now.”

Curwen’s face flushed with returning color. “A fine idea. I shall show you where to leave our supplies,” he smiled at me, a gentleman once more. “You did well, Ernest. I would have never reached the docks on my own.”

My momentary unease withered beneath Curwen’s praise. Fetching his materials was dangerous, but I had succeeded! See Justine, I can do more than watch from the sidelines!

I guided the dazed horse along gently as Curwen led us to the old lecture building where he had set up his makeshift lab. After I tied the steed to a nearby tree, Curwen loaded a good portion of the crates and odd vases onto a smaller wagon and motioned for me to follow him. I instinctively turned down the hall where his lab was, but Curwen pointed to a stairway I had not noticed before. The scorch marks around the opening were not reassuring.

“These materials must be stored deep underground, where it is cool.” Curwen gave a formal bow. “After you.”

“Me?” I squeaked. That unnamable smell from the lab was practically rolling from the crypt.

“Who else can hold the torch?” Curwen’s teeth flashed. “Unless you can push this cart yourself?”

Feeling my uselessness, I snatched a torch from the wall and descended the steps. Curwen followed behind with the wagon, each step sending the mysterious liquid sloshing around within the crates. Unlike the plain cobbled stone utilized aboveground, the stairway and walls were smoothed down and decorated with chiseled images that boasted a technique aesthetically evolved to the highest degree.

“Weishaupt had these catacombs constructed during his time as headmaster,” Curwen’s voice echoed unnaturally. These walls absorbed sound too. “Officials sealed the crypt off after running him out, long before our time. Victor and I used to speculate on what secrets the Illuminati hid here beneath the world of man. I only recently cleared the stonework to enter myself.”

“It must have taken years to chisel the artwork alone,” I breathed. The dancing shadows made the artwork look alive.

“Legend says Weishaupt’s crew finished in three months.”

“That is impossible!”

“Not if the workers were more than human,” Curwen smiled as he passed an image of a star-shaped plant creature in that utterly alien style. “Consider this an honor. Besides us, no mortal has trod this sacred ground for decades!”

A screech sounded ahead of us.

“See, in our absence the rats rule this world!”

“That was no rat,” I breathed, halting on my step. “That was a bark. No, a dog imitating a human scream!”

“Do you hear how ridiculous you sound,” Curwen laughed, and I fell silent, ever aware of how feeble my lone torch was compared to the surrounding darkness.

At the end of the stairway, Curwen began lighting the mounted torches that slowly revealed a massive circular room with honeycomb corridors splitting off in multiple directions. My eyes broke from the cryptic symbols etched above each entrance to the image chiseled into the stone floor. Nearly the entire floorspace was dedicated to the horribly realistic etching of a creature with curling swaths of tentacles dotted with glowing orbs of yellow eyes. So many eyes! Such a dreadful yellow!

“That creature,” I whispered. “I saw it in my dream!”

“Your deep grief must be manifesting into literal monsters,” Curwen frowned. “It will pass once your family is returned.”

“No, this is identical to the monster in my dreamscape! How can that be, when I have never seen it before?” I shivered from more than the crypt’s biting cold. The surrounding carvings radiated the same unearthly quality as Curwen’s mysterious merchant jewelry. Sunlight had never touched this place, and neither should creatures that belonged in its light like us.

“Calm yourself, Ernest,” Curwen patted my back. “Perhaps the lack of air is too trying for your weak lungs?” He raised two fingers to stop my reply. “These vases of salt are small enough for even you to handle. Bring them to the room on the left. I shall carry the crates to their own resting place.”

I started to protest, but the eyes chiseled into that life-like stonework seemed to be watching me. Studying. I did not wish to linger here any longer than necessary.

The salt in the vases rattled as I entered the stone room of furnaces half-hidden by dust and white ash. My arm cleared charred wood chips from a furnace to place the vases. I noticed the corner of something white peeking from beneath the stone structure. Pulling out the paper and brushing off the dust, I stared at a letter with the wax seal still intact. I held the paper to my torch with trembling hands, but my poor literacy skills were not deceiving me, the wax emblem was imprinted with the distinct Frankenstein seal! I broke the wax and the aged paper crinkled in protest as I read the contents dated nearly nine years ago:

Dearest Family,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, assuming it finds you at all. I have yet to receive any communications from your end, though I am told such delays are common here at Ingolstadt.

Rest assured though, that I am not alone. Fate has been kind to bless me with a fellow kindred spirit! Though he too is a first year, Mr. Curwen has shown me much to compensate for my late start due to Mother’s abrupt passing.

The next lines had a thicker consistency of ink, as though the author had taken a long break after recounting this death.

Curwen is a true friend. He eagerly shares my enthusiasm for Agrippa and Paracelsus and has introduced me to the writings of Borellus and other great men M. Krempe relentlessly mocks in his lectures. Do not fret Father, for I assure you that these genius writings receive little more than chuckles from my peers. My research does not involve the forbidden texts you have warned me of, and certainly not that horrid Necronomicon, contrary to Curwen’s attempts to convince me of its worth.

In other news, I have made terrific progress on my theory of galvanism, which my next letter shall humor you with in greater detail, for I fear I have bored you enough. Give little William many kisses for me, and do write soon! Curwen is a fine companion, but he is steadfast in his ambition and does not understand me as you all do.

Postscript: I found this particularly vibrant leaf native to Germany that I am confident Ernest will enjoy, nature fanatic that he is. I entrust you will deliver it to him safely.

Best,

Victor Frankenstein

My finger traced the imprint of the long-since decayed leaf on the paper. Victor had written! Frequently too, if this letter was to be believed, and these were not the rambles of a madman. Rather, they were the sincere concerns of a brother. My brother, who had taught me to catch moths without damaging the wings so I could show Mama. Who Curwen said had never walked these formerly boarded halls.

“Ernest, are you in here?”

“Yes, Mr. Curwen,” I said, stuffing the letter in my coat and turning to the figure in the doorway.

“Good. A man can become lost down here if he wanders. When you have finished unloading, come up to the dining hall.” Curwen’s voice lightened. “The revolutionaries did a poor job raiding the pantry!”

“I will, sir,” I nodded, and waited for his shadow to pass. As Curwen’s footsteps faded, I dropped the letter and watched it float back beneath the furnace, perfectly hidden from the surrounding ashes. My stomach lurched from more than hunger as I snatched it back up. We had heard nothing from Victor for years until Henry found him. Had someone burned Victor’s letters, and I held the sole survivor? If so, why had Victor kept silent when we confronted him on his lack of communication and told Walton he had neglected to write at all? Why hide proof that he cared? Dead or alive, Victor’s secrets seemed intent to haunt me.

The weak neighs of my horse reached me long before climbing back into the world of men. Whatever Curwen had given him had worn off, and his sides heaved as he tugged against the rope. My fingers made quick work of untying the knot. The motion rejuvenated the horse, and he rushed off into the waning night to leave all this mystery behind. I would tell Curwen the animal had overpowered me. No one deserved to be trapped here, and if they were, it should be their choice to make.

#victor frankenstein #ernest frankenstein #the case of charles dexter ward #frankenstein fanfiction #Frankenstein #ask of the lesser #ingolstadt #lovecraft fanfiction #lovecraft #mary shelley #mary shelly's frankenstein

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deviaete · 5 years ago

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sub small font apologist hath arrived ! it’s me , valentina peach , local twenty1 year old law / political science student n animal crossing fiend ! writin out of the aest / hellzone , living laughing n loving my way thru life , what else is there 2 say ? i luv my cats n will send pics on demand --- - but otherwise , let’s get on with it n get to the good shit !

elton clare , the twenty - three year old amateur detective , is one of few boarding the legendary orient express . i heard the demi - male was hired because they’re sprightly & disquisitive , and quite good at multilingualism , but problems can arise because they are ornery & portentous . settled in cabin 3000 , looking at him reminds me of the crackling , comforting roar of an open fire and the warmth it radiates onto your back ( seeps into your bones , alights them from the marrow out ) , a collection of beautiful clothes you don’t take care of ; holes in your sweaters and cigarette burns in fine linen suits and the whole damn thing soaked in the scents of nicotine and cheap scotch , scribbles in the margins of your favourite books and the lazy curls that obfuscate your vision when you pore over them . the first boom of thunder and subsequent twist of lightning of a thunderstorm , a shattered crystal goblet on the floor / something unhinged behind painfully bright eyes , something not quite right in the insidious jerk of a toothy grin . oh , and timothee chalamet . welcome aboard .

layer one , basics .

full name : elton alexander clare iii . we don’t talk about the iii part .

nicknames : none that he’d note .

age : twenty - three .

date of birth : february sixteenth , 9:15 pm .

place of birth : london , england .

star sign : aquarius sun , gemini moon , virgo rising .

gender : demi male , he/him pronouns .

sexuality : pansexual .

languages spoken : a whole lot .

speciality : multilingualism . ( duh . )

education : eton college , completed . bachelor of arts at nyu , completed .

layer two , biographicals .

and it’s a charming tale , truly ; american diplomat moves to england , falls head over heels in love with an english socialite , marriage is a swiftly - accepted proposition and less than a year later , there’s a pastel blue nursery set up in the center of a stately residence in the countryside ( wedding gift from benevolent parents , gushing over their daughter’s ultimate ladder climb ) ! elton clare ii and marilyn worthington are a neurotic , magazine - cover kind of happy , generically gorgeous and svelte and lovely in their crisp - edged glory . marilyn grows up in a world of privilege , elton determines his own fate with smarts ; the child is doomed to be a creature of fortune and disaster / marilyn wishes it were a girl . ‘ a beautiful little fool . ’

unfortunately , it’s not a girl . elton alexander clare iii is born kicking , screaming , pink - cheeked and brutally aware of the sheer injustice of being born . parents adore him , naturally ; piercing hues just like his mother’s , father’s mop of dark hair , all mettle and moxie even when he’s minutes old . god knows it’s only the beginning ! bright - eyed baby grows into an uncomfortably quiet toddler , develops into an overly - inquisitive child . can’t learn fast enough : digs his tiny little fingers into everything he can , sucks up anything he can learn with a wide smile and a furrowed brow . reads earlier than his peers , pieces sentences together fast and furious . it’s obvious that he’s linguistically - inclined , right from the beginning . spends hours in the family library as a child , delving deep into the worlds of carroll and verne and shakespeare and orwell .

childhood is , overall , picturesque : it’s holidays to paris and the south of france , trips to barcelona and vienna and prague . it’s orange trees and sandy beaches , friendly dogs and fawning old ladies who can’t help themselves but adore the kind little boy who holds open the doors for them ! schoolteachers dribble nonsense about how talented he is in just about everything ( only cares for english , history , languages and art , but that’s neither here nor there ) . takes to languages like a duck to water : french is tucked neat under his belt by eight , spanish and italian following shortly after . the term polyglot is thrown around by his sixteenth year , when mandarin , russian , arabic and portuguese join the crew .

adolescence brings with it a quiet rebellion , started in boarding school . always questions authority , never quite knows when to stop running that mouth ! eton does wonders to break a polite child into something a little more detached ; his time is punctuated , notably , by student - led rebellions ( and tell me , you savage antinuous , why are yo always at the forefront ? ) , periods of experimentation ( hues are unflinching when they rake over your best friend’s frame ) / and yet you are praised something unholy by teachers . it’s a wonder what old money and the reputation of your name will do ! you could get away with murder if the fancy so took you .

eton comes , as it always does , to a gradual end , and university looms . eighteen and weary of your homeland’s lush wonders , you apply for columbia , stanford , harvard , nyu . a double major in english and foreign literature ; minor in international relations ( father begs you , and you oblige only so that he funds your apartment ) . nyu accepts with open arms , and you run . your apartment is small and overcrowded with books , records , half - drunk bottles of wine and the remnants of a dying bouquet , forever the gift of a lover left bereft . you love it with your entire being / a place that finally feels like home , no need for svelte wrapping on your life here : you always felt so contained by expectation , but this is so different . you tumble home at 2 in the morning , scarf loose and hands raw and heart pounding and no one gives a shit .

always entertained a love of mystery : you solved household dilemmas with methodical precision , moved onto neighbour’s problems . built yourself quite the reputation as the sleuth to be remembered , and that reputation appears to precede you �� when a letter comes in the mail . contains a ticket for the orient express ( be still , my beating heart ) and an invitation . you accept before you’ve even finished reading it all .

packed up your things , flown back to france and the mystery begins the minute you step on the train . no one knows how it will end , but you know this much : you cannot wait for it to begin .

#* ╰ 𝘪. 𝗵𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘆 ‚ 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 . . . ↝ ooc .#orienthq.intro

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crxwflower · 5 years ago

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Superposition: Chapter 3

FANDOM: Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) | PAIRING: Peter Parker x Y/N

Content: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Reader-Insert, Childhood Friends, Childhood Crush, Superpowers, Angst, Spider-Man, Avengers, Fluff, Nerdy Reader, Shy Reader

** WARNINGS: Descriptions of injury/pain **

SUMMARY:

"I don't believe in fate, no psychic vision. But when things fall into place, superposition."

You don't believe in destiny or fate. Everything happens for a reason, even if that reason cannot be explained. As a child, you knew Peter Parker. You were friends, and then you weren't. He was your childhood crush—a passing phase. Life just gets in between people before they can ever really get to know each other, and that's okay. But when tragedy strikes and you find yourself blessed (or cursed) with superpowers, you discover that perhaps life has a way of bringing people together, too.

Masterlist | AO3 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Spider-Man never returned. He either died or disappeared during The Snap. Just like your sister, your father, and half of Earth’s entire population. Animals included.

What remained of the government funded projects to erect memorials for the Lost, entire neighborhoods stood vacant as people flocked to cities for comfort, and cemeteries struggled to accommodate the influx of funerals for empty caskets. Crime spiked for a while until a bunch of volunteers banded together to supplement the struggling police force. The news broadcasts always talked about “rebuilding” and “moving on” and “becoming our own superheroes.” But they never addressed how people turned to looting when production stopped or how orphaned children wandered the streets days after The Snap. So many people died. Either from car crashes caused by the driver disappearing from behind the wheel or surgeons getting dusted in the middle of an operation. Women lost their babies. Suicide rates skyrocketed. In a world with superheroes, people get comfortable believing that the heroes will always save the day. No one ever stopped to consider what might happen if they failed.

A tiny glimmer of hope appeared when Tony Stark returned from space, only to shatter when he failed to bring the other superheroes with him before all but disappearing from the public eye. No one wanted to acknowledge that the Avengers lost, so rebuilding in the wake of disaster took a long, long time.

Police officers, first responders, doctors, teachers, community leaders—people essential to the functioning of a healthy society—disappeared in The Snap. But even in the wake of disaster, incredible people always step up to do the right thing. And so, slowly but surely, the world began to heal. Memories of lost loved ones lurked everywhere in the form of weathered “missing” posters and rows of empty houses, however, people stopped allowing those memories to hold them back. After The Snap came The Healing.

A car alarm goes off outside when you awaken, shafts of golden sunlight piercing through your blinds and disturbing you from your sleep. You don’t want to get out of bed. A sigh escapes your lips as you roll off your bed, trudging to the dresser to pick out your outfit for the day. The goal is to find the right tee-shirt and jacket combination to prevent anyone from noticing that you’ve been wearing the same pair of pants for about a week. You grab a canary yellow graphic tee and a jean jacket. Mission accomplished.

You move to the vanity, running a brush through your hair and ignoring the pain as the bristles snag on tangles. You think a prayer for your poor, damaged hair and keep on brushing. No need to put on makeup today—you’ve been working to get rid of your most recent acne flare up and you’re not willing to risk making it worse. Hayley’s face smiles at you from a wooden picture frame, her arm slung around your dad’s waist as they pose in front of the Statue of Liberty. Your heart aches at the sight of it. Neither of them ever made it home. You watched Hayley disappear with your own eyes, but you are really not quite sure what happened to Dad that day.

After your wounds mysteriously healed and the ensuing chaos Post-Snap distracted the remaining first responders, you somehow managed to wander all the way back home on foot. There, you sat on the porch steps for hours listening to wailing sirens and cries of anguish as the world crumbled around you. The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon when your mother finally arrived without your father. Covered in a layer of blood, sweat, and grime, she almost looked like she had a worse day than you. She remained silent, no matter how many questions you asked her, instead engulfing you in the longest hug of your life. You both needed it.

Months later, your mom packed up everything in the house and moved you to a smaller apartment closer to Midtown High School. She never talked to you about Dad and you never talked to her about your powers. The two of you forged an unspoken agreement to never address the events of that day.

All prepared for the day, you opened your door and slipped into the kitchen. Your mom is at the dining table which is set for four, even though it is only the two of you in the house. Only a couple years ago, this place might have been filled with the clatter of plates and chattering of happy voices as everyone got ready for school or for work. But now an oppressive silence lingers in the air as you slink around like a criminal, quietly preparing a bowl of cereal while Mom stares blankly at her newspaper. She has aged considerably in recent months. She started her own business to help find homes and jobs for displaced people after The Snap, dedicating her life to helping others. It’s kind of ironic, considering how absent she is at home. You can’t remember the last time she said “I love you” or even a simple “good morning.” Some people turned to alcohol or drugs, your mom turned to her work. On one hand, you admire how much she has done for the community. On the other, you wish she would just talk to you about how she feels. You aren’t sure how much longer you can stand this silence.

“Bye, Mom,” you say as you sling your backpack over your shoulder. She glances up and makes a small noise, almost like whatever she wanted to say died in her mouth. “...I’m heading off to school…” Still, nothing. You sigh, and disappear out the front door.

….

School passes in a blur. Project presentation, pop quizzes, final exam assignments, decathlon practice. Like your mom, you have learned to fill up your day as much as possible. It helps distract you from the silence. Not only is your house quiet, but the world seems to be suspended in a permanent state of mourning. Kids joke around in the halls with hushed voices and when the conversation dies out, everyone looks around with vague expressions. The sadness is easier to escape when you give yourself barely any time to spend alone with your thoughts. The last thing you want is to be miserable all day, only for you to feel even worse when you finally have to return home. If you’re not careful, your thoughts begin to drift to the fact that soon you will be doing things your sister never got the chance to do. You plan on going to Washington D.C. with the decathlon next year, not to mention the fact that you already got your driver’s license. Before you know it, you will be touring colleges and gettings jobs—all things Hayley missed out on when she disappeared with the rest of the Lost. The closer you get to the end of the academic year, the more these thoughts plague you.

….

At the end of the day, you send a quick text before going to stand out on the curb in front of the school. A brisk wind tugs at your sleeves, stray hairs freeing themselves from your ponytail and tickling your nose or getting into your mouth when you’re not careful. Only a couple minutes pass before a nondescript black SUV pulls up in front of you, the passenger side door swinging open on its own. The driver doesn’t look at you when you hop in, setting your backpack on the seat beside you.

Buildings race past as you drive and drive, you drive until the buildings disappear and turn into quiet countryside. In the distance, the Avengers compound comes into view. You murmur a “thanks” to the driver when they drop you off at the entrance, driving off the moment you shut the door. A couple years ago, you began to realize that you didn’t hallucinate surviving electrical shock or your bones healing themselves. You were quick to write off how your skin became impervious to common injuries like paper cuts, but it was harder to ignore when you had dreams about being a cat-person-alien-thing and you woke up with feline eyes and two inch long claws. With your mother emotionally absent, you decided against confiding in her, and instead wrote a long-winded email to the Avengers explaining what happened to you and begging for help. It took a while to get a response, but eventually Blackwidow reached out to you and asked if you would be willing to take a few tests at the headquarters.

Since then, you learned that, somehow, getting electrocuted changed your body on the molecular level. Evolution occurs naturally over many generations, but Agent Romanov explained that you are able to evolve in a matter of seconds. However, you also learned that it comes at the cost of using your body’s own resources. You did not suddenly become magical. You cannot pop new arms out of nowhere. But you can grow extra arms as long as you can stand the intense, unimaginable pain the comes from sprouting two new appendages in seconds. It also makes you incredibly hungry. Imagine the amount of food a bunch of pubescent boys consume and then multiply it by ten—that’s how much you need to eat after sprouting gills or stopping bullets with your invulnerable skin.

Without the threat of alien invasions, the Avengers compound is almost completely desolate. Aside from the essential staff, you only ever see Agent Romanov on your weekly visits. The faces of the Scarlet Witch, Vision, Doctor Strange, and Spider-Man stare down at you as you move silently through the hall. Your attention lingers on the familiar red mask, tracing over the intricate details in the design. It’s crazy to you that he rescued you from death only hours before he met his own end. Agent Romanov says he never returned from space. He must have been so scared… You shake off your thoughts, not wanting to waste precious energy mourning a hero you never knew. The last thing you want is to keep Agent Romanov waiting.

….

“Sorry I’m late, Agent Romanov,” your shoes squeak on the pristine concrete floor as you walk into the training room.

The red haired woman looks up from a dossier and offers you a warm smile. She looks exhausted today. Granted, you can’t remember a time since you’ve known her that she didn’t have sad, red-rimmed eyes. Hell, she hasn’t even bothered to re-dye her hair after the natural red started growing back.

“Y/N,” she sighs. “I’ve asked you a million times to call me Natasha.”

“I know, I know,” you reply, “—it just feels too informal. I mean...you’re Blackwidow. I can’t believe that we’re on a first name basis.”

She laughs at that, pretty and melodious. It’s your constant goal to give her a reason to smile. Natasha has helped you out so much by allowing you to come here and train; she deserves to smile and be happy.

“So,” you say, stripping off your outer layers and slipping into the training suit Nat made for you. “What is on the schedule for today? Hand-to-hand combat? Survival training? When do I get my lightsaber?” Natasha chuckles again, smacking you playfully on the shoulder. You learned quickly that she’s fond of Star Wars references. She says that it reminds her of Spider-Man and, hey, you kind of like the idea that both you and your former superhero crush have good taste in cinema.

“No lightsabers. Not sure if I can trust you with those,” she winks at you playfully.

“Come on! Just once? Scout’s honor.”

“Nope, not a chance,” Nat retorts. “Let’s practice some aerial combat. I’ll man the drones, you destroy them however you please.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” you say with a mocking salute.

Your suit has a cutout on the back for occasions like this. One of the first things Natasha said when she found out you could go full-on “angel mode” was that it’s a highly valuable skill that you should practice. Because your body adapts so quickly to harsh environments and physical harm, you don’t have to think in order to become invulnerable or to breathe in low oxygen environments. But wings? That takes patience, willpower, and a lot of carbs.

When you saw pictures of angels growing up, you never really thought about how they would require an entirely different bone structure. The sensation feels like growing pains—a dull ache which steadily blossoms into acute, burning agony. It begins with a new set of shoulder blades and rotating joints fusing to your spine, muscles and tissue weaving across the fresh bone as hair follicles adapt into feathers. That part hurts a normal amount—like when you grow six inches in a summer—but it’s when the rest of your bones begin to hollow so you’re light enough to fly, ribs shifting to accommodate a larger pair of lungs, that you truly start to acknowledge just how much pain you’re in. Millions of years of evolution takes place in a single minute, and soon a stunning set of iridescent hummingbird wings frame your body. It takes everything in you not to collapse, reaching for the nutrient-rich snack bar Nat offers you and devouring it like a starving animal.

“You good?” she asks, arching a brow.

“I’m fine.” not really, but you’re used to the pain by now. Not to be edgy, or whatever, but you would rather feel this pain than to feel nothing at all. You have always looked up to superheroes, and you kind of like the idea of becoming one yourself. It’s better than being sad all the time. One day, when you learn to master your abilities, you will be saving people just like Spider-Man saved you all those years ago.

You train with Natasha for several hours, pushing the limits of your abilities until you can scarcely move. Agent Romanov might look sweet and harmless, but there is a reason why she’s called the Blackwidow. Most people would go easier on a sixteen year old girl, but Nat is adamant that you need to get used to fighting until you have nothing left, digging deeper, and then fighting some more. After the aerial training, you moved onto target practice, obstacle courses, and one-on-one with Natasha, herself.

Every bullet you fail to dodge, every time your body is forced to adapt to some extreme environment, every punch you land—it all drains you physically and emotionally. Just because you aren’t bleeding doesn’t mean you don’t feel every single blow. Your body still gets sore, and if you don’t eat enough after training, you might as well be unable to move at all. Thankfully, there is always a hearty supply of food ready for you when you finish these workouts.

After you showered and changed back into plainclothes, you meet Nat in the dining hall so you can refuel before heading home. You never get used to walking in here. It is the size of a school cafeteria, maybe larger, and it is completely empty aside from the two of you. Only serves to remind you just how desolate the Avengers compound has become. Nat offers you a giant plate of pasta—seriously, it’s gargantuan—when you take a seat on the bench across from her. You grimace as you force your sore muscles to comply, mouth watering at the sight of the food.

“You did great today, Y/N,” the woman says after you’ve helped yourself to several mouthfuls. She knows that you can’t really function until you get some food in you. “I’m impressed by how much you’ve grown since I first started training you.”

“Thank yo—”

“No, let me finish.”

You quiet instantly, swallowing any words of thanks with your latest mouthful of pasta. Why does she look so serious? The anticipation nearly kills you.

“It’s been...tough,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “really, really tough the last couple of years. I—we failed to defeat Thanos, and it got a lot of people killed. The Snap...it changed everything. I’ve been struggling without my team here to help me, but meeting you has given me something to look forward to. You give me hope that maybe something good can come out of a terrible situation.”

You’re absolutely speechless. Leave it to Natasha to drop a bomb like that when you’re gorging yourself on noodles like some sort of rabid toddler. Tears sparkle in the corners of your eyes as gaze at your companion, completely in awe of the praise she just bestowed upon you. When was the last time someone said something so kind to you? It’s been years, definitely. You must look like an overgrown child staring at Nat with big, cry-baby eyes and pasta sauce all over your face. It’s not exactly your most flattering moment, but you don’t really care.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit, smiling sheepishly at the older woman. “I’m really honored, and you know that I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for—”

“Y/N, seriously, there’s no need to thank me. I helped you when you needed it the most, and now you’re helping me, too.” Natasha stands up. She picks up a small, slate-colored box that you didn’t notice earlier and walks around to your side of the table, placing the package in front of you. “A gift. For you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You stare at her a moment longer, some part of you unable to comprehend the idea that your mentor not only expressed her appreciation for you, but also is offering you a gift. A stern expression flickers across Nat’s features, and you rush to open up the package before she gets annoyed with your inability to function like a normal human being. The box is nondescript and smooth beneath your quivering fingers. Breath you didn’t realize you were holding escapes your lips when you finally see what is inside. It’s a bracelet with a thin, silver band. And it’s not just any old bracelet. You remember seeing prototypes of this scattered around Tony Stark’s old lab.

“Try it on,” Natasha says. This time, you don’t hesitate.

The metal is cool against your skin as you slip it on. The face of the bracelet is about the size of a quarter; you press it, and the metal morphs into a high tech suit as nanotechnology spreads across your skin. “No way!” you gasp, marveling at how light and flexible the armor is. It is the same silver hue as the original band, with varying monochrome shades depending on the thickness or flexibility of the area. Your torso is a dark, iron hue with plates of sterling protecting your most vital areas. A pale silver forms the topmost layer—a sleek and agile imitation of traditional european armor. You sort of look like a weird fusion between a medieval knight and a stormtrooper.

“I know you don’t necessarily need armor, but this should help absorb the shock of impact and conceal your identity. Plus, it can shift to accommodate wings or claws or whatever weird thing you decide to grow.” Amusement sparkles in her eyes as she watches you inspect your gift.

Natasha can’t see it due to the helm obscuring your face, but you’re grinning from ear to ear. You rush forward, enveloping her in a tender embrace. You could cry right now, but you’re trying to keep it together.

“Thank you so much,” you gush, voice threatening to crack. “This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me.” Your voice rings with honest truth. On most days, your own mother forgets that you even exist. And when she does acknowledge your presence, she acts more like a robot than a mom. In a way, Natasha has become a mom to you. Not that you will ever tell her as much, but the red-haired assassin cares for you when no one else does.

“So,” Nat says, changing the subject. “Any ideas on what you want your alias to be?” Oh, right. That. You have a couple ideas, but you were unable to settle on one when you sat down at your desk to brainstorm the night before.

“Semblance or Replica. I couldn’t decide,” you reply.

“I like Semblance. Replica makes you sound tacky.”

Natasha’s matter-of-fact reply makes you laugh. It’s just like her to shoot down an idea immediately without needing to think about it.

“Semblance, it is.” You can’t keep yourself from smiling. This is it. It’s finally real. No more looking up to heroes, because now, now you get to be your own hero.

“Come on, let’s finish dinner.”

No argument from you. You’re still starving—as awesome as the suit is, your thoughts keep drifting back to the steaming bowl of spaghetti on the table.

You fill up on several more servings of pasta, chatting and joking with Natasha. The cafeteria doesn’t feel so empty when the both of you are laughing at another one of your bad jokes. You don’t really want to go home, but it’s getting late. As absent as Mom is, you don’t want to push your luck. Eventually she will notice that you’re gone.

After a quick exchange of goodbyes, you opt to fly yourself home. You have tried out several different kinds of wings in the past, but your favorites are that of a hummingbird. Learning how to emulate their aerodynamic adaptations was a bit of a learning curve, but now that you know what you’re doing, you are capable of flying just as fast with a considerable amount of agility. If anyone spots you soaring through the skyscrapers, you would never be able to tell. Dark buildings rush past you as you weave through the city, marveling at the myriad of dazzling lights. It’s way past your curfew, but you want to make a pit stop at the Chrysler building. The rooftop is one of your favorite places to sit and watch the city below. But right now, you are eager to try out your new suit away from the watchful eyes of Natasha.

You press the hidden button on the bracelet. Waves of silver nanotechnology ripple across your skin in a matter of seconds. You are no scientific genius, so you can’t say exactly how this sort of thing works, but you **have** poked around in the lab Tony Stark used to work in when he was an Avenger. From what you gathered, this technology is a lesser version of his suit, Mark 50, which had the ability to interpret the thoughts of the wearer and construct different tech at a whim. You wonder if this one has an AI built in. That would be cool. The longer you think about it, the more you want to know. Well, there is only one way to find out.

“Um,” you say apprehensively. “Can anyone hear me?”

“Hello, Y/N,” says a feminine voice. “How may I help you?” You have no idea where the voice originates from. Are there even speakers in this thing? You try not to dwell on it—there is no use in questioning a product of Stark Industries. The only thing that matters is that it works.

“I’m not sure. What can you do?”

“I can do lots of things. All you have to do is ask.”

This is it. The big moment. You have a high-tech suit with a super awesome AI, so you’re first order of business should be monumental. Something worthy of the occasion. You wrack your brain for ideas, but all the anticipation and excitement overwhelms your brain, and you mind blanks. It’s like when someone asks about your favorite movie and you immediately forget the names of all the movies that have ever existed, but worse.

“Can you tell me the fastest way to get home?” Lame.

“If you intend on flying home, standard GPS data does not apply to you,” The AI replies in a helpful tone. “It will be approximately 35 minutes by taxi at this time of night, however.”

“Oh, right. Thank you...Wait, sorry, do you have a name, or something?”

“I do not.”

Huh, that’s weird. Most systems have some sort of nickname for their artificial intelligences. There’s Siri, Alexa, and Google. Alright, no, the last one is less of a name and more of a vocal identifier. Or the people who created the technology were lazy and uninspired.

“Can I give you a name?” you ask after a moment of thought.

“If you would like to.”

“How about Glados?” will she get the reference? Just the mere thought of it brings an amused smirk to your lips.

“Glados sounds nice.”

Your expression falters, disappointed that Glados didn’t catch on. Oh well. You think you’re funny—with or without validation.

“Alright then,” you say after a short moment of silence. “Let’s go home.”

You leap off the roof, free-falling with your wings folded against your back. The ground rushes towards you, faster and faster, until you unfurl your wings and skim the tops of the cars. In other places, people might question a mysterious individual plummeting from great heights, but this is New York. These people have endured alien invasions and apocalypse situations. For all they care, you’re just another weirdo cosplayer. And that’s just fine. You’re not quite ready to become a superhero like Cap or Iron Man. But, damn, you really do love to fly.

….

When you arrive home, the apartment is just as silent as when you left it. Bones snap and muscles tear as you return to your natural form. You pause, waiting for your mom to barge in and demand to know where you’ve been. She never does, though. Just like every other time. Quietly, you tiptoe towards the kitchen. Empty. You try her room next. Also empty; the bed still made. Figures. She’s still at work and didn’t even bother to call. Perhaps she just assumed that you’re used to her pulling all-nighters at the office.

Pfft, whatever. You’re too tired to be mad at her.

After grabbing a quick snack from the fridge, you return to your room and turn in for the night, hoping that maybe your mom might surprise you with breakfast in the morning. If only.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #peter parker x you #peter parker fics #peter parker fic #peter parker imagine #peter parker series #mcu peter parker #spider-man x y/n #spider-man x reader #spider-man x you #mcu spiderman #mcu fic #crow writes #superposition series #avengers #avengers fanfiction

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ohnojustimagine · 7 years ago

Text

Flesh and Blood

Roman Reigns/Reader 7160 words; Smut/Explicit (though it takes a bit to get to the smut)

Vampire AU, Arranged Marriage AU, Historical AU, set in probably like some fantasy vaguely 1700’s-ish time. I wanted to get this done for Halloween, but it got so long!

***

The journey takes days in the carriage, so many that you start to lose count. You’re permitted to pause briefly at various inns along the way; quickly change your clothes and wash, swallow down some stale, tasteless food while the spent horses are replaced with fresh animals, and you’d ask your father why you cannot take rest at places more befitting your status, but you know the answer.

This is a shameful, secret undertaking, and your father would rather his humiliation not be witnessed by his peers. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, that appearances so matter to him when your own approaching debasement seems to be of far less regard. You are his only daughter, and while he does care for you, his favor and preference has always been for your three older brothers. You are aware it is a sacrifice for him, allowing you to be used in this way, but you also know he has done nothing to prevent this being your ultimate fate, agreeing to it with little protest.

The Last War ended before you were born, but the truce between the two kingdoms, of Humans and Vampires, has never been an easy or especially tranquil one. There have been aggressions on both sides, a slow build of tension over the years, but negotiations for a more lasting peace have been underway for some time now.

An alliance is about to be formalized, but there must be a concrete concession from both sides, a representation of their commitment to stand united against further war. And, it seems, you are that representation, for you are to be married. You, the King’s most insignificant and expendable niece, will be wedded to Lord Reigns, the youngest son of the High Lord Vampire, as a gesture of good faith.

You are a token, a pawn, nothing more. Your marriage will be but a symbol, and you yourself are of such little consequence that you cannot help but be painfully aware that you are most likely being sent to your death, yet you choose to take comfort in the fact that your end will be a noble one, that you will at least play a small role in bringing about a better world for all your Uncle’s subjects. You hold your head high, knowing you have every right to be proud, but your courage is beginning to fail, your fear growing with each passing mile of this seemingly endless journey.

Your father hasn’t said a word to you for days now, simply staring out the windows of the carriage when it is light, facing straight ahead during the darker hours, when he is not sleeping, but you can tell by his demeanor that you are close to reaching your destination.

He turns to look at you. “Has someone spoken to you?” he asks, tentative yet distant. “About what your husband will require from you?”

“Yes,” you answer shortly. Your kindest and most loyal lady-in-waiting, Marie, sat you down before you departed and informed you in some detail of what you should expect on your wedding night. And while you had a little knowledge of the nature of the act between husband and wife, the specifics were still… surprising to you. It does not sound like a pleasant or agreeable task, but you are aware a marriage is not binding without consummation, and this marriage will need to be binding for the alliance to be ratified. So you will have to endure it.

“What of the rest of it?” you say. “What of after? Will they kill me?”

Your father does not reply, but he takes your hand, squeezing it in some semblance of affection. “I wish your mother was here,” he says, softly.

She died when you were but a child, and your memories of her are vague and hazy, but you recall her holding you, cradling you. Her hair was golden, and you remember the sweet, comforting smell of it, brushing across your face as she sang to you, soothing melodies that lulled you into sleep. You felt safe in her presence, protected in a way that you have never since known.

Certainly not in this moment, as you glare at your father, and say, hotly, “My mother would never have allowed this marriage.”

“No, my dear,” your father says with a sigh. “She would not.”

Neither of you speak further, and you pull back the curtain that covers the carriage window, staring outside. Darkness has fallen, though there is a full moon that illuminates the landscape you are travelling through, bathing it in a pale, almost unearthly light. Open fields and farmland sprawl beside the road and you gaze longingly at the hills in the distance, wishing you could run away, find sanctuary somewhere, but you know you are being foolish and cowardly.

You soon enter a forest, thickly planted with trees, so close and tight you begin to feel as if you cannot breathe, and you shut the curtain, looking straight ahead.

And it is not so very long before you hear the horses slow, the soft thud of their hooves on the muddy road replaced by the sharp crunch of gravel, and the carriage comes to a halt.

Please, you want to say to your father, but you know it would be of no use.

A footman opens the door, offering you his arm, and you take a breath as you step out, carefully climbing down, inhaling the cool night air. You are in front of a set of stone stairs that lead up to a huge wooden door that is thrown wide open, set into a mansion so seemingly vast that you cannot make out its boundaries, even in the clear moonlight.

You are shown into a large, spacious entrance hall lined with polished wooden panels on which hang innumerable grim-looking portraits. You gaze up at them fearfully, wondering if your betrothed’s visage is among the stern, disagreeable faces that glare down at you. Two huge, curved staircases are set at either side of the room, and down one of them walks a beautiful woman in an emerald-green dress. Her hair is dark, her skin the color of honey, and while she smiles at you, her eyes are cold and hard, and you instinctively know she is one of them.

A vampire.

“We’ve been waiting for you so eagerly, my dear,” she says, voice sickly sweet, insincerity dripping from her every word. “I am Leila, and I am to be your lady-in-waiting.” Before you can even think to reply she takes your hand with a deceptively steely grip, leading you off, and you glance back at your father, panicked, but he has already turned away, instructing the footmen to bring in your trunk from the carriage.

Leila drags you up the stairs without ceremony, and you walk quickly along behind her, careful to keep up, not wishing to anger her. You make your way down a long corridor, every step silenced by thick carpet, until you reach a door, and enter what would seem to be some kind of ladies’ dressing room; luxuriously appointed with mirrors and cupboards.

There are several other women waiting there and they all look you up and down. “Is this her?” one asks, the disdain in her voice plain to hear.

“I’m afraid so,” Leila answers, and the women shake their heads, obviously dismayed at your appearance. You are not ugly, you know that, but your prettiness is of a more delicate type than these ladies, with their full, painted lips and elaborately coiffed hair. You wonder if this is the usual style among vampire women, and if so, you can only suppose that your husband will be sadly disappointed by you, but there is nothing you can do to help that.

They all descend on you, removing your travelling clothes with quick, sharply efficient hands, and though you are used to being dressed by your own former ladies-in-waiting, they were never been this rough with you; pinching and pulling, ruthlessly impatient when you do not move rapidly enough for their liking.

You are standing there, shivering in your underclothes, when Leila brings out a white dress, shaking out its skirt.

“Am… am I to be married now?” you ask. You had assumed there would be at least a few days’ preparation for such an occasion.

“Of course,” Leila says, as if it an obvious thing. She regards you with a condescending gaze, and then continues,“We do not consider it any cause for celebration that Lord Reigns is to be wed to a creature like yourself, and we would prefer our shame to be done with as quickly as possible.”

“Oh,” you say, nodding in understanding. “I brought a dress with me for the ceremony,” you say, timidly hopeful that you might be able to wear something of your own choosing.

“Don’t be silly, child,” Leila scolds you. “This is much finer, I’m certain.”

And it is, yes, with its intricate embroidery and elaborate frills, but there is so much of it, and none is at all suited to you. Yet you do not protest further, resigning yourself to these foreign tastes.

One of the women helps you with the layers of petticoats you are to wear, and another slips a corset around your waist, pulling its laces so tight you can barely breathe. It takes three of them to guide you into the dress, so full is it, but finally it is on, and Leila stands behind you, fastening the myriad of tiny buttons that march up the back seam of the gown, the weight of it heavy on your body, like a burden you are doomed to carry.

A woman kneels in front of you, lifting your feet and squeezing them into beautiful but slightly too-small shoes, and another pins a lace-edged veil in your hair, pulling it down over your face, smoothing the edges.

They all step away to examine you, assessing with critical eyes, and it is clear you do not measure up to their standards. “I suppose she is passable,” says Leila with a put-upon sigh.

“Shame about her hair,” one says. “But we don’t have time to fix that.”

You have your blonde curls pulled back into a simple twist, and you touch them lightly, adjusting the veil. Two of the women take your hand, each either side of you, and Leila once again leads the way. It is not so very far, this time, but your shoes pinch tight on your feet, and you wince in pain as you walk.

You enter the foyer of what seems to be a small chapel, and your father is there, waiting for you. Leila and the others leave you without a word, and your father gives you a hesitant smile, regarding you sadly. “You look beautiful, my dear,” he says, kissing your cheek, then standing back to admire you further. “So like your mother,” he murmurs, his voice faltering slightly, but you hear the wedding march begin to play, and he offers you his arm.

The chapel is certainly not large, you see as you enter, but every seat is filled. The assembled guests turn to look at you and your father as you make your way up the aisle, a few gazing curiously, but most staring with open, unconcealed hostility.

You swallow, and focus on the altar you walk towards. It is made of a highly polished black wood, and before it, with his back to you, is a man: your soon-to-be husband. He is quite tall, seemingly broad shouldered, dressed in a fitted, wine-colored velvet coat and tight breeches that appear to mold to generously muscled thighs. His long, dark hair is tied with a black ribbon, and he stands, straight-backed, hands at his sides.

You hold your breath as you approach him, feeling for a moment as if you might faint, but your father holds you steady, and you gather yourself, releasing your father’s arm as you come to a halt beside him, Lord Reigns, and it is the first time you have allowed yourself to even think his name, but you know there is no turning back now, your fate sealed. For a brief second you keep your eyes lowered, but then you look up, facing him.

And you are not sure what you were expecting; not some hideous monster, certainly, but not this, not a man, a man so beautiful that a barely-stifled gasp catches tight in your throat, and you stare.

His skin is of a subtle, golden hue, and a neatly trimmed beard frames his generous mouth. His eyes are pale, but they are surprisingly warm, almost kind. He gives you a small smile that you think, or at least hope, is meant to be reassuring, and your wedding begins.

It is a short ceremony, clearly abridged for maximum efficiency, and you are soon pronounced husband and wife. And it is only then that you learn your husband’s given name: Roman. It is unusual, you muse to yourself, certainly not a name you have ever heard used before, but you like it. It suits him, you are sure, though as yet you do not know him.

You see him swallow as he carefully lifts your veil back off your face, pressing a chaste, cool kiss to your lips, taking your hand and turning to face the assembled guests, none of whom seem even vaguely inclined to applaud your union. You glance across to where your father was last standing, hoping he at least will seem a little proud, but it would appear he is already gone, as there is no one there, and you frown, fretful, wondering if he has left of his own accord.

You would not wish him harm, despite your anger at him, but as you glance around the chapel, he is nowhere to be seen.

Yet you are married, you think, the reality of it sinking in as you move in procession to a modestly-sized dining hall. You and Lord Reigns are seated at a high table and there are no speeches, no dancing or raucousness. No food, either, only servants holding large, bejewelled pitchers that they use to fill and refill the goblets on the tables in front of all the guests, from which they drink deeply of a dark, thick liquid. In your confusion and general bewilderment, you at first assume it is some kind of strange wine they are imbibing, but then you realize: it is blood.

They are drinking blood.

Your new husband takes a generous swig from his goblet, and then looks at you, smiling, his lips and teeth red with it. You feel dizzy with nausea, and your horror must be written plain over your features, as Lord Reigns quickly wipes off his mouth.

“My lord,” you say tentatively, grasping at all your courage to address him.

“Roman,” he says. “I want you to call me Roman.”

“Roman,” you repeat, the name strange and unfamiliar on your tongue. “I would wish to know…” You do not know if it is your place to ask, and you stop.

“Is it your father?” he says, and you nod. Roman lays his hand on your arm. “I had one of my trusted men see him away safely. He’s fine, I assure you.”

You let out a sigh of relief, but there is also the knowledge that you are now truly on your own, in this house, among these… you want to think of them as people, but you do not know if that is foolishly naïve.

For now, there is quiet, subdued chatter amongst the guests, and it is not so very long before Leila appears before you once again.

“I must prepare her,” she says, ignoring you to address your husband, and he nods. You stare at him, eyes wide, panic rising up inside you, your heart sinking with dreadful anticipation.

“Do not fear,” he says, gentle. “Go with Leila, and I will be with you soon.”

You obey him, as you now must, as you have promised to, meekly standing and following Leila out of the hall. She does not hurry you this time, moving along in front of you in silence. Along the way you are joined by the same women as earlier, but there is a different mood among them; more solemn and serious.

You could not say how far you walk, but your surroundings gradually begin to change; with carpets and wooden panelling giving way to narrow passageways lined with huge flagstones, your path lit by flaming torches hung at regular intervals.

And then, at last, you are in a chamber that seems to be made entirely of stone, with strange carved patterns decorating the walls that slope up to a high ceiling. There is an opening at the peak, and the full moon shines down through it with a pale, icy light, precisely illuminating the center of the room, where there are two stone pillars, also covered with carvings. You peer at them, trying to decipher the markings, but it is nothing you are able to recognize. Perhaps some ancient vampire language, you think, but before you have a chance to look around you further, you are being stripped of your dress.

You do not resist, nor do you speak, but you pray, silent, inside your head, longing for a painless and rapid death, asking whatever God might be listening in as godless a place as this for mercy, begging that you will soon be with your mother.

You are quickly naked, and this time you are clothed in a white linen nightgown, sleeveless, with two straps at the shoulders. Unlike your wedding dress, it is plain and quite simple, but the fabric of it is soft on your skin.

You stare up at the moon as Leila and her friends take rough hold of you, pushing you to stand between the two pillars, dragging your arms away from your body. Chains are laid into the stone, each ending with a iron cuff, and they fasten your wrists tight so you are bound with your arms outstretched, raised either side of you.

They step back, all bowing their heads, murmuring something in unison, the words so quiet you cannot make them out, and you feel terror begin to truly form within you, but then they look up, eyes dark.

“What a waste,” one of them says with a distinct sneer. “For a man such as Lord Reigns to have to be wed to a human.”

“Especially a sad little mouse like this one,” another chimes in. She gives Leila a sly, searching look, then adds, “Weren’t you promised to Lord Reigns as a child?”

Leila replies with a haughty tone, saying, “Roman and I will be together.” She smiles at you, predatory as a wolf. “This poor creature is merely a passing diversion.”

“Do you think,” the other woman says, inching toward you, “that Lord Reigns would mind if we sampled at her?” She sniffs the air, visibly shivering in delight, her eyes glittering. “Her fear smells delicious.”

“No,” Leila says, with decisive authority. She runs her hand over your cheek, long fingernails scraping lightly over your skin. “Don’t fret, child,” she says, no comfort in the words, poison in her tone. “It will all be over soon.”

She smiles, again, and takes her leave along with the other women, and you are alone.

The room is cold, the silence almost oppressive, and you do not know how much time passes, but finally your hear someone enter. “You don’t have to be afraid,” says a quiet voice, and it is your husband. You cannot see him, as he moves to stand behind you, and you shift, restless, straining a little at your chains. “I apologize,’ he says, "for the restraints, but unfortunately they’re part of the ritual.”

You don’t tell him that you are secretly glad you are bound, that you’re such a coward you would have fled by now were you not tied so securely.

You can feel him, his presence, so near but not yet touching you, and you listen as he takes a deep, shuddering inhalation. “Your blood,” he says. “I can smell it.” He wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your neck, lips lingering on your skin. “I can hear it,” he whispers, hoarse and low. “Every drop, every vein, every pulse, all of it.” His large body is pressed close against your back, and your heart beats faster.

He uses his other hand to slowly tilt your head away from him, exposing your throat and neck, and you feel his breath, cooler than you would expect, but ragged and unsteady. There is the smallest scratch, fine-edged and pointed as a blade, and he says, “It will only hurt for a moment, I promise you.”

You hold your breath, so filled with fear you are sick with it, but then there is pain, white hot and sharp. Your body arches up against it, struggling in Roman’s arms, but he holds you fast until it passes. You can hear him, feel him drinking from you, swallowing, greedy, and a sudden warm bliss floods through you, as if you’re glowing from within, lit up with pleasure. You see a bright, searing light, and then…

Nothing.

Only darkness, sweet oblivion welcoming you with open arms, and you fall into it, grateful.

***

You wake, your head spinning with giddiness, and it takes you more than a few moments to realize that you are not dead, and to recall where you are, what has happened. You’re in another room, this time warmly comfortable and well-lit, and you’re curled up on the corner of a soft, generous bed, still dressed in the white nightgown. You raise your hand tentatively to your neck, expecting to find a wound, but there is only two small bumps, seemingly already nothing but scars. You frown to yourself, wondering what dark arts have enabled such rapid healing.

“There you are,” you hear Roman say, and you startle, sitting up quickly. Too fast, and the room moves around you, swaying violently as you try to breathe. You lean on your arms, and slowly you are able to steady yourself. “Okay?” Roman asks, and you look over at him.

He’s sitting across from you, on the other side of the bed, leaning back on the headboard with his legs extended out in front of him, a pile of papers in his lap, and he’s dressed only in his breeches, hair hanging loose over his shoulders. His body is as well-muscled at it appeared through his clothes, but your attention is immediately drawn to his right arm, as it is covered in strange markings and lines that curve and spread over his chest. They seem vaguely familiar to you, and after some thought, you realize they are of the same type as was carved on the walls and pillars in the stone room.

He doesn’t say anything further, but reaches over to a table next to him, where there is a pitcher waiting. He pours water from it into a tin cup, holding his arm outstretched to offer it to you. You regard him warily, but then take it, swallowing down the water in inelegant gulps, thirst overcoming your decorum.

You hand the cup back to him when you are done, and say, anxious, “Is it over? Have we fulfilled our obligations?”

“The blood ritual is done, yes,” he says.

“And what of the rest?”

The corner of his mouth lifts in the smallest, most subtle of smiles. “Not yet.”

“Oh,” you say. “Oh.” Tears prickle hot in your eyes, and you hug your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, willing yourself not to cry. “I thought you would have…” You don’t know what to call it, so you do not call it anything. “While I was fainted, I thought you would.”

He frowns at you. “Of course I would not,” he says, firmly. “I do not intend to take advantage of you.” He sets aside his papers on the table, and makes to move closer to you. You can’t stop yourself from flinching at his approach, and he hesitates, seating himself a few feet away, as if you’re some skittish animal he needs to gentle and tame. And you suppose that, to him, that’s exactly what you are: someone beneath him, an inferior species not of his kind.

“But we must,” you say, despairing at the thought that there is yet more to be suffered.

“Yes,” he says, gently, “we must.” He looks at you, seeming to study you closely before he again speaks, saying, “Done properly, it is not something to dread.”

You don’t reply, and this time, when he shifts nearer to you, you steel yourself to remain still, aware that attempting to delay your fate will likely only make things worse. He reaches for your wrist, grasping it, making to pull it away from your body, and for a second you resist him, but when he does not force you, you relax somewhat, allowing him to take your hand.

He holds it, careful, as if it is something precious, turning it palm up, tracing one fingertip delicately over the inside of your wrist, still slightly chafed from your earlier bonds. His touch is so light that it makes you shiver, and you suddenly recall his words from earlier, about veins and blood, but you try to put the thought from your mind.

“Will you trust me?” he asks, quietly.

What choice do I have? is what you would like to tell him, but instead you say, “I will try.”

He nods, as if that is an acceptable answer, and then slowly, almost achingly so, lowers his head enough to press his mouth to your own, kissing you. It is full and soft, but after a minute, his tongue begins to lick along your lips in the strangest manner, and you are unsure as to how you are supposed to respond to such an act, so you do nothing, hoping it is simply some misunderstanding.

He pulls back, regarding you for a moment. “You have to open your mouth,” he tells you, kindly, but he seems somewhat bemused by your ignorance.

“Oh,” you say, not quite comprehending, but you do as you are asked when he leans back in and oh, you think again, because this time his tongue slides past your lips, and then all at once it is moving inside your mouth, almost as if it is caressing you. And you would have assumed that would be a most unpleasant sensation, but it’s instead something very different. Like the smoothest silk, you muse in wonder, that something can be so soft.

And though you are certain it is likely improper, somehow it seems only natural that your own tongue should move against his, responding in kind, and when you do, Roman hums in what must be pleasure, though it is possibly surprise. It vibrates through your mouth, and you inhale at the feel of it, mouth opening wider to him.

Without the smallest pause, he scoops you up into his arms, lifting you as if you weigh nothing, kissing you all the while as he lays you down onto your back, your head resting cradled by the pillows at the head of the bed.

He lies on his stomach, beside you, close enough that his mouth never moves from yours, seemingly inexhaustible. And that is all he does, kissing you, on and on, until you do not want him to ever stop. You can feel wetness gathering between your thighs, and you know you should be ashamed, to be so wanton and lustful, but he is your husband, after all, so surely it is not such a sin to desire him?

After some time he leans back a little, half sitting up, looking at you, a somewhat dazed expression on his face, his lips slightly reddened, hair tumbling over his shoulders in soft waves. Your attention is again drawn to the patterns on his skin, and you are now close enough to discern how beautifully intricate and detailed they are.

“What is it?” he asks, glancing down at the markings. “These?”

You nod. “Are they…” you ask, not wanting to offend him in any way, but curious to understand. “What are they?”

“They are symbols of our family, of our blood heritage.”

“Are you born with them?”

“No,” he says, “they are earned.” He runs his hand over his upper arm, saying with no small amount of pride, “They are inked into the skin with a needle, over time.”

Your eyes widen at the thought. “Is that not painful?” you say.

“It is,” he tells you, with enough conviction that you assume the agony of it must be extreme. You bite your lip, still staring, fascinated. “Do you want to touch them?” he asks you, softly.

You don’t answer, but you reach out, tentative, your breathing inexplicably quickening as your hand hangs trembling in the air between you.

“You won’t hurt me,” he assures you.

You breathe in, barely daring to move but he is quite still, watching you, so you trace your fingers up over his arm, following the pattern, and you had thought there might be some texture to it, but his skin is quite smooth. You caress over the rise and fall of his muscular form, the broad span of his shoulder, then across his chest, and as you continue, you unthinkingly brush over his nipple, eliciting a gasp from him. You pull your hand away in haste, fearful that you have harmed him, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no, that was good.”

And so you reach out once again, hesitating, but he nods at you, encouraging. You touch the small nub that sits in the center of the markings, careful, stroking it, feeling it tighten and harden under the tip of your finger, and you grow braver, circling over it with increasing pressure.

You see him take a deep breath, and then he laughs, brief and breathless, saying,“You know more than you think you do, my love.”

You lower your gaze in embarrassment at his praise, stopping, and he smiles at you, moving down the bed. You don’t protest as he takes hold of the hem of your nightgown, pulling it up your legs until it is bunched at your hips. He moves your knees apart, settling himself between them, on his front.

And you squirm with shame, your face hot at the knowledge that he is so close to your most private of places, staring into the very core of your womanhood, and you let out a small, helpless cry as he kisses the inside of your thighs. His teeth brush against your skin, and you startle, tensing, your mind taken back to the feel of his bite in the cold, moonlit chamber.

“A-are you…” you stammer out. “Are you going to bite me again?”

“No,” he says, looking up at you, with an easy, almost fond smile, and despite yourself, your pulse speeds at the sight of it. “No, I’m going to kiss you.”

And you cannot fathom why he would want to do such a thing, but you soon understand, because he does far more than simply kiss you, his mouth transgressing and surpassing every intimacy you would have ever imagined to be normal or possible. He licks you, sucks at you, and feel yourself blossoming under his tongue, opening up to him, and he laps at your wetness, beginning to concentrate his attentions in one particular place, intensifying the sensations within you.

The pleasure of it builds until it is almost unbearable, and it is too much, all-consuming in a way that you are sure is more than you can stand “No,” you protest, feeble, tugging at his hair, trying to pull him away. “I cannot… please.”

He looks up at you, his mouth glistening with your slickness, and you see him lick his lips, greedy. “What is it?” he asks.

“I feel I will…” You do not know how to describe what you are experiencing, how to put it into words, but he seems to understand what you are saying.

“Stay with me,” he tells you, enough authority in the words that you want more than anything to trust him, but it is not so easy. “Just let go,” he says.

He dives back in, his tongue flicking over that spot, bringing you to such exquisite agony that you try to shift away from him, but he wraps his powerful arms around your thighs, keeping you fast in place. You whimper with it, fretful, because this is torture of the worst and yet best kind, and just when you think you can no longer stand it, it as if the feeling peaks within you, so heightened in its focus that you cannot control yourself, making such sounds as you have never heard, your hips unconsciously pushing up against his face in a manner so primitive and base that you will later redden to recall it.

He does not stop, not until you collapse back, the intensity ebbing from you like water slipping away. You did not know that you were capable of such a response, and you lie there, panting, desperate to catch your breath. Your body is still trembling, vague echoes sparking at random through you, sharp and raw.

Roman shifts up next to you, an almost prideful expression lingering on his face as he watches you. “Have you never before…” he asks you, obviously curious.

You shake your head. It was your admittedly extremely vague understanding that only men gained a level of satisfaction from physical acts, and that women bore it as best they could. You had no idea that such a terrible, wonderful delight was even possible.

“But you liked it?” he questions.

“Oh yes,” you reply, more fervently that you intend, but Roman only seems pleased by your reaction.

“Can we take this off now?” he says, tugging at the nightgown you still wear, and you nod shyly in reply. You sit up a little, and he helps you with it, lifting it over your head, and though he has already seen parts of you that no man ever has, you still blush to be fully naked before him.

You lie before him, and he stares down at you, eyes shining with desire, bright and pale. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice low, and you can hear his need for you. And you would never have dreamed that you could inspire such want in a man such as this, but then you are beginning to suspect that you are perhaps an altogether different person than your previous life has ever given you cause to realize.

He is on his knees, and without removing his gaze from your form, he unlaces his breeches, tugging them off and casting them aside. His manhood springs free, and you gasp lightly at the sight of it, the way it just out from his body so proud and unashamed. It is darker than the rest of him, curving up gracefully to flare out at its head, and there is a drop of pearly moisture beaded at the uppermost tip. You lick your lips unconsciously, for it is not such a frightening thing as you had pictured, but it is bigger than you would have thought, and you are nervous as to how it will fit inside you.

Roman lies down over you, and you almost instinctively part your thighs, allowing him to settle between them. “Bend your knees up,” he tells you, guiding your legs into a position that will allow him to enter you, and then he reaches down, gripping himself in preparation.

You feel it, pressing at you, the blunt head of it demanding and intrusive, and you screw your eyes shut fast, wanting to believe that Roman will make the process as painless as is possible, but you whine quietly in fear, and your body tenses tight, denying him any easy access. And for one terrifying second you again remember the restraints, remember his teeth sinking into your neck, and you brace for him to force himself into you, but instead he immediately stops, looking down at you, concerned.

“I am sorry,” you whisper, humiliated that you are unable to fulfil your duty willingly, as any good wife should.

“No,” he croons, stroking your face. “I understand. We have plenty of time, I promise you.”

He kisses you, so deep you feel yourself begin to melt into him once again, letting out the breath you have been holding. His hand slides between your legs, finding that spot that he had earlier so pleasured with his tongue, caressing it in slow, unhurried circles.

“Is that good?” he asks, and you are surprised to notice a hint of uncertainty in his voice. You suddenly realize that he is also feeling some trepidation regarding what you are about to do, and for some reason that makes your own nervousness easier to bear, knowing that you are truly in this together.

“Yes,” you tell you him, and it is certainly not as intense as when he used his mouth on you, but it is no less sensual for it. Your legs fall open wider, and your body begins to respond to him as before.

“I want you,” he says, “I want for us to know each other as husband and wife, but I will not act until you are ready.”

The tip of one finger teases at your entrance, and once more you clench against it, but he does not go any further, patient as he kisses you, his other hand caressing across your breasts, and, gradually, your tension dissolves. His finger slips gentle inside you, into the renewed wetness there, and he moves it carefully in and out.

Your back arches slightly, and you let out a moan, so unladylike it is almost shocking to you, but Roman only smiles against your lips. “Yes,” he urges you, “just like that, my love.”

He slides another finger into you, and this time, instead of tensing, you feel yourself welcome it, eager, and you start to understand what he means by want, your desire for him rising within you. And it is not some simple, wanton lust, it is more than that: a wish to surrender yourself to him in the most absolute and perfect way, to be possessed by him, in every sense of the word.

“Now?” he asks, seemingly unsure, but your answer is decisive and immediate.

“Now,” you reply. “Please.” And this time, when he pushes into you, your body opens to him without resistance, without hesitation. You grasp tight to his arms, clinging to him as he enters you fully, and it feels like nothing you could have imagined, to have him inside you, to be joined as one with him.

“Yes?” he says, and you can hear the edge in his voice, his control barely maintained, his lust for you almost overpowering his will.

“Yes.”

He exhales, and starts to thrust himself in and out of you, as he did with his fingers, but this is so much better, so very much more. He closes his eyes above you, his mouth open, breath unsteady, the movement of his hips increasing in both speed and force, and, to your surprise, you find yourself enjoying the rougher rhythm of it, the manner in which he is taking you, his ownership of you complete.

And once more that strange wave of pleasure sweeps through you, and though it is more muted than the first time, you do not now resist it, allowing it to take you over. You move against him, and just as you cry out your own release, you hear him moan, and he thrusts into you with some violence, finishing himself inside you.

You both breathe, and he rolls off you, gathering you into his arms, kissing you, holding you close in an embrace so all-encompassing you feel as if nothing could ever harm you again.

“May I ask you a question?” you say, after a time.

“Anything, my love,” he replies, sincere.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Of course not. You are my wife.”

“Are you going to drink from me again?”

“No,” he answers once more. He rubs at the small puncture marks he left on your neck, and it is the strangest thing, the way the scars are instatntly hot and tender at his touch. But he goes on, “That was only to seal our marriage, as is our custom.”

You pause, and then you ask the question that has bothered you most since you were told you were betrothed to him. “Will you make me…” You do not know how to say it. “Will you make me like you?” A vampire, you mean.

He strokes your hair, pushing a stray curl back behind your ear with gentle fingers. “Perhaps,” he says. “One day, if you consent to being transformed, then we can petition my father to allow it.”

“Oh,” you reply, for you find that the idea is not as repellent to you as you would have thought.

“That’s all in the future, my love,” he assures you. “For now, all I would like is for you to be content as my wife.” He looks at you, his eyes slightly troubled, but his words are firm and determined as he takes both your hands in his own. “I will not pretend,” he goes on, “that it will be easy for you, as a human, to live among my kind, but I promise, on my very existence, that I will protect you with everything I have.”

You believe him, you trust him, with every part of your being, and your heart flutters light in your chest, like a bird finding wings, flying unburdened.

“Can you agree to that?” he asks.

“Yes, my lord,” you whisper, ducking your eyes for a moment before gazing up at him. He magnificent, you think, far beyond any man you have ever before encountered, and he is all yours, just as you now belong only to him.

“Roman,” he reminds you, playfully chiding.

“No,” you reply, suddenly fierce in your conviction. “You are my husband, you are my true lord.”

A slow, delighted smile spreads over his face, and he is so beautiful you almost cannot bear to see him, but you do not look away.

“Then we are bound,” he says, raising your hands to his mouth, kissing your fingers, lips soft on your skin.

“Yes,” you agree, and it feels more of a commitment than your earlier vows; irrevocable and steadfast. “We are bound.”

For always, you think.

Forever.

#roman reigns #roman reigns imagine #roman reigns smut #wwe imagine #wwe smut

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imagines-and-whutnot-blog · 7 years ago

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Maybe Under Different Circumstances (2/3)

“She’s dangerous! We can’t trust her!”

“But she holds valuable information! She’s useful!”

“How do we know she’s not coming up with a plan to escape and reveal our location as we speak?”

“Just execute her! One less scum bag to worry about!”

“That’s enough!”

Everyone in the meeting room was silenced by the powerful yell of the general. Where she lacked in height, she made up for in leadership and confidence. The current meeting was being held to determine Captain Phasma’s fate. Most of the people seemed to be in favor of holding Phasma captive and getting whatever information they can from her. The majority wanted her dead, as she and her troopers were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of fallen Resistance soldiers.

You could feel your stomach lurch at the mere thought of Phasma dying, and you were not going to allow anyone to hurt her. Not after you just reconnected with her.

“We are better than the First Order,” Leia said. “We do not kill. Most of you are not seeing the opportunity we have. We have a First Order officer in our jail. She knows we have the upper hand, and she’ll go along with anything we say as long as we play our cards right. She stays alive, and that’s final.”

Of course, there were already people yelling in protest, but General Organa waved them off and dismissed everyone from the room. You began to leave with everyone else, but Leia called you to stay.

You cursed under your breath and stayed behind. Leia walked over and patted your shoulder as she looped her arm with your own. “Walk with me, (Y/N), we to talk.”

You nodded wordlessly and gulped as you exited the meeting room. As you passed the hallways, you could see Poe give you a look. He was curious as to why you were walking with the general during the busiest hours of the day, or why you even attended the meeting, when you should still be resting.

You held up your pointer finger, telling your best friend that you’ll explain later.

“You know Captain Phasma, don’t you?” General Leia asked as she pulled you through less crowded hallways. You guessed that this conversation was supposed to be private.

“Y-Yeah,” You swallowed. “Captain of the storm troopers, who doesn’t?” You smiled. Well, you tried to smile at the smaller woman.

She smiled back, but only in pity. “You always were terrible at lying, sweet heart.”

You blushed like a child caught in a lie. When you ‘stumbled’ upon the Resistance base so many years ago, you were taken in by Leia. She found you hiding behind a few crates, shaking like a scared animal, and scooped you up in her arms when you began to cry for your parents. Ever since that moment, Leia was like a mother to you. She took you in, raised you, fed you, and always had you in her sights. She even allowed you to play in her office while she was working and, reluctantly, let you train as a pilot. So, of course, she knew you like the back of her hand and could tell when there was something wrong with you.

You let out a shaky sigh and looked her in the eyes. “Phasma was the one who saved me.”

Leia’s eyes widened as her jaw became a little slack. “Is that why you brought her here?”

“I didn’t want her to die,” you answered, “it didn’t seem fair to just leave her there when her own army wouldn’t come to her rescue.”

The general gave you a knowing stare. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

You nodded, though you couldn’t help it. There was just something so intimidating about her stare. “We talked in the med bay, and . . . I told her that . . . that I . . .”

Leia sighed and squeezed your arm as you two stopped. You looked at her and see that she was worried, and a maybe a little betrayed. “You cannot have feelings for her, (Y/N)!”

“I know I shouldn’t.”

“She’s done awful things, burned down villages, and killed so many of our own. How could you possibly do that?”

“I don’t know!” You exclaimed. “I can’t explain my feelings. Every time I even think about her, my head starts spinning, my heart does something weird, and my hands get sweaty. It’s like she’s doing this to me on purpose!”

Leia didn’t say anything for the longest moment until she slowly cupped your cheeks in her hands. “I already lost one child to the dark side, and I refuse to lose another.”

She released you entirely, and walked down the empty hallway. You could tell she still wanted you to follow, so you did. Then, you suddenly recognized the hallway you were walking through. You ran to catch up with Leia, but not before she passed the two guards keeping watch from outside the prison cells.

“Where are you going?” You called out.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she stopped in front of the only occupied cell and looked towards you when you were finally by her side again.

Phasma was perched on the stiff looking bed, elbows on her knees, hair messy but away from her face, and out of her hospital gown. A glowing blue shield was the one thing separating separating Phasma and the general. She looked confused, as anyone would be, as to why you and the general were standing in front of her cell.

“I can’t stop you from loving who you love,” Leia said as she clasped your clammy hands. “But I’ll be damned if you run away to the First Order just to please her.” She jutted her head toward Phasma, and the blonde sat up right in response. “If this is what I think it is, then you can turn her around to the light side.”

Leia let go of your hands and walked out of the jail, leaving you with Phasma.

“What was all that?” Phasma questioned as she stood.

“She,” you paused and glanced at the only doorway. “Never mind that. I got some news about your fate. General Organa decided to keep you alive, despite what a lot of people wanted.”

Phasma tilted her head and arched an eyebrow. “In exchange for what?”

“In exchange for all the information you have on the First Order.” You fidgeted in place and ducked your head to avoid her intense gaze.

“In exchange for my life – which will likely be short-lived as soon as your general deems me as useless – I have to give every single little detail about the organization that saved my life and gave me a purpose to fight for order. Are you insane?” Phasma’s voice spat venom and you instantly regretted how you worded your response.

You sighed and met her stare, “Nearly everyone wants you dead, Phasma.” You stared back with a glare to match her own. “I didn’t risk my own life just so your stubborn ass could gladly accept whatever death penalty those angry people could come up with. I spent years trying to find you, and now that you’re here, and safe, you think you can have the upper hand? No, no . . . you have to do this. You’re safer here than with Ren and Hux. How do you think they’re going to react when they find out that you were the one who lowered the shields?”

Phasma punched the barrier between you two. She didn’t aim for your face, but somewhere to your far left. It scared you, but you didn’t dare to flinch. She was glaring at you, the same way she did at the medical bay. “I did what I had to do to survive!” She yelled. “You think I don’t know that I’m inhumane? I know I’m a bad person, (Y/N), and if you rescued me because you thought you could have a fairy tale ending with us flying away to safety, you were deluding yourself. I’ve killed others to ensure my place in the First Order, and it worked.”

“Your self-awareness is only proving Leia right.” You were calm but you still held a bit of fire in your voice. “Whether you believe it or not, I know there is still light in you. You know what you did was wrong, which is more than anyone in the First Order can say. You survived that, now it’s time to survive this.”

Phasma licked her lips, momentarily flashing her pink muscle, and shifted her weight on one leg. “Why do you care about me so much, (Y/N)?”

“You saved my-”

“No,” Phasma shook her head and tasseled her block locks during the process. “I want the real reason behind your actions, and don’t lie to me.”

How were you supposed to explain your feelings to her? It wasn’t just physical attraction that pulled you in, it was her demeanor. You felt safe with her. You felt like you could tell her your deepest, darkest secrets and she wouldn’t tell a soul. You felt as though Phasma was someone you could love – not a maternal love like the kind you held for Leia or the chummy love you held for Poe. Is was the type of love where you could picture yourself spending the rest of your life with Phasma.

“I think I love you,” You blurted out and clenched your fists.

Phasma’s eyes widened and, suddenly, she looked just like the way she did when she realized who you were. “You . . . you love . . . how could you love me? You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I don’t know, but I feel something in my gut every time I even think about you. So, I can’t let you die, because I guess I’m selfish. I want to be with you, and if I have to, I’ll fight anyone who dares to disrespect you. Do you think you could try being good?” You stared down to your worn-out boots and began to bite the inside of your cheek.

For the longest time, she said nothing. It almost felt like you were alone in that tiny jail.

“I think I can.” Phasma finally spoke, causing you lift your head and stare into the pools of blue that, probably, not many people have seen. “I’m not sure how I feel about . . . you know, the love and all that. But I do feel something for you. I’m not sure if it’s love, but I haven’t felt something like this before.”

You smiled, not a smile of hope or desperation, it was just a smile. “So does that mean you’ll talk with the general?” You asked.

“Yes,” she said, “and you were right. I’m a survivor, and this is my new trial.”

You swore you saw the slightest flinch of her lips that could have been a smile, but you didn’t bring it up. You voiced your gratification for her cooperation, and turned to leave until Phasma spoke again.

“Can you visit me tomorrow?” She asked. There was a bit of hopefulness in her voice, and when you looked at her over her shoulder, you smiled again and nodded.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” You waved at her and left. As you stepped back into the busy hallways, you felt a happiness wash over you. You ran into Poe, and spent the remainder of your day with him. You didn’t tell him about your recent encounter with Phasma. Instead, you recounted your walk with Leia and moved on to a different topic.

It would have felt like a regular day, had it not been for knowing that Phasma held feelings for you. That bit of information made your day all the more special.

#captain phasma x reader #captain phasma imagine #captain phasma #star wars #star wars imagine #star wars the force awakens #star wars the last jedi #general leia #leia organa #poe dameron

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republicstandard · 7 years ago

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The Standard Conversation - Ivan Throne & The Dark World

Ash Sharp Editor

I am pleased to tell you that no, I am not writing Young Adult fiction. Ivan Throne is a very real person, and, according to him, The Dark World is a real place- and we all live in it.

He is the bestselling author of THE NINE LAWS. Speaker, business manager and seasoned veteran of the financial industry, he's also a deaf ninja. literally, he can't hear anything but can make you eat your own legs with one hand.

Badass. He has been gracious enough to answer some questions for us in this, the second installment of The Standard Conversation. We talked about the meaning of manhood, Islam, cataclysmic war and tiny Ben Shapiro. Read on for an illuminating glimpse into the Dark World.

RS: Ivan, tell me about the Dark World. I'm sitting here on my balcony overlooking some nice views, and life is pretty sweet for me. What's so dark about the world?

It ends, doesn’t it? And so will you.

You’re a finite consciousness, in a finite creation, and both of those things are integrally designed to sputter out and cease. Lots of people think I mean “dark” as in “bad” or “horrible” or “cruel”. The world certainly can be those things, and often is.

But the real lesson there - in the fact of not only your own death but that of the universe itself – is this:

Brother, this is not a dress rehearsal. There are no do-overs. And the inexorable slide of things is towards entropic heat death. The other critical aspect of this creation, this existence, is that the universe does not care.

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That is a terribly hard thing for most people to understand, let alone accept. The universe doesn’t care whether you’re having a good day, a bad day, a great life, or a short and brutal one. The universe does not perceive you; it doesn’t hear you scream.

It just keeps on spinning and dying.

Once your mind, and more importantly your heart, grasp and accept this truth – then action is freed up and the man abandons pity towards himself and transits through life unblinded.

That is where the immense work of Men is truly done.

Image: VixSwift Photography

RS: You're quite active in this growing scene of positive masculinity with guys like Hunter Drew of The Family Alpha and others. Why do you think there has been this growth in 'positive alpha-male' philosophy?

The accelerating return of masculinity to the West is a severe and fearsome process. It is severe for many reasons. It is severe because it is unapologetic, and as a movement, it rejects any infection of weakness or groveling supplication. We are men. We are not castrati. We did not ask for permission to build Greece and Rome or the empires of the West.

Nor do we ask for permission to restore men to their inherent, rightful place in the pantheon of human power. It’s our nature, and all pendulums swing. Men like Hunter, myself and many others are pushing hard and driving deeper momentum into that swing, making sure it takes deep and abiding root in our own generation and the next.

There are powerful signs of success, deeper than we had imagined. Generation Z is avowedly militaristic, utterly contemptuous of weak and feminized society, and openly seeks the strong hand of a Generation X that knows the time has come to teach the methods and truths that we have incubated for forty years as the West slid into degeneracy.

This return of authentic masculinity is also a lagging and leading indicator.

It is a lagging indicator of a foundational shift, rejection of cultural suicide, and decision by men to simply stop caring what those who want to destroy them may think or speak of them. This is profoundly important.

If hostile Islamists overtly declare they will kill me, take my women, and indoctrinate my children to hate me – what do I care for their insults when their very spears of war are aimed at the heart of my nation?

If hostile Marxists with a history of dumping scores of millions of naked, emaciated and gunshot bodies into pools of black blood and spattered fat at the bottom of killing pits, want to call me toxic – what do I care for their words, when their actions are where my arms and brothers must contend?

Thus the process is fearsome:

The return of authentic, powerful, unapologetic masculinity is a leading indicator of war.

Be very glad that Donald Trump is at the helm of the American nation as the age grows quickly hot.

RS: Ha! You're right on the money there. I can only imagine how monumentally screwed we would be with Clinton in power. I read from your site that you "don't care" about the Jewish Question -rightly so in my view. This being the case, why does Ben Shapiro call you a White Supremacist?

Ben’s a darling muppet, isn’t he? The short takes and his inability to reach the truth on the top shelf are quite fun. Two things actually came to light immediately afterward. The first was the sheer number of people he calls a “white supremacist”, many of them bizarrely so. I had no idea. It seems to be a de rigueur fallback position of his, which I discovered with some amusement. I’m not a listener or reader of his, so I hadn’t been paying attention to what he thinks or doesn’t think of people.

The other was his timing. Vox Day had just released another philosophy bestseller, “SJWs Always Double Down” in which our darling Ben was eviscerated in rather blunt terms. I wrote the foreword to the book, and I was told by some industry insiders that Ben thought it would be safer to tangentially target someone, anyone, other than Vox Day.

Well, we all make errors, and Ben is no exception. No doubt we’ll meet someday and chat intensely about it.

RS: You know, I think if Ben could approach the talk in good faith without trying to pull rhetorical tricks that would be a fascinating debate.

In THE NINE LAWS you talk about utilizing our innate psychopathy, narcissism, and Machiavellianism to achieve goals. These are not considered by most to be desirable traits- though the book also contains lines such as;

"Do not fail to believe in possibilities. Do not fail to believe in yourself. It is how odds are ferociously defied. Even preposterous dreams can be made real, my brother. I am the living proof."

By any measure, this is a message of positive self-determination. What inspired this usage of the 'Dark Triad' to produce positive effects in men?

Men must play the cards they are dealt with. That means seeing clearly, understanding correctly, and acting decisively.

Thought, word, and deed are the foundations of the human being. Thought becomes vision. Words become plans. Deeds become competent. The dark triad of personality takes those a great step further, focuses those inherent human processes into sharper relief.

Vision becomes narcissism, faith, and belief in a future that you will personally shape into existence. Plans become Machiavellianism, the ability to shade and tumble and turn the world until it coalesces into actuality. Competence becomes psychopathy, where the ego dissolves and a man deploys raw, unfiltered, and unblinking execution of power in the world.

Where these things collide at a single point, you have what I call the detonation of fate: the human being bringing every capacity and venue to bear into the moment of realization, the determination of what will be.

This is a conscious and deliberate application of natural human traits, taken a radical step further, and each trait put into service of the others. It’s far more common than people realize.

Most simply never do it consciously and deliberately.

Any project manager worth his pay understands Machiavellianism. To realize enterprise vision with competent execution he must entangle and entwine men and resources, time and effort. He cannot hire and fire; he has total accountability but no authority. Thus, subtle alliances and relationships are how his success or failures pivot along the way.

Any world champion understands narcissism. He must focus his entire mind, heart, and body into the single-minded pursuit of a glittering and glorious vision with a ferocity that few can comprehend, let alone emulate. Not one champion ever lived who did not believe in himself, and I tell you that the vision of the champion seems deluded and extreme to the common man.

Any military leader grasps the necessity of psychopathy in determining objectives, issuing orders, and the planning of destruction and death. He coldly and pitilessly achieves political results on the battlefield. He will throw men like “clumps of earth” and accept the loss and suffering of the troops as an inherent part of that icy delivery of fate.

Like any power, capacity or tool, the dark triad traits can be turned in malevolent direction. A sword cares not who it cuts, after all. And men are fallen animals. Disordered, dysregulated traits are what happens when men do not adhere to discipline.

It is a dark world. Possession of extreme capacity has nothing whatsoever to do with moral elevation or spiritual advancement. That is not how the dark world works. As human beings, we have choices to make in the service of our sacred purpose, and those choices – why we envision the future, how we plan it, and where we execute on it – shapes what men later call history.

Weakness is not moral. Abdication of power is not spiritual advancement. To use pity as a strategy is obscene for the human being, who is formed in the image of God and bears the sacrosanct responsibility of serving as a vehicle for the will of Heaven.

The truth of the dark world is this: no one is coming to save you. You are personally responsible for your survival, and that of your culture and civilization.

Do not grovel and whine, seeking mercy from a universe that does not hear.

Stand as a man, build to the best of your capacity, and defend it and your loved ones with all the ferocity you possess.

Image: VixSwift Photography

RS: The Western world is under grave threat from migration- more people are on the move today than at any time in history. Pew Research indicates that Europe could be as much as 20% Muslim by the middle of the Century, with nations like France, Sweden and my own United Kingdom with far higher populations. This is, without doubt, an undesirable outcome for Europeans. Is there hope for the West?

There is hope for the West if it accepts the reality of war.

There is hope for the West if the men who inherited it, return to their true and inherent nature as warriors and priests.

There is hope for the West if leaders stand forth with the vision, plans, and competence that are so bitterly demanded.

But there are no guarantees.

Fate tumbles and turns in the dark world, and there is no question that the times are dangerous, full of shocks and fear.

Sweden is a degenerate, obsequious pit of unforgivable cuckery and the descent of that nation into insane, multicultural suicide will require serious blood and killing to return it to the fold of the West.

France may yet detach itself from that same trajectory, although again much blood will be required. The spirit of France has not yet been thrown down and murdered, but France will need other nations to lead it.

The United Kingdom is not finished. The long, stable rule of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth will soon pass away, and the tumult and resulting chaos of subsequent sovereigns will eventually settle. It will fall upon her loyal subjects to ensure that the Crown is preserved, for it is through the Crown that the spirit and ferocity of the United Kingdom has its best chance for survival and restoration during the existential wars that come.

RS: Do you have any specific ideas on how that scenario could be achieved? If existential war is inevitable, how does the West win it?

From the ground up, through the hearts of men of the West who see clearly, understand fully, and take direct action for the preservation of their lives, their families, their communities and countries, and culture.

The dark world does not do pity, but it does reward the bold and the decisive, for that is also the way of this dying creation.

The roaring return of authentic masculinity is not merely an indicator or pendulum but also a prerequisite for victory in an existential clash of civilizations.

I intend for us to win it, and I call brother the men who rise and march with me.

Be a bloody Man and fight for what is yours!

Live with sacred purpose and utter savage ferocity!

Anything less and your culture is going to die, and all your lineage with it.

RS:No time to mess around with video games then. While you don't appear to be a particularly political guy (beyond the support for Donald Trump) people seem quite keen to call you a Nazi or Alt-Right or whatever. I also know you like taunting leftists online- is that just for fun? Doesn't that make you a 'status-quo warrior'?

I’ve been called every epithet across the entire political spectrum. Marxists call me a Nazi, want me banned and my readers imprisoned. Nazis call me a race-traitor, want me beaten and gassed. It’s really quite delightful. And it is useful to see how antifragility works, which is part and parcel of dealing with haters and trolls both online and in real life.

RS: Antifragility?

Think about where your vulnerabilities are, and turn them into pits of overthrow for your adversary. Consider what your strengths are, and how your vulnerable brothers can benefit from their application.

There is very little difference between a general sustaining the morale of his army through declarations of spirit before the arrayed ranks of his troops, and a social media influencer proving antifragility for his followers against the emotional, writhing attacks of idiotic adversaries. It is simply a new age and a new medium, but the message is the same:

“We will have victory, and you will not. And we’re coming for you.”

Anything less than that is a disservice to the army, and a failure by the general to lead spiritual command in war.

RS: Who is your hero?

My late father, who by his example showed me how to think, how to live, and what mattered. It is in homage and fealty to him, and to the legacy of the culture, I am descended from, that I do the work I do.

RS: You have a piece of art/t-shirt on your website that depicts ISIS terrorists in front of the Eiffel Tower skewered on stakes in true Vlad the Impaler style. The tagline is Impalement Stops Invasion. Obviously, you don't care about people taking offense at your ideas- but what inspired this? Do you really think this should or could be done?

The Impalement Stops Invasion shirts grew out of some discussions I had with people about Islamic terror, and moreover how terror works. Terror is designed to freeze you, to cause fixation of the mind and heart, and prevent decisive action.

Islam has nearly redefined terror in the modern age, and they are absolutely hell-bent on it. People do not grasp that beheading videos are merely the tip of the iceberg. The dead in the Bataclan in Paris were disemboweled, castrated, their eyes gouged out. They were forced to crawl screaming over their own entrails before being finally butchered. Young girls at the school siege of Beslan in Russia were viciously gang-raped and sodomized to death with rifle barrels, and similarly, Islam has cruel intentions for the other nations of the West. Floor plans of America middle schools were found in Iraq, and the reasoning was quite simple: the girls are big enough to rape, and the boys are too small to fight back.

What stops terror?

I will tell you what stops terror, here in the dark world:

Ferocity.

It is not a question of whether ruthless and public impalement of jihadists could be done. Of course, it can; there is no insurmountable logistical or mechanical reality that prevents the physical hoisting of Islamic invaders on fatal stakes at the national borders of Europe.

Nor do I declare whether it should be done. That is a question for politicians, for State officials, and ultimately for the men who protect the women and children of the West. And it is, at the last resort, the decision of those men whether their politicians and State officials have failed in their duty to preserve, protect, and defend them.

The design does speak and communicate an absolutely uncontestable truth: if it were done, the jihadist invasion would stop.

Would you dare cross a border, where those who came before you were a grim and incontestable warning against your entry?

Would you dare to rape and behead a Western schoolgirl, if you knew a wooden stake would be driven into your anus and out your screaming mouth before your agonized carcass was hoisted to the sky?

Do Western cartoonists dare to draw Mohammed?

Jihadists dare to explode and butcher and rape and machine-gun and roar down our streets with trucks in bloody massacres.

I will simply say that all pendulums swing, and where Governments fail to protect Men… Men form new Governments.

It’s a dark world. It was dark before I got here, brother. It will be dark long after I am gone. A sword cares not who it cuts, and terror is a dreadful sword in any hand.

The shirt’s a great and impressive design by a very talented artist. And hope and pity aren’t strategies.

Vlad would say I’m right.

RS: I think he probably would. OK, tough question time. What does it mean to be a man?

That’s really the critical question the West faces, isn’t it?

What does it mean to be a Man?

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What does it mean to be a Man when failure means the death of a thousand years of heritage? What does it mean to be a Man who fights against the degenerate slaughter of his very identity?

The answer is the same one it always has been: the grave and linear process of manhood, war, and salvation.

Manhood is derived from the foundational layer of conscience, from the voice of God that works through the heart and informs the mind, and thence forms the decisions by which deeds are birthed. Manhood is conscience married to discipline, to the strength and habits of achievement and building and creating in this dark world those things that survive and outlast us.

Family, honor, country, culture, civilization. Great works of art, of construction, of ideas, of civilization itself and of the prerogative to detonate fate according to sacred purpose!

Men are designed for war. The very shape of Men is formed to serve our male burden of performance. That performance, that sacrifice, that ongoing painful and agonizing struggle, is an integral part and parcel of being a man.

It is difficult, and challenging, and often bitterly and continuously unappreciated.

Where is there rest from this?

The answer lies in the respite of performance, in the total and unrelenting savage ferocity that accompanies adherence to sacred purpose.

When you have given your work everything you have, with nothing held back, and you have burned your ships on the shore and thrown away the scabbard of your sword and walked into battle with nothing held back…

…life and death are both release in the aftermath.

Therein is the rest, albeit momentary, of the male burden of performance.

Then it begins again, and men return to the work that is their nature.

Sacred purpose, in the life of the individual man, is where all the infinite strength of honor and dignity and power arise.

How does one identify one’s sacred purpose, and lay bare the road of the Way that brings both immortal glory and the peace of life and death? What is the process by which one identifies and adheres to the discipline of the divine conscience?

That is, precisely, what I and my partner teach in the Immersion Forge.

Image: VixSwift Photography

Sacred purpose, savage ferocity, and adherence to the divine path of fulfilled conscience.

The first Immersion Forge in January at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas was sold out. The response has been incredible; testimony from the men who attended has been remarkable and explosively strong.

We spent a year creating the curriculum, refining it, testing it, and shaping the structure of delivery.

The results were phenomenal.

The next Immersion Forge is in New York in the Park View Suite of Trump International Hotel and Tower on February 24th.

There are eight seats left, but they go quickly.

We have tapped into what Men need in this dreadful age, and we build a brotherhood of sacred purpose and momentum.

There is a Way that can be learned, and the process of connecting divine conscience, sacred purpose, and total savage ferocity is driven by the esoteric teachings of the ninja and the dread combat experience of my partner Mr. Swift, a ruthless mercenary who has seen and done the unimaginable.

Men teach men, and men learn from men.

That, too, is the Way. And the Way of men is cruelly demanded more now than ever.

Men do not leave their brothers behind, and that is why Mr. Swift and I deliver the Immersion Forge.

Civilizations collide, brother. And collision comes fast.

We mean to win, and with everything we have.

Join us, and march with us as brothers.

RS: Thanks, Ivan!

There you have it folks. Intense ideas spoken plainly. I highly recommend that you follow Ivan Throne on Twitter because he is both hilarious and thought provoking- partcularly when he's trolling weak internet communists into oblivion. If you like the way Ivan's mind works you should buy The Nine Laws: Survival, Momentum, and Triumph and read it. It's a permanent fixture on my work table.

Ivan's philosophy is clearly written and explained, and he gives his ideas room to breathe. You need to put the work into his book not through wrapping your head around overly complex post-modernist sentence structure but in quiet reflection upon yourself. That's the greatness in his writing- it is a collaborative experience with the reader that encourages the discovery of your own anwers while providing the calm hand of a great teacher in guidance.

Coming this Autumn 2018 he releases The Three Gates: Manhood, War, and Salvation through Castalia House, and is the second in his triptych of philosophy books.

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misscasper3 · 8 years ago

Text

50 Questions To Ask A Girl If You Want To Know Who She Really Is

Found this article online awhile back and finally feel like answering the questions

1. What’s one thing that’s happened to you that has made you a stronger person? Leaving an abusive 6 year ‘relationship’

2. What’s one thing that’s happened to you in your life that made you feel weak? When I was 12 I was kicked out of my parents house which I believe is the start to my fucked up need to be loved and needed by someone else.

3. Where is one place you feel most like yourself? My apartment

4. Where is your favorite place to escape to? The woods or under 5 layers of blankets in my bed

5. Who do you think has had the largest influence on the person you are today? My dad ❤

6. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be? To be able to shut my brain off and cool down. I overthink every detail that someone says or does and I think I create issues that weren’t there. Also Id get a nose job if I could lol

7. If you had one day left to live, what would you do first? Any thought that I kept to myself, I would say it to the people it was meant for and then walk away before the person could respond back. Then, after everyone hates me lol, I would hop on the next flight to Los Angeles, go to the beach, and sit in the ocean until the end of my last day.

8. What decade do you feel you most belong in? I dont see what’s wrong with living in the time I am now??

9. Who are you closest to in your family? Why? Probably my Dad. I lived with him for a long time and he was there for me for every milestone I reached. He always took my side when things went wrong, and always was there for ANYTHING I needed, without question.

10. Who is the one person in this world that knows you best? I couldn’t answer thar exactly. Certain people know certain things about me.>

11. What is your favorite quality about your best friend? She’s there to listen when I need to rant. Even when I’m being stupid.

12. When you were younger what did you think you were going to be when you grew up? A singer for awhile. Then I wanted to be an interior decorator, but I dont think I really understood what the job really was. I just liked rearranging my room all the time.

13. If you could identify with one fictional character (from a book, show, or movie) who would it be? This question requires way too much thought. I have no clue.

14. Do you easily accept compliments? Or do you hate compliments? I dont see what’s wrong with compliments, I just don’t know how to respond sometimes so my words may come out weird.

15. Is your favorite attribute about yourself physical or non-physical? Non

16. What is your favorite physical attribute about yourself? I like my skinny waist and wider hips. *I would have said hair color, but I wasn’t exactly born with purple hair so I dont think that counts*

17. What is your favorite non-physical attribute about yourself? I am understanding. I try to look at the whole picture instead of the current situation.

18. Do you believe in love at first sight? No. You cant love someone truly until you know them inside and out.

19. Do you believe in soul mates? I dunno. I believe some people definitely are meant to be in someones lives for a purpose, whether to teach a lesson and go or to participate and stay.

20. How seriously do you take horoscopes? I dont want to believe that the time and place I was born is supposed to judge my personality/fate.

21. Have you ever been in love? How many times? I have been in love. Twice. The first time I dont think could really count though since it ended up being a Catfish story. Does it count? If it doesnt,then once.

22. What makes you fall in love with someone? when they can make me laugh and forget about my bad day(s). Also if they aren’t judgmental of my actions and they try to understand why I do the things I do. Really like when people aren’t judges of my every move.

23. What does vulnerability mean to you? What has the ability to make you vulnerable? Ugh.. Vulnerable to me means, helpless. Needy. Small. A diary that was opened without permission. Bringing up hurtful times makes me vulnerable. Bringing up stupid things I’ve done, or times I’ve fucked up makes me vulnerable. The people who are the closest to me, who know a lot about my past are the ones that are able to break me down in that way.

24. What’s one thing you’re scared to ask a man, but really want to? why is it such a big deal for you guys to “be the man” in situations. Why do you feel that you have to prove your manliness?

25. If you were a man for a day, what would be the first thing you do? Shave my head with clippers. Its socially acceptable for guys to be bald haha

26. What do you find most attractive about each sex? I really like how guys are just bigger than females. Like big bears standing next to a tiny bunny. The size difference I think. I think its weird if a guy is the same size as me. Girls are obviously more sensitive and emotional, so. I guess I’ll pick that as my answer.

27. What’s one thing you’d love to learn more about? How the brain works basically. Like what makes people do or feel things. The science side behind depression or happy feelings.

28. What is something you’ve never done that you’ve always wanted to do? Travel out of country. Be brave enough to go on a trip alone. Zip line.

29. Why haven’t you done it yet? Mostly money. But I am just nervous for some reason. I think I just dont trust myself to make certain decisions by myself because a lot of times when you go somewhere new, you obviously dont know the area so you’re kind of guessing on where to go, what to do.

30. If money didn’t matter, what would your dream job be? Doing behind the scenes runway hair/makeup, photoshoots. Movies.

31. If you had off from work today, what would you do? I would go to the beach.

32. What was the last thing that made you cry? A fight between my boyfriend and I.

33. What was the last thing that made you laugh? I dont remember exactly.

34. What is your favorite memory? My dad making a speech at my graduation party about how proud he was of me and then he started tearing up

35. What’s the last thing that REALLY embarrassed you? I can’t think of anything that I really cared enough about to make me feel embarrassed.

36. What is your biggest fear? Being a loser in life. Giving up on goals because of my internal battles with myself. Being alone in life overall. I enjoy my alone hours, but I’m talking about fearing being alone IN GENERAL.

37. Do you have any regrets? What’s your biggest one? When I was about 13, 14ish I let my boyfriend at the time tell me I can’t be friends with a certain person. He made me cut off ties in order to stay in a relationship with him.. I regret so much that happened on that day. What I said to that person was hurtful…It hurt me to say those words and I know it hurt that person too. I was literally crying as i was telling this person to leave me alone because I didnt want to say goodbye yet I felt obligated to listen to my then boyfriend for some reason. I caused so much pain to that person that effected things down the road and I can never take it back… And I regret not answering him back when he texted me on holidays. I regret not taking his number when my mom offered it to me. I regret so many things that happened to that person because of me.

38. Have you ever broken a law? If you haven’t what is one law you’d love to break? I mean I’ve got two speeding tickets. I’ve gone in “private property” places just out of curiosity.

39. What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done? I’m not a risk taker.

40. Would you have a conversation with a stranger? I do everyday at work.

41. Would you tell a stranger they have toilet paper hanging from their shoe? Or their dress tucked into their underwear? (Or anything else that is embarrassing to be seen in public)? Yes definitely. If that happened to me, I’d want someone to tell me.

42. What’s your favorite joke? Dunno

43. Are you a dog person or a cat person? I love both but lean towards cats.

44. If you could be any animal, what animal would you be? A bird so I can fly wherever I want.

45. What’s one show, movie, or book, you’re embarrassed to admit you enjoy? I used to like Bates Motel.

46. How do you think your parents would describe you as a child? Girly girl. Picky. Hard working (Mom just told me last week).

47. If you could go back to any age or time of your life, what age or time would it be? I was just thinking this in the car. Usually when people wanna go back, they say a happy time. I 100% cannot think of a time that I was so so happy and stayed happy longer than one or two days. Even if I was enjoying myself that day, there was ALWAYS something inside at the end of the day that just ate away at my soul hiding behind the ‘happy moment’.. This thought seriously depresses me.

48. What’s something you believe in that not everyone else does? I believe that when you are with someone, you are not 100% committed if you are okay with looking at other girls/guys and seeing them in a sexual way. Other people say “as long as they dont touch, its ok” or “nothing is wrong with just looking” but I believe it is fucking wrong on so many levels because that is showing desire for someone else other than the significant other. Call me prude or whatever the fuck you want.

9. What’s one thing you would say that makes you unique from other people? My brother told me that I am ALWAYS somehow able to pull myself out of every fucked up situation I’ve been in. Idk, does that really count as unique..? I guess something else would be that I literally put my entire soul into someone when I am in a relationship. I would do anything for that person. Is that unique?

50. What is one thing you feel your life is missing? I feel like I’ve lost my passion for almost everything. I used to be so sure of myself and proud of what I wanted to do with my life and now its all a big question mark. My life is missing set goals and passion for doing something with it.

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