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8-evil-annoying-catboys · 1 year ago

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im very glad you’re sharing your experience, but i’m also frustrated because poc have been saying this for years, and nobody wants to listen to us. even when we admit that we are also not immune to this, people don’t want to listen to us. but you are right—everyone, in western and colonised societies, has racism ingrained in them from a very young age, and taking up “not racist” as a self-identifier in itself, can easily lead you to actually be more racist, and usually white people do that. nobody born and raised in western society is not ever racist, even if they keep their thoughts to themselves and are never outwardly racist, it’s normal to have your first reaction to something be totally fucking racist when you’ve been raised in a society that has taught you to be racist. what matters is your reaction to those thoughts. do you recognise them, say “wait, i’m being racist by thinking that way” and deconstruct them so that you can actually teach your brain that the racist first reactions you have are not founded in fact and make no logical sense when you examine them? or do you just bury them and ignore them and pretend that that’s good enough to be an antiracist? your first thought is what you were taught to think, and your reaction to that first thought is how you actually are. if you’re humble enough to criticise your own internal racism, that’s far more helpful to poc than just allowing it to go unchecked because you don’t want to think about it. and at the same time, you’re teaching yourself that it’s okay to be wrong and have your learned racist reactions to things, but you have to accept that it’s wrong and be open to correction, which, in turn, will make you a WAY better listener when poc call you out on being outwardly racist.

i will never forget when i was around 17, and i had this white boyfriend who was a writer, and when i was reading some of his work, i pointed out to him that describing a character’s skin color by comparing him to food was exotifying and fetishising, and would certainly offend people if it was a habit he continued and ended up putting into a published work. instead of being humble and recognising that i was right, he threw a bitch fit telling me how insecure he was about being a white boy raised in the midwest and how he was sooo scared of being called racist and how he was trying his best—and ultimately, i ended up having to be the one to apologise to and comfort him, even though he was FULLY in the wrong and he was the one who blew it out of proportion (i had approached it very casually and clarified that i personally wasn’t offended, as a lightskin, but i was bringing it up because i knew he wouldn’t be as aware of it as me because he was white). you can probably imagine how angry i am about this in retrospect. and this is exactly what being TERRIFIED of being perceived or labeled as racist, as a white person, will lead to—you shutting down and refusing to listen to poc when you interact with us, and choosing to avoid us rather than just listening and not taking shit so personally. and it’s not personal. with the example here, it’s not REMOTELY uncommon for white writers to describe characters of color as having “skin the color of coffee with a little bit of cream in it,” so there’s no need to take it as a personal affront when a poc tells you that that’s messed up, because you are far from the only person doing it. all you need to do is recognise, “hey, maybe that IS racist, lemme listen to what my friend/partner/editor has to say about it so i can learn something.” insecurity and fear of being racist will only isolate you from poc. if you’re white, then baby, you just have to own it, and recognise that sometimes you’re gonna think and say dumb, racist shit, but that doesn’t make you evil and it doesn’t make you a violent bigot, IF you’re self-aware enough to know when to challenge yourself internally, and especially if you know when to sit down, shut up, and learn something from poc. otherwise, you end up either only associating with other white people because that’s your comfort zone where you’ll never feel challenged—and never have to hear the perspectives of people who are actually affected by racism, so you can keep your own little idea of what racism is and what it’s like—OR you’ll end up making it so that your insecurities become the responsibility of poc in your life, and force us to walk on eggshells every time you say something racist, leaving it up to us to decide whether we should let it go unchallenged, or if it’s worth it to point it out if we’re going to have to deal with all your feelings and white fragility about it.

to close off my addition, i think it’d be a little dumb of me if i neglected to hammer in this point: poc also have to do this. we are ALSO taught to be racist by the dominant culture, and racism against other ethnicities runs rampant in communities of color. a lot of my extended family is SO racist to Black and Asian people and even other Indigenous people, sometimes they’re even racist to Latines and specifically even Mexicans, and we ARE Mexican. i’ve both experienced firsthand and witnessed my family experiencing racism from Black people, Asian people, other Latines, you name it. honestly, intracommunity racism is extremely rampant in the Latine diaspora, too—my boyfriend is Peruvian and Venezuelan, and when he moved from florida to california, his Peruvian mother told him not to fall in love with a Mexican because “they’re dirty”—and as far as a white person is concerned, a Peruvian immigrant and a Mexican immigrant might as well be exactly the damn same, at most they might differentiate because a lot of Peruvian have monolids or other Asian features due to migration patterns in the past, but then they’d likely assume the Peruvian is Mexican and Chinese mixed—and, according to my bf, Peruvians specifically are super racist to other Latines, although… it’s not really an exclusive thing, the same thing is true of people from argentina from my experience, and there’s no way that peru and argentina are the only two countries in latin america where this is prevalent. poc are generally more likely to deconstruct this than white people, all else being equal, because we have to recognise our own humanity and thus we learn to stop being racist to our own damn selves, and that can lead to us learning to stop being racist in general, but this is far from universal, and tbh a lot of older poc are even more racist than white people because they were raised to believe they need to be racist to be accepted by white society and make it in life. so, like… white people, when poc say that all white people are at least a little racist, we’re not saying that poc aren’t. if anything, we’re just saying that white people never have to challenge their own racism in order to love themselves, and therefore are less likely to recognise and challenge their own racism—plus, y’all don’t grow up surrounded by poc by virtue of your family being poc, unless you’re adopted, so you’re less likely to also have your family challenge the dominant racist culture when you grow up, and the effect that racist culture going unchallenged in your formative years has on you will show. and it may feel bad to know that. you still need to recognise that, though. don’t turn a blind eye. don’t take it personally when a poc calls you out on being racist, and don’t shut them down. recognise the likelihood that they’re right, and think critically about what they’re challenging in you. when you think something racist, don’t shy away from it and bury it: analyse it. figure out WHY you thought that, and remind yourself why it’s not true, and why, in many cases, it’s just plain dumb.

sharing this in the hopes that people can learn from it, I think the biggest thing I've done to be an ally for people of color is to stop being scared of being racist. not that I stopped thinking racism is bad, but I learned that society puts a racist tint on everything that goes so deep I can't expect myself to be free from it. and at some point it starts to feel silly to be afraid of having any spec of racism inside of you, because it's so deep in the roots of everything that how can it not be there?

and once you let go of that fear you can actually work to start uprooting all this shit. you're not an irredeemable person for being affected by something so deeply rooted in every corner of our society, but being ignorant of it doesn't help anything except the system that keeps racism so prevalent in the first place

I remember a few years ago I was at a gas station, and a guy, I think latino? was in a hoodie next to me just getting a soft drink. I remember feeling nervous then realizing, wait, I feel nervous next to this guy because he's latino and wearing a hoodie. that's racist. and stuff like this still happens, I'll still think or feel something, and then go "wait, that's racist"

and I tell this story so people can learn from it, because if we don't talk about the way racism manifests in our minds it only further isolates us from the truth of how ingrained racism is. it's not good that it's normal, which is why we need to realize that it's normal, so we can all fight it more effectively!

I really do feel that worrying about any little spec of racism inside of me exists held me back from being able to actually challenge that racism because I was too afraid of it existing in any capacity. and I feel lucky to be able to have had this realization that not being racist is a process rather than a personality trait, and it's definitely not something I came up with on my own. I do have countless people of color talking about racism to thank for where I am in trying to uproot it in myself!

I just want other people to also have this realization. I want it to be perfeclty normal and mundane to be able to tell yourself "that's racist". I want the sense that everyone else is simply never ever racist even a little bit and if they are they're irredeemable to be gone, because it keeps people too scared and complacent to actually do the work of trying to not be racist

any additions from people of color are welcomed of course! this is just the perspective I've had of my own growth, I don't want to center myself in the conversation on racism! I just hope that sharing my experience helps someone

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pvremichigan · 2 years ago

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For the a-z meme, M I C H I G A N

So this is what it means to use a name in vain. She's disgusted by all of you who support this.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

In order to actually turn her on, you have to be dating her for a good while in the first place. There's no hope that a stranger doing any of these things will get any good reaction from her. So the baseline is... Be committed to her. But for specifics, there's a few things.

It has to be good timing. It cannot be out of no where or she will use it against you and humiliate you on your efforts. You NEED to catch her off guard WITHIN the moment. If it's a battle of dominance and self restraint, you just need to be better than her. Always one up her. A good, deep voice that you can feel in your chest is a great start. Especially with eye contact. A fight for dominance will also get the heart pumping. If you win, it's well deserved because she does not back down. Any attempt in seduction has to be done during a time where tensions are quite high. In order to tip her over the edge, she needs to be near the edge to begin with.

The one thing that will drive her absolutely crazy is - in the middle of an argument or heated discussion or some sort of bickering contest - just start kissing her roughly. Deeply. Tensions are always high during conflict. To close that gap, you need to grab the opportunity. Be very careful that she's not GENUINELY angry during these moments or your lips might be bitten off. If it's the right timing and the right moves made, she's putty in your hands. Tension after a spar or playful fight will get her mind racing too.

When it comes to talk, verbal taunts and teasing are a guilty pleasure. She doesn't like super dirty talk, she doesn't want to be degraded, she doesn't want that cliche stuff you'd hear in a porn or something. She wants a taunt. An example would be angry sex or angry foreplay. If she's nagging you or being a pain and you do something that shuts her up, a playful "Say something, I dare you" or "You were saying?" would both piss her off and drive her insane.

Toys are mostly a no but there is a common one that she isn't aware she might enjoy. Vibrators. Using them on herself? No. No that's not okay. Ones being controlled by someone else? It's a good maybe. Especially if it's a tease to keep her on edge.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Mich has a pretty wide range. She's not really... Romantic with sexual situations, she finds it cheesy and overall sort of a turn off if it's too romantic/loving. Don't get her wrong, she does want loving. But loving in her own way. Mich does not 'make love'. That is not a style of sex she's interested in. Her impulses are more driven by rough and challenging. The most romantic part of the entire situation would be the kissing. The first step before anything else happens. Ironically, sex is not just an action to her, it's a bond. That being said, a lot of her 'bonding' is very... Rough. She can be loving, she can be very gentle and intimate - during foreplay - but the act itself is a battle. Seeing who dominates who until the other gives in and submits. Her touch can be very gentle, very intimate, but it all can change so quickly.

Overall, she tries to make a connection with the person physically outside of sexual activity. She doesn't want to associate them with sex and she CERTAINLY doesn't want to associate herSELF with sexual intimacy. That'll only increase how intense the shame and disgust is afterwards. It will remain there after every session for a long time.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Okay this one is uncomfortable. I apologize to IJ for this one since I have to expose him here too.

So for starters, sorry Mich, I have to expose her first. She is a very stubborn individual. She will not let things happen so easily. That being said, it's very ironic.

It's actually incredibly easy to make her orgasm it's almost concerning. With that in mind, she would climax multiple times in one session. Now here's where it gets a little worse for her especially with her dating IJ.

Almost everything about IJ is toxic. Ranging from mildly dangerous to extremely deadly. His saliva is toxic so if he and Mich kissed for long enough, she'd certainly get a buzz. His blood is extremely toxic, and is the only other thing that can get Mich extremely drunk in even a small dose. It all depends on what toxins and poisons are in his different "fluids". That being said, his semen is incredibly toxic but is built up differently than his blood, obviously. If Mich consumes it or it gets in her body, it's almost like taking ecstasy. She gets a wave of bliss and warmth through her whole body. With a large amount, that bliss would trigger her very-easy-to-climax body to, well, climax. So not only will it be easy to make her cum, but him doing so inside her in some way will also force her body to do it. Depending on how long it takes her body to destroy what was put in it, it could - on rare occasion - cause her to climax multiple times before it's gone.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Answered here

I = Intimacy

Fugh you I already did this one in this ask.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Answered here

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Answered here

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There could be many things on this list, I'll only name a "few". Some of the bigger ones she would never do no matter what.

ANYTHING to do with her breasts. No touching them, no grabbing them, no talking about them, no looking at them, absolutely NOTHING to do with them. The best thing you can do is pretend they don't even exist.

Roleplay. Just... No. She's not pretending to be someone else or pretending to have a different job just to fulfill your weird fantasy of sexualizing people just trying to make a living.

Masturbation. That would make her physically sick. She couldn't handle the thought. She'd rather not please herself, it's never something she's ever wanted nor has she ever been curious about it.

Threesome/anything involving anyone else. They will not leave alive and you will leave single. Bottom line.

Humiliation/degradation. She didn't come here to feel bad about herself, doing anything sexual already somewhat does that to her. No need to add on.

Extreme dirty talk. You can tease and taunt and say what you want to do but if you go into detail about body parts and activities, you're just going to turn her off completely. To add to this, this includes spit. She gets wet enough, you do NOT need to spit on her. She will kick you in the sternum.

BDSM. She doesn't mind tying up on a pretty vanilla level but that's as far as she'll go. No suits, no gags, definitely no whips, none of that weird shit.

Oral is very iffy. She may do it on rare occasion but it's not something she would want to do often. She isn't even keen on receiving it. If her partner is into it, maybe once in a while but it's just not a go-to for her.

Spanking. Just don't. It's just weird... Don't do that to her.

And finally (to keep this list """brief""") collars and leashes. She's not a dog, she's not property, and if you do this, she's mauling you. That's all there is to it.

#not sfw #suggestive #[[in the history books]];; headcanons #[[gun powder]];; mich #[[infinite ammo]];; ij/mich

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thegodwithinblog · 2 years ago

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Dreams and magic. Creativity and love. He's a little of the story I'm writing so far: "Here’s the funny, and very interesting, thing about dreams: Even though our dreams are product of our minds, we never actually dream exactly what we consciously want. Sure, we can have pleasant dreams, or twisted ones; however, moments before sleep we don’t say to ourselves that we want to dream what we dream... "We are not in control. Our subconscious takes over. We just go along for the ride. But, deep in the crevices of our minds, the truth, the beyond, the darkness and the light hide in wait for the awakening conscience living in dreams. And now, unknown dreams had taken over while Red remained in her coma, placed inside a slumber pod, and located in a semi-lit chamber of The Castle of Illusions... "No one had been able to do anything about it. After that last event with the shadow ghouls in the skies, after she fell hundreds of feet the dragon-wolf grabbed her just in time, her mind had simply gone inwards, isolated itself, shut off from outside reality (see series #4). Now a tear rolled down her face. She dreamed and experienced some hidden, challenging truth... "Count Morgol had put 2 of his highest mages in charge of discovering what was happening inside her mind. The mentioned gremlins observed a sphere of energy hovering a few feet above ground and away from the slumber pod. This head-sized ball radiated a yellow, green and red substance around it, more like the dazzling vision of a rainbow in the sky... “I’m afraid your attempts to learn anything from the orb will not be successful, little ones,” the voice came from the shadows. “I too thought The Great Sphere would give us the answers we wanted about Red.”... "The silver god stepped into the light and approached the slumber pod, then he felt the energy coming off it with his hands. The gremlins became very humbled, and yet excited, by his presence, so they started immediately communicating their respects in their language. But they didn’t really know how to treat a Celestial god, so they just knelt on the ground to worship him... “O, please, there’s no need for that,” he said while smiling, approaching them and offering his hand. “Get up. And tell me: What are your names??”... "And so they told him their names. And, of course, he clearly understood their gibberish... “Well, Pkontuksunu and Pkontiksini, nice to meet you. Would you call Morgol down here for me??”... “Yes, Mr. Detreus!” they both cried at the same time, then went about their new duties... "In the background, the spiritual orb, or The Sphere of Truth and Wisdom, had started releasing slight, but still somewhat critical, pulses into the air that, mixed with the projected colors, appeared to be similar to heavy sound waves without any particular sound. He became interested and started feeling the pulsing pattern... "There was certainly a strange reading in the air, and as he came to the center of the room he became connected to it. As the holographic lights flashed in front and around him, he sat quietly in meditation pose on the ground and felt his surroundings. Not far from this event, Red stirred slightly and quietly grimaced in her dream-containment pod... "Detreus then proceeded to shut his eyes and extend his arms, thus touching the flashing colors and merging with it. There was indeed a special communication that was going beyond the physical here, because the sphere held great secrets, even greater knowledge, and magic beyond comprehension. Now, The Great Sphere had been created by the ancient Celestials, and the silver god, being a Celestial himself, was a direct descendant of these gods... "Created from the blood and tears of the first fallen angel, or of the first Celestial who led the revolution against the old established system of governance, the said orb now possessed great sentiency and was entering his mind. The images he was seeing, as the voices he was hearing, were catastrophic and ominous; but also familiar and comforting... “Show me more,” he said as he suddenly opened his eyes and stood up. Then he walked towards the orb and continued, “Great Sphere, tell me more.”... "Then Count Morgol quietly entered the chamber, but seeing the event happening he stayed in the shadows watching the silver god communicate with the sentient sphere. There were more lights flashing, and even shadows dancing, which lasted for a few more seconds. Then the orb became peaceful and the communication ended... “I take it you found your gokurawani,” Morgol started as he left the shadows for the light... “Yes, The Chosen One is ready,” replied Detreus while sensing the orb one last time. “He’s not lost. He found his way. And he also found some new friends it seems.”... “There are all sorts of creatures in the dream worlds...” ~ Ben #5, "Son of Darkness" ~

#fantasy series #current wip #creative writing #am writing #readers

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teamfortresstwo · 2 years ago

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Au where when Belphagor kills MC, they stay dead but come back as a demon or spirit to haunt him. MC is constantly at odds with Lilith, much to Lilith’s dismay.

#if spirit then they’re definitely just trying to slowly drive him to madness #if demon they’re straight up plotting to murder him #Lilith is doing what she can to protect him but. well….#Ah but then again. i suppose Diavolo would see him dead anyway #obey me #maybe the brothers pull some strings to make sure he isn’t permakilled but MC isn’t satisfied and tries to kill him anyway #oooh or maybe they come back as an angel #obey me belphegor #i wonder how they’d try to kill him if that were the case. considering the human exchange student died im assuming it would mean the program #itself would be shut down so it would certainly be more challenging for them

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sapphira-mydnyte · 3 months ago

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Winter's Bane

Sebastian had a love for winter, for with it's biting wind came a need for warmth. Most knew that his favorite spells were that of fire, especially the blasting curse. He trained his ass off all year for the winter, knowing that some students stayed at the castle until the spring term began & with Hecate's approval, he was given a very special assignment. Headmaster Black, having been a Slytherin when he attended, prided himself on the house's best students & Sebastian was certainly one of them. Between him & Hecate, the decision was made to let Sebastian light all the unused torches throughout the school, or at least... as many as the Headmaster knew of, as their main common rooms would undergo a deep cleaning during their two weeks off. He had only one week to find them all & get them lit before school ended for the winter term, pitting him against time itself.

Sebastian thrived on a challenge, but getting to run around in the most hidden places & be allowed to use the blasting curse as needed? Say no more!!! His pride skyrocketed at being given such an illustrious assignment, his adrenaline levels hit the ceiling in him as the very thought of getting access to the most secretive places in the school as well. The cold didn't bother him anymore as he walked back to the Slytherin common room from Hecate's class that morning, eager to tell Ominis in the Undercroft later, but oh so quiet about it around the others. Although it was his assignment, some places in the school couldn't be accessed, especially anything of Salazar's or the other founders. If he was going to light the torches, even in the most secretive of places, he'd need Ominis' help, no matter how much he might not want to. The Headmaster had made a hefty bargain for him, as house points were on the line as well.

"Succeed & have them done before the day rolls over at midnight from Thursday into Friday & I will reward Slytherin house three hundred house points before we dismiss for the holidays. Don't fail me...."

Sebastian didn't know what to say to the Headmaster, but those house points didn't matter to him as much as exploring the castle & being exempt from curfew for the final week of school. However, he knew Ominis' father was friends with Black, so there was no denying that this was special. "Yes sir, it will be done." All of the detentions he had gotten, all those late nights in the library, none of it compared to this. The castle was huge, but he hoped to have it all done by Wednesday, if not, sooner... because Anne was still sick & any remaining time he had after finishing his assignment from Hecate & the Headmaster could be used for her. Until then, he had been entrusted by the Headmaster himself to help out. Hecate, being his favorite teacher, smiled. "Your aim is that good & your desire to explore the castle because you suffer constant nightmares about your sister doesn't go unnoticed. You're my best student, but you need an out for those pent up emotions & since you're so talented with the fire spells, this is something I know you're fully capable of." She leaned down to a whisper as soon as Black was out of sight. "If it makes you feel better, take Ominis with you. The sooner you get done, the sooner you can take to the library. You're immune from the curfew, so use it to your advantage."

The thought of doing just that kept running through his head as he walked into the dungeons where his common room lied. The common room was freezing since it lied below the lake, but he had a task to do & nobody would stop him. He didn't dare say a word about what he was to do, but the immense chatter about he had been picked out by Black right after class irked him. "You'd be wise to shut your mouths about that, because every single one of you know how much I mean to Professor Hecate & seeing as how Ominis is my friend, it should come as no surprise that he'd seek me out for something. As to what it is, I can't say what it is, but it's certainly more fun than a history lesson out of Professor Binns & detention."

塞老师新皮肤可爱⚈₃⚈

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #king of curses #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow fanfiction #mini fic time #felt like sebby deserved something secretive to do from the headmaster in the winter & what better?

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momolady · 2 years ago

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Magnus the Siren

Imagine if you lived next to one of the loudest people in the village. They're music and voice carry out almost like an enchantment. Now imagine this loud fellow had a certain affection for you. I also challenge you to guess who this character is based on.

Female Reader x Male Monster (both cis)

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The disruption usually happens at dawn. Which, in itself, is aggravating enough to be woken up too. But it’s the music that wakes you up which is the most aggravating. You lay there in bed, staring up at your ceiling while a lute is strummed at such a high volume that the air is filled with nothing else but its raucous sound.

If that weren’t enough, the one playing the lute also had to sing. His voice carried through the morning air, causing the dew to shine and reflect light so brightly into windows, it was even harder to ignore.

It was by this point you would get up, throw on a robe, and step outside. Just beyond your guard there was a hill, and one that hill was a large, strange house that seemed to lean to one side. It was from there that music flowed.

“Shut up, Magnus!” You yelled this every morning. Sometimes you yelled other things, but this was usually the most uttered.

The singing stopped and the strumming of the lute became much softer. “Good morning, neighbor!” The music carried on and his song changed to start singing good morning to you.

You growled under your breath, turning back inside. You tried all you could without having to go into his presence.

For years no one lived in that strange house, then one day, out of the blue, that music started one morning. Every day at dawn Magnus rose and played his lute, singing his ridiculous songs until all the hillside was awake. Why some people liked him you could understand, but you never got onto that boat.

“So many of the girls in town love him,” you heard through whispers one day.

“He comes in, charms them, and leaves them lovesick puppies. Like nothing we have here is good enough for him,” another whisper scoffed.

You turned to listen to the conversation, curious as anyone would be. You hadn’t met Magnus yet, but you certainly had heard enough about him. Though this bit of gossip was all new to you.

“He got to my girl!” One whisper exclaimed. “She’s not looked at me twice since. All she does is sing and dance around.”

“What a cad. Going after someone’s broad like that,” the other whisper snarled.

You frowned at this, gently setting down what you were looking at and walked away. “Serves him right to lose her to that singing loon,” you thought to yourself. “Talk shit like that, you shouldn’t be surprised when it falls into your lap.” As a butcher, you knew what ‘broad’ really meant.

A few days later, you would meet Magnus for yourself; during the summer festival and parade. The main part of town was packed and overflowing with people. You were scooting along the street, trying to get to your shop at the end of town. But it was growing more and more difficult to traverse the farther you went. People became thicker packed the more you went, so you decided to go the long way around, hopping off main street, and going down a small alley.

There was a small cluster of people leaning against one of the walls. As you approached, one thrust out their hand to you.

“Got any spare change, ducky?” The young man asked with a forceful tone, but the others sniggered as they came off the wall.

Pickpockets and other thieves were always busy during the festivals. It surprised you little to come across some going down an alley.

“Afraid I’ve already given my charity for the day.” You continued to walk, but your path was cut off.

You sighed heavily and glanced back towards the man who still had his hand out. “I have no money. You are more likely to get something from a stone than you are me.”

You were becoming encroached upon, and the helpless feeling of being unable to move crept in. You felt lucky, after all, you had taken home your best knife the night before to properly sharpen. You just hated the thought of dulling it before you got to work.

“I’m sure you’ve got more than nothing,” the thief laughed. “Everyone has something today.”

You were ready to pull out your knife when a laugh filled the narrow alleyway. “My goodness, such a crowd. Such a crowd!”

A tall figure towered over the pickpockets at the back. “Beg your pardon. Beg your pardon,” the new person laughed. “Ah yes, thank you,” he chortled as the crowd parted for him.

He was huge, broad like a barn and probably just as tall. From behind, his feathered arms shone with deep green and gold, and at the top of his head was a red comb.

“Neighbor!” He announced loudly. “So good to see you here.” He came up towards you, placing his hands upon your shoulders. “We’ve not been properly introduced!”

“Excuse me,” the thief snarled.

Magnus turned, looking back at him. “Yes, hello there!”

You glared up at him, hand still readied on your knife under your skirt. “They’re thieves” you whispered between clenched teeth.

“Leaves? What leaves! It’s summer!” Magnus laughed merrily. He then winked at you. “No need to go stabbing at leaves after all, not when they are in midair.”

You were taken by surprise! How could he know?

The thief grabbed Magnus’ shoulder. “We were talking to the lady first.”

“Ah, I see,” Magnus turned slightly. “Forgive my manners. Sometimes I can’t help but forget them. I have had this song sung stuck in my head, you see, and nothing else seems to get through to me when that happens.” He turned around, shoving the thief’s hand off his shoulder.

“Tell me, have you heard this tune?” Magnus began whistling, and while the tune is familiar, you weren’t sure you’ve heard it before.

“That’s it-” The thief went to swing, but his feet began to float up. He flipped upside down, as did all the other pickpockets in the alley.

You noticed too that you were starting to lift up and be carried like a dandelion seed into the air.

“Don’t worry, neighbor! I have you!” Magnus grabbed your hand, pulling you away like a child with a balloon.

Above you could see the pickpockets floating above the buildings, they were screaming, but couldn’t be heard over the caucus of the parade.

“What did you do?” You shouted at Magnus, your legs now far above your head. You tried to fight with your skirt, but it was a losing battle.

“They’ll come down safely! Not to worry,” Magnus guffawed. “Did you see their faces? That was wonderful!”

“You’re crazy!”

“And you’re unharmed.” He took you towards your butcher shop, despite the looks you received along the way.

Once you were at your store you floated down to the ground.

“There now, right as rain.” Magnus smiled. His beak was shining gold, and his gray eyes still shone brighter.

You smoothed down your clothes and looked at him, unsure if you should be annoyed or grateful. “Thank you, I suppose. Even if your method was maddening.”

Magnus tilted his head to the side. “You didn’t like it?”

“I would have been fine, but I am grateful I didn’t have to resort to my method.” You then pouted. “Yours was the safer option.” You searched your deep pockets trying to find your keys.

“I’d say a bloodbath on such a magnificent day would be a mood killer.” Magnus hummed and your front door opened.

You stared back up at him, stiffening your back and narrowing your gaze. “I’ll let that slide for your help today. But before you go, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Magnus laid both feathered hands upon his barreled out chest. “I love questions, especially about myself.”

You took a step closer to him. “You play that lute every morning and sing as loud as hell; what the hell for?”

Magnus smiled brightly. “So that my sun will rise.”

The sun rose with or without provocation. But if that was his reasoning, you at least had something. “That’s all?”

Magnus nodded. “As far as I know.”

You sighed, unsatisfied with the answer, but pleased to have one. “I owe you a thanks. If there is anything I can do for you, I owe you a favor.”

“Wonderful!” He cheered. “I will certainly keep that in mind.”

You smiled faintly then went into your shop to begin the day and he went on down the street, happily singing to himself.

Summer came and went, and the first signs of fall began with a slight shift in color outside. Crisp mornings were becoming a welcomed pleasure. And your shop was getting more and more orders for marrow bones so that people could make stocks for the oncoming cold.

One afternoon, as you were finishing packing up such bones to send with your delivery boy, Magnus walked in.

“Good afternoon, neighbor!” He announced himself quite loudly.

You were wrapping up a bone with twine and wax paper. “Magnus, long time no see. Good to know there is still a body attached to that voice of yours.”

Magnus chuckled smugly. “As my neighbor, you must get the music while it is still fresh and warm, like a loaf of bread. Others in town must hear it when it is stale.”

You grunted in reply, attaching a tag to the wrapped marrow bone. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’ve come to collect that favor you owe me.”

You had almost forgotten about it. It had been months ago, and nothing had been spoken between the two of you since; aside from the usual neighborly things.

“That’s right,” you murmured. “I’m a bit busy right now is it possible to-”

“Oh heavens not now. I only just thought of it! I came here while it was still on my mind, because sooner or later I would forget and keep putting it off and-”

“Magnus,” you chimed to get him back on track. “Just tell me.”

“Oh right!” His chest fluffed out and he swooped his wing over his waist. “I would like you to make me dinner.”

“But I’m not a cook,” you said plainly. “I’m a butcher.”

Magnus’ smile became sweeter, and those bright gray eyes took on a puppy-like appearance. “But you can still make a meal, right?”

You wiped your hands on your apron. “I suppose.”

He raised two long fingers. “Then you can make a meal for two? Yes?”

“Possibly.” You eyed him, letting a smile grow. “Might I ask why this is the favor you’re coming for?”

Magnus waved his finger. “I think that’s a conversation for dinner. Don’t you? Just so we’ll have something to break the ice. I know you're off on Sundays, will that be okay for our supper?”

You sighed, but your smile grew. “As good as any.”

“Wonderful!” He cheered. “I will arrive with bells on.”

Knowing him, you thought, he probably would. You started to turn back to your work, but Magnus approached the counter again.

He started speaking very intensely. “By the way, I know this may hinder you, maybe even offend you considering your business, but I don’t eat meat.”

You looked him up and down. “You don’t eat meat?”

“I do not eat it,” he said sincerely.

You clicked your tongue. “Well, alright. I’ll figure something out I suppose.”

Magnus beamed again as he stood upright. “Wonderful! Thank you so much for the consideration. I look forward to what you can do.”

You were no cook, at least nothing special. You knew how to make meat and potatoes taste good to you. This would be a whole new chore.

You managed to get a couple of recipes from some of the grannies who visited your shop a lot. One gave you her special vegetable broth recipe. Another provided you with her garlic rolls recipe. Then another gave you an eggplant and how to cook it. All of them adored Magnus and were eager to try and impress him vicariously through you.

“What on earth does this guy do to these ladies?” You grumbled as you kneaded the dough for the rolls. The garlic was exceptionally strong, almost spicy in the air. “I know his music has some sort of power, maybe that’s his game.”

Just as you had placed the eggplant into the oven, there was a knock upon your door.

“Geez,” you huffed, wiping your hands on your apron. “Who could this be?” You walked across the kitchen to the door, finding Mgnus standing there tuning his lute.

“It's way too early!” You exclaimed out of shock.

“I know, I came to bask in your warm company.” Magnus let himself in, sitting at the kitchen table which was still covered in flour from when you rolled the dough for the garlic rolls.

“I haven’t even cleaned up yet, you’ll get flour on you!” You tried to shoo him away but he started playing his lute.

“What is your most favorite song in the world?” Magnus asked, oblivious to your efforts to wipe up the table.

“What’s yours?” You asked, finally able to sweep away the flour without hitting him.

He plucked the strings on his lute and thought deeply. “Sweet rose, sweet dew drop.”

“Sounds saccharine.” You sighed. “But if you must play, play.”

Magnus was smiling, tuning the lute again. “Do you not like my playing, neighbor? You seem annoyed.”

“I hear your music every morning. I hear it loud and clear as if you are inside my head.”

“But do you like it?”

You cut your eyes at him. “If I didn’t hear it exploding in my bedroom each morning, maybe I would.”

“You wake each morning to my songs,” he hummed softly. He strummed and hummed, going soft and quiet unlike what you were used to.

“I do.” You go back towards the oven. “You told me once why you do it, but I still find it a bit odd.”

“My sun,” he sang softly. “I want her to rise. I want to open her shining eyes. She lights up my day and it is night when she’s gone. I’m singing to her in hopes of my dawn.”

“That’s lovely,” you murmured. “But still odd. The sun rises and falls no matter what we do.”

Magnus smirked towards you. “You think so?”

Something about his gaze made your stomach flop upside down. “Isn’t that how it works? After all, it’s more powerful than us.”

“She is,” Magnus spoke softly again. He then perked up, his comb rising high on his head. He then looked at you excitedly. “What have you made for dinner?”

“Oh, well, I had some help from some of the grannies you come to my shop,” you replied. “I have a vegetable stew, garlic rolls, and some sort of eggplant thing.”

“Eggplant thing?”

You made an awkward smile. “I followed the recipe, but I’m still not sure what it’ll turn into.”

Magnus laughed. “You really aren’t a cook.”

“Not at all.”

Despite all your hostility and annoyance with him because of his morning singing, you found yourself drawn to him. He didn’t have to sing or play his music, but there was definitely an allure he had. This may have been the same charm that all the other women in town were attracted to. Even as you fed him, he didn’t complain. The eggplant was awful, but he still ate it regardless.

As he left to go home, he turned in the doorway to look at you. “When I sing in the morning, will you listen to me?”

You were a bit surprised. “I mean, I always have to.”

Magnus shook his head. “No. I mean listen.”

You weren’t sure what he meant, but you nodded as bid him goodnight.

Come morning, you were woken by the sound of his lute being strummed. Still loud as ever, but somehow it sounded so much softer than all other mornings. His voice, too, sounded lighter and airier.

From that morning onward, his music sounded sweet and calming. You woke up gently rather than annoyed. And to your surprise, one morning, you walked outside and yelled.

“Good morning, Magnus!”

“Good morning, neighbor!” he crowed back with a sound of triumph.

A few days later, just as you were closing up shop, Magnus came through the door. “I was wondering if I could walk you home?” He asked.

You pushed a loose lock of hair from your face. “What for?”

Magnus smiled. “Do I need a reason?”

You sighed and went along. You were silent at the start of the walk, but as he started to hum a question rose in your mind.

“Has your music changed? Because it is nowhere near as annoying as it used to be,” you said.

“I’ve not changed it in the slightest. I did ask you to listen though.” He placed a wing around you back, settling his hand on your arm.

You watched his dark fingers on your sleeve then glanced back into his gray eyes. “Then tell me what you are doing.”

“Doing?” He asked.

“All the women, and some men, in this village have some level of attraction or fascination to you. Is that what you are trying to do with me?” You said pointedly.

“Oh gosh,” he said in thought. “I’m not trying to woo anyone. I’m just nice to everyone. I treat them like I want to be treated. You’re the only one I’ve been trying to woo.”

Your stomach flopped again. “You’re teasing me!”

“I told you, I always sing to raise my sun.” There was no irony to his tone, no sense of teasing. He was being honest.

“Me?” You exclaimed. “I’m the sun?”

Magnus tilted his head to the side. “You didn’t get that?”

“No!” You blurted.

He sighed and dipped his head down. “Oh gosh, I’m no good at these kinds of things. I thought I was being clear.” He pouted a bit. “You’re just my type. It’s part of why I got that weird house on the hill. So I could be close, maybe see you in the morning-” He started to get embarrassed. “But all I can do is sing.”

You cocked up a brow in shock. “Type?”

Magnus went silent, going from slightly shy to very shy. “Well yeah.”

“And what would that be?”

He looked away, his smile faint, and his expression demure. He shifted a bit, taking a step back from you. “You’re a little mean and bossy,” he muttered.

“Should I be offended?” You grumbled.

He shook his head. “I mean that in a good way. I know I don’t look it, being as tall as I am, but I like to feel like I am small and-” Magnus shut his beak and turned away.

“So-” You tried to piece this together as best you could. “You like me because I make you feel this way?”

He nodded.

“Well, this wasn’t what I was expecting,” you huffed.

“I don’t mean to make this sound weird. I really do like you for much more than my own oddities.” He fidgeted with his fingers. “You’re strong and witty, your not afraid of anything. But you’re also tender and sweet, and you have such a nice...shape.” It sounded like he had more to say, but he decided to end it with that one word.

You pressed your lips together and looked at the ground. “You have a nice shape yourself.”

Magnus chuckled, then you chuckled.

“Maybe we can show off each other’s shape one day,” Magnus said shyly. “If you’d like such a thing.”

“Not tonight, maybe Sunday?” You suggested.

His eyes widened and he turned to you with a look of shock. “You really-you would-you are-” He couldn’t get out what he wanted to say.

“Maybe this time you could make dinner?”

“Okay!” He exclaimed happily. “Come over whenever you’d like!”

You still weren’t exactly sure on what to take in. You just knew you held an excitement in your chest that didn’t go away until Sunday morning. You heard him singing on his hill, and that excitement burst, turning into urgency and nerves.

You waited as long as you could before heading up the hill. It was still a bit early for dinner, but had shown up early to your home as well. Once he opened the door you knew you came at the right time.

“Good! You did come!” Magnus pulled you inside.

“I was bored anyways,” you said nervously.

Magnus gripped your hand. “Let me give you a tour.” He took you through the odd house, which was larger inside than you expected.

Most of the rooms were filled with musical instruments, sheet music, and long scrolls tucked into vases and buckets. Up in the tower was his room, which he took you to with a proud look on his face. He showed you the balcony where he played his music each morning. From that perch you could see your house below.

“You really are singing to me.”

Magnus nodded. “I like seeing you walk out your door every morning. I often wonder what you’re doing or how you wake up.”

You look him over then stare back into the room. “Your bed is much bigger than mine, but I could show you.”

Magnus swallowed. “Really?”

You took hold of his hand and led him over to the bed. You made him lay down upon his back and placed his hands upon his chest. “I lay like this when I go to sleep. Although; come morning I’m on my side.” You then crawled on top of him, straddling your thighs around his waist.

Magnus gulped and his feathers on his chest fluffed up. “Do...do you usually wake up feeling heavy?”

You shook your head. “No. I just did this to get you here.” You leaned down, kissing his beak and down to his cheek. Magnus ruffled and moaned, arching his back as you drug your hands down his chest.

“I see. I like that,” he laughed.

You opened up his shirt, stroking down the sleek feathers that went from black-green to golden ginger. “You’re quite colorful. It’s lovely.”

Magnus nodded, holding his breath as your hands explored his body. You rolled your hips, rubbing yourself against the front of his trousers.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being too forceful,” you murmured.

He shook his head. “Just the right amount of forceful.” He opened his eyes back up to look at you. “I was hoping this would happen. Although I’m a bit embarrassed by that thought.”

You kissed his beak again then placed your hand around his throat. “What else were you hopeful for.”

He shivered at your touch, moaning loudly then sucking in his breath. “Just uhm-” He wiggled beneath you, rubbing himself against you. “Just that you would uhm-”

You moved your hand away.

“Play with me!” He yelped and you placed your hand back. “Play with me-” he moaned again. “Like I’m your own personal toy.”

You smirked. “How fun. Anything else?”

His eyes moved towards a small chest sitting by his bed. You picked it up, setting it on his chest as you looked through. Inside there were a few strange objects, one was small and bulbous, maybe of a black shining stone. There were two phallic-shaped crystals, one was a clear quartz and had small ball shapes through the shaft. The second was bigger, made of rose quartz, and flared at the base and was wattahced to a leather belt.

“Should I use these before I use you?” You teased.

Magnus fidgeted again. “I’d love to watch but-”

Inside the chest was also a flask filled with olive oil. “You’re excited today. I get it.” You lifted yourself off him, sitting by his side as you undid his belt and tugged down his pants.

Since he was a type of siren, his anatomy below was a little different. There was a growth that rose from his loins, along with a small opening. You trailed your fingers around the opening, which felt warm and wet within.

Magnus gasped and his back rose from the bed. You slipped a finger inside, feeling him tighten around you while his voice became much higher and more aroused.

“You’ll be very fun to play with, Magnus.” You panted as you moved your finger inside. You added another finger, which made him whimper and throw his head back.

“There now.” You pulled out your fingers then rose from the bed to undress. Magnus watched you with awe, his eyes gazing down your body. Your arms and back were strong from your work as a butcher, so you never felt quite pretty until his eyes landed upon you. In his gaze you felt like a beauty.

“I knew you’d be stunning,” he panted.

You put on the leather belt and Magnus’ eyes became dewy. You poured olive oil into your palm, rubbing the shaft like it was your own.

As Magnus watched you climbed back onto the bed and threw his legs over your shoulders. He whimpered as the rose quartz touched against him.

“I’ll go easy, but I have a feeling you’re used to this.” You watched in awe as the rose quartz disappeared inside him. He cried out and you bit your lip.

Magnus started singing a new song. His voice peaked and rang out as you drove the rose quartz inside him. Your own wetness grew as you watched him. His body writhed in such a sweet, docile way. Eventually you couldn’t take it anymore.

You took off the belt and left the rose quartz inside him. You mounted him again, taking his shaft inside you.

“Yes!” Magnus cried out. “You’re all around me.” His hands gripped around your thick waist. “All you!”

You rutted on top of him, feeling him warm and hard inside. You pressed your hands to his belly, taking leverage as you began moving.

“Oh my sun!” Magnus cried. “My shining, glorious star! Take me! All of me!”

You moaned and reached out, placing your hand around his throat. “You’re mine. You’re all mine.”

Magnus grinned with glee, bucking his hips upward inside you. You cried out, throwing your head back and letting your hair spill around your shoulders. You reached back, thrusting the rose quartz inside him. He bucked harder, whimpering pitifully, even starting to cry.

Something inside you was rising. It was coming fast and hot inside your belly, shooting through your chest. You and Magnus were singing together, duetting as this rising sun inside you began to spill out.

You shivered, thighs tightening around Magnus. The rose quartz slipped from inside him, and he whimpered as tears rolled from his gray eyes. You leaned forward, falling onto his barreled chest and laying there as his shaft popped out from inside you.

You both laid in silence. You breathed in sync until it felt like you were fading from this world. Magnus’ wings wrapped around you and he started singing softly.

“My sun, I want her to rise. I want to open her shining eyes. She lights up my day and it is night when she’s gone. I’m singing to her in hopes of my dawn.”

You smiled and nuzzled to his chest. “I love your song,” you murmured.

“Finally,” he chuckled.

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster love #monster romance #monster fudger #monsterxhuman #monsterxreader #siren #momolady monsters #my writng

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redisaid · 2 years ago

Text

Beneath the Blue Moon - Chapter 3

Dark

Democracy has spoken yet again, so here's another chapter of your choices. You all are so mean to Jaina and gave her the worst emotional support anyone could ask for.

I love it.

Oh yeah and, NSFW.

5758 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Take me back to the night we met.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do,

Haunted by the ghost of you.

Oh, take me back to the night we met.

“Well, this is fucking depressing.”

Jaina turned to the voice that should not have been there. Well, not that she wanted anyone to be there at all, witnessing her crumpled, knees to chest on the side of her bed, crying and staring at her hand.

Nor did she expect to look up to find Valeera Sanguinar, of all people, making such a declaration as she faded back in from the shadows. The elven rogue stood with her arms crossed in front of Jaina’s open bedroom door, which had been locked previously, though was no doubt hardly a challenge for Valeera.

Valeera, who had no reason to be here in Proudmoore Keep. While she had been present at the meeting in the harbor that morning, she had declined an invitation to be housed at the keep while further Alliance meetings were moved there--citing her efforts to maintain neutrality on behalf of the Uncrowned.

Yet here she was, in Jaina’s room in the middle of the night, looking down at her as she did her best to stop the tears and get herself together. She knew Valeera hated crying.

“Are you aware that no guards are coming?” Valeera asked with a quick glance behind her to assure herself of that fact.

“I certainly hope not,” Jaina groaned as she tried to reign herself in and have a conversation she didn’t want to have in any way shape or form.

Valeera tsked, shutting the door behind her after once again confirming the hallway was empty. “It’s just that, you know, their Lord Admiral is screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night and sobbing,” she noted.

Jaina supposed that Valeera’s initial comment was on the state of her security and not on her, though maybe a little of both. Subterfuge had always been the rogue’s specialty, rather than empathy, but perhaps for that very reason, it was good that she would be the one to find Jaina like this, rather than some poor guardsman.

“We shifted them to cover our guests,” Jaina explained. “Besides, I’m an Archmage, Valeera. I don’t need a guard.”

“You look like you need a drink,” Valeera noted.

Jaina looked up to find her glowing green eyes trained on the mark that was still radiating soft blue light from the back of her hand. She knew that there would be no hiding such a detail from anyone, but especially from the trained eyes of a spy.

A spy who wasn’t supposed to be in her keep.

“Why are you here?” Jaina asked, mostly to delay the inevitable.

“Anduin,” was Valeera’s answer.

“Not going to tell me more?” Jaina prodded.

She wiped her face with the hand that hadn’t just shattered her perception of reality itself. Taking stock of the situation, she realized the pain in her shoulder had dulled back to ignorable at best. A sense of calm and serenity that most certainly did not belong to her was itching at the back of her skull. It was familiar. So familiar.

Right, she remembered. This was what it felt like when Sylvanas was sleeping.

Why the hell was she sleeping?

“You so graciously offered him a room at your keep and I needed to talk to him before I left Boralus,” Valeera explained. “I simply saw myself in, had a lovely chat with him, and was on my way towards seeing myself out.”

“You could just request audiences and allow people to know where you are, like a normal person,” Jaina told her, knowing full well Valeera would never be caught dead doing such a thing.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Valeera asked.

As they spoke, those green eyes took in the room. Jaina knew they were sketching out every detail of it to memory. Every weakness, every bit of interest. She had no doubt she could ask Valeera which of her pillows was slightly ajar a week from now and she’d still remember. Behind that facade of a devil-may-care attitude, Jaina knew one of the brightest minds in all of Azeroth whirred like a gnomish gearbox, constantly ready to process any sort of new information.

And unfortunately, the most pertinent information of the hour was glowing like a beacon on the back of Jaina’s hand.

“You were right before,” Jaina told her, patting the bed next to her. “I do need a drink.”

Valeera finally laughed and relented to the invitation when Jaina reached over and pulled out a flask from the drawer in her nightstand.

She took Jaina’s cue to sit, her armor an odd crimson against the deep Kul Tiran green of the bedspread. Valeera was small and slight, even for an elf. Jaina knew her to be young but not young enough for that smallness not to be a permanent factor in her life. And from what she knew of this woman, she could guess at its origins--a childhood spent an orphan and then being starved in the pits to toughen her up for gladiatorial combat. Valeera never got enough of anything, and thus was small for it. Small and always hungry, for information or magic or anything she didn’t really need to have or be seeking.

And while Jaina remembered the nights she spent at her bedside in Theramore, worrying at what they would do to temper and control those cravings, she also knew that sometimes, a little indulgence worked better. Controlled indulgence, that was.

Either way, it was better that Valeera hear this from her than anyone else. So Jaina popped the cap of the flask and took a swig of the mana-infused whiskey inside of it, then passed it to Valeera.

Valeera laughed her deep, throaty laugh again, sniffing the flask first before she too downed some of its contents. Jaina could still smell the fire of the whiskey on her breath when she asked, “So, when are you going to tell me why your fucking hand is glowing all of the sudden?”

“You’ll be disappointed to know that I don’t really know why,” Jaina told her as she claimed the flask back. She intended to take another draught of it to make explaining this easier, but just ended up fiddling with the cap while she thought out what the reason truly could be. “It just started as you so happened to be sneaking through my keep.”

“But that means something has changed with--”

“--Her. Yes.”

Sylvanas. Jaina had made a habit of not saying the name when she could avoid it. Some of her friends and acquaintances had picked up on it and joined her in not saying it around her. And that suited Jaina just fine. She already had a mark on her body to remind her of what she’d lost. And then the fact that the woman who bore that name still somehow walked the world despite that loss. And in the last year or so, she had managed to become the fucking Warchief of the Horde of all things, so that meant Jaina heard the name enough.

And old habits, while they served no real purpose and helped nothing and no one, died hard.

Jaina took another swig of the whiskey. It was smokey and smooth, but still whiskey. The mana bit back as a sharp, yet somewhat metallic tang, as arcane often did. Jaina winced both sensations as they mingled on her palette before adding, “But I don’t know what.”

“I mean, I have no idea how these things work besides all the lovey dovey crap that people say about it, but can’t you tell?” Valeera asked.

Valeera’s aversion to the subject of soulmates was distinctly un-elven of her. Another feature telling of her distance from her people and their culture and the love that should have come with it for her. Her own soulmark was not on display, despite how little of her body was even covered by that armor, and Jaina couldn’t recall ever having seen it in the past. To anyone else, having it be present somewhere hidden and possibly salacious would be a scandal that would haunt them through their entire life. But for Valeera, it was fitting. There was nothing about her that wasn’t hidden or salacious or somehow both.

Jaina shrugged, turning her head a little to regard Valeera as she explained, “No, I can’t. I only know that I can feel her again. She’s injured on her shoulder. And she’s sleeping right now.”

“I thought undead didn’t sleep,” Valeera said.

“So did I,” Jaina agreed.

“What the fuck was she doing?” Valeera asked, probably of herself, and reached for the flask again.

“I don’t know.”

To be perfectly honest with herself, Jaina tried not to know. She tried to stay out of it. The world often didn’t let her. She often longed for a reality in which she truly could separate herself from any kingdom or faction or the goings-on between any of them, but try as she might, she simply could not do so with good conscience. Whether it was her magic or the people she’d come to love, duty would call on them one way or another, and thus would call on Jaina to follow. And she’d tried to resist the call. She had. Even during the fight against the Legion, she’d managed it, taking out her rage at Khadgar’s casual possession of Dalaran in her own way, on her own time. For once, alone.

But it didn’t last. It never lasted. Once the surge of emotion was gone, and the sting it left behind, Jaina would feel empty. And she had long ago realized that feeling overburdened suited her far more than feeling empty.

Valeera kicked back a hearty swig of the flask--enough to make a true Kul Tiran sailor blush. She sighed out the taste of the whiskey and offered no further wisdom aside from, “This would go great in some coffee. Or even tea.”

“Too cold for you here in Boralus?” Jaina asked, welcoming the option to talk about something with any degree of certainty to it.

Valeera shook her head, passing the flask back again. “I’m leaving, so it doesn’t matter. Also I don’t have the occasion to be drinking straight whiskey like you, though I do appreciate you sharing. Both the occasion and the whiskey, that is.”

“I’d offer to bring some mixers up from the kitchen, but--”

“You were just sobbing alone for ten minutes while I debated whether or not to come in and I hate to say it, but you look like it,” Valeera finished for her. “On that thought, are you going to hide it?”

“What?”

“The mark.”

Jaina hadn’t thought that far ahead. She very well could. The glow would not show through the usual leather of her gloves and especially not through the armored gauntlet she usually wore in public. Fabric would be another thing, but truth be told, no one would ever have to see her in anything less than her full battle dress. No one did, really. Not anymore.

She tried to think of what the others might say, if she were to let them see. No doubt they’d try to use her as some sort of intelligence device--to use this bond to feed their war without taking into account that whatever had changed about it might be a means to end it. She could see it now, how Greymane would snarl and ask her what the Banshee was doing, even though he would know exactly how little she could tell him. His own mark shown bright blue even when he was fully a worgen, turning the fur that sprouted from it into the same glowing blue. Such was the ferocity of his love for his wife, and no doubt the love for their son--and with it the hatred for the woman who’d slain him.

Yes, he would remind Jaina of that, definitely.

Jaina came to her answer. “For now? Probably.”

“Until when?” Valeera wondered aloud.

“Until I know why this has happened,” Jaina told her.

Jaina’s head was running wild with theories already. Truth be told, it had been from the moment Valeera revealed herself from the shadows, both out of a need to explain and a want to know.

But indeed, the problem was that her soulmate was Sylvanas Windrunner--burner of Teldrassil, murderer of Liam Greymane, Warchief of the Horde, enemy of the Alliance, and defacto enemy of the neutral state of Kul Tiras it was once again courting. Her soulmate, sleeping soundly still, was a woman who Jaina had loved so much and then had come to hate along with everyone else. It had been easy to say that the bond between them was so irrevocably broken by what had been done to her that nothing of the Sylvanas she had loved remained. It had been Jaina’s ever-present excuse--one that no one would dare to challenge. Sylvanas’ soul was gone or dead or something to the point where she wasn’t herself. It was written on Jaina’s skin.

Or at least, it had been.

Jaina finally took a moment to look at her hand fully without the veil of tears standing in her eyes. The mark was very much blue, but dimmer than it ever had been when it was ignited many years before--when it had burned so immediately bright that all of Sylvanas’ friends and family beamed at her during that week, knowing full well that meant the love between them was already so strong.

And now it was just a flicker of a candle flame, threatening to wink out. Jaina felt it might be easier if it did, and she could just call this some fluke. And then a pang of guilt followed that thought that felt so strange and wrong and overwhelming that she had to take another swig of the whiskey. Enough to make her cheeks flush.

But not enough to give her any sense of direction. “I swear to you, it just happened,” Jaina repeated. “And I don’t know why.”

“It’s not like I don’t believe you,” Valeera told her. “And I don’t know why either. You’ve had a memorial mark since I’ve known you. Those things don’t change, but you have to admit your circumstances are different than most.”

“I’m well aware,” Jaina noted. “But I don’t think anyone quite understands to what degree. Much less me.”

Valeera shrugged at that, her eyes still darting around the room. She stuck out a gloved hand, pointing one red finger at Jaina. “Well, let’s think through it. You love thinking through things. One, obviously something has changed. Probably about Syl--her. Sorry. Her.”

Valeera was one of few people who seemed to remember this need of Jaina’s to avoid the name, and never questioned it despite the fact that it didn’t make much sense. She was a good friend, though Jaina could never really tell her that to her face. She ought to talk more with her, but well, years and responsibilities had their way of getting in the way--even for someone who tried to avoid them as much as Valeera did.

Valeera counted off on another red finger, “Two, something has changed about her soul. Which, you know, I also think no one quite understands either. I know that some undead keep their bonds through their undeath, others don't. She obviously wasn’t one of them.”

“Obviously,” Jaina agreed. “And it’s been a subject of much debate and research ever since the Third War. I remember finding notes Kinndy would make about it all the time. She kept a journal. I think she meant to talk to me about what she found one day, but she never did. Wait. I bet you read that journal when you were staying with us.”

“You know I did,” Valeera replied with a smirk. “You had lots of interesting books and people in Theramore in those days. And I won’t say anything beyond that because I don’t need you bursting into tears actively while I’m here. I’m not a crying person, Jaina. I don’t know what to do about, around, or for crying.”

“I know.”

She did know. Jaina knew that Valeera didn’t even have the emotional capacity for herself, let alone someone else, so it was all the more touching, or possibly concerning, that she came into this room at all. Perhaps she felt she owed a debt for the times that Jaina had seen her in tears herself--unbidden and unwelcome all the same--and had held her through them.

In Theramore, Jaina had held so many people through so many tears. She’d been a rock--no, an anchor. An anchor can still hold fast while it sinks.

“Good,” Valeera noted, then held up a third finger. “Moving on. Three, whatever it is that happened literally just happened. So, it’s not like anyone really knows besides you and her and whoever is with her right now.”

Which was its own unsettling thought. Who even was with her? Sylvanas, even in death, really only kept select company. Her Rangers, probably, the same as ever. Only they were as dead as she was. Jaina had been dealing with reports of Nathanos Marris stalking the countryside of Kul Tiras during her week of learning to assume the Lord Admiral’s duties. Though now apparently he called himself Nathanos Blightcaller and was particularly keen on small acts of terrorism. He still clung to Sylvanas like a flea, just as he had in his living days. Jaina knew the names of others too. Anya Eversong. Vorel Daystrike. Velonara Dawnsea. Clea Goldenpath.

All names and faces she remembered, laughing and welcoming her. Faces that had changed so much since--now all ashen skin and red eyes and Horde banners. Did the elven women she remembered give themselves new names too? Did they forsake their legacies when they took on the banner for the Forsaken?

Jaina didn’t know. She didn’t know so much. Once, it had felt pertinent to avoid those details for sanity’s sake, but now she cursed herself, wishing she’d kept up. Though, to be fair, she certainly didn’t ever think that she’d be facing the problem she was now.

Jaina looked at her hand again as Valeera seemed to struggle with a fourth detail to ground them in.

“What do you think happened?” Jaina asked as she stared at the blue moon that was etched into her skin.

“I don’t know,” Valeera said with an incredulous wave of that hand before her reasonings vanished with it. “Maybe she sacrificed a baby about it? Who knows?”

It was so easy to believe something ridiculous like that. So easy to just push the divide further apart by saying that Sylvanas was on the bad side and Jaina was on the good. And while she had burned world trees and waged war and done awful things, Jaina knew, deep down, that both sides of the war were as guilty as each other. She longed for a commitment to neutrality like Valeera had created for herself, but even then, Valeera herself had just said she was on her way to do something for Anduin, and therefore something for the Alliance. No one could really escape it.

But for every Theramore, there was a purge of Dalaran. Jaina had learned to stop counting losses long ago, before she’d even begun to stop herself from saying Sylvanas’ name aloud. Trying to add up tit for tat only left one with a headache and a feeling of being owed. War didn’t owe anything to anyone. It just was.

All the same, she knew Sylvanas probably didn’t sacrifice a baby about it. No, Sylvanas Windrunner, known war criminal, was usually a great deal more shrewd and subtle than that, even when it was easy to say she was a soulless husk of undeath and misery. At least she was in the opinion of one Jaina Proudmoore, also known war criminal.

“Where were you going after this, Valeera?” Jaina thought to ask.

“I see what you’re about to do and I shouldn’t like it,” Valeera told her. “But the answer is none of your business.”

“Is it Dazar’alor?”

It was a good guess that made sense, to Jaina’s credit. Anduin was very concerned about the Horde attacking Boralus, but also respectful enough of Jaina’s choice to continue waiting to see what would happen next before offering her navy. He would be quite concerned about what they were planning. And if they were planning an assault, it would come from the port of the very neutral naval faction that they were courting, and the one who would be very happy to wipe out any remaining Kul Tiran dominance on the seas.

“And if it is?” Valeera asked.

It was. It had to be. The way she was glaring at Jaina, with a little smirk as she gestured for the flask again.

Jaina handed it to her. “I’m just saying, Anduin might want to know what’s going on with her. On her ship. If it’s still in the harbor, that is.”

“I suppose if I were to trip over the Banshee’s Wail, the very flagship of the Horde fleet, that I could let you know what was going on around her decks,” Valeera offered without really offering before she took one more big swig of the whiskey. Probably too big of one for someone about to go on an espionage mission, but Jaina wasn’t here to judge or tell her how to do her job--or who to do it for, for that matter.

“If you choose to do so, then please be careful,” Jaina requested, holding her hand out for the flask.

Valeera handed it back one last time as she pushed herself off the bed and onto her feet with an acrobatic flourish she didn’t need to add, but did anyway. “If I choose to do anything, you know that you really don’t have a choice in the matter. But, if I see her, I’ll try to figure out what’s happened.”

“Only because you’re curious yourself, of course,” Jaina offered as an excuse before taking her own sip of whiskey.

“Of course,” Valeera said with a red-lipped smirk that her shoulder and hood almost hid. Almost.

She began to walk away, and Jaina almost thought to call her back, rather than watch her fade into the shadows again. But Valeera stopped. She didn’t fade.

Instead, she asked, “Did you love her, Jaina?”

“Before?” was ever the question.

“What other time was there?”

“Not much. But yes, I loved her,” Jaina said.

Jaina had known that from the moment she first saw her--grinning and golden as she waited at the portal. Vibrant and a little cocky--her smile lopsided and her hair obnoxiously perfect. She was tall and broad-shouldered, stiff-backed but with laughter that rang first in her eyes. Soft grey eyes that were gone now, replaced by sinister crimson. Sun-kissed skin with a tiny smattering of freckles, and that too was gone--now cold and ashen.

Loved was the right tense. Jaina didn’t know this Sylvanas, this woman who stood on the other side of the battlefield--who normally wouldn’t even look at her when they were close enough to share a glance. Only once, really, did she. It had been so recent and so chilling that Jaina couldn’t yet banish the memory.

She couldn’t quite forget how she’d caught Sylvanas’ eyes in the throne room at Lordaeron, and watched for a moment as they flickered from rage and mocking and fear and then to her, and to a brief moment of something else. A softness that was not at home amidst red fury. An apology. A plea. A wail that she wouldn’t let out. A moment that only they shared.

A weakness, Jaina had told herself. A weakness for them both, she reminded herself.

“She was the best thing to ever happen to me, and then the worst,” Jaina went on. “And if you’re asking me how I feel right now, I don’t have an answer. I feel everything and nothing, and I don’t know enough to feel either.”

That was one way to put it, at least. The whiskey wasn’t the only thing turning Jaina’s stomach. She honestly had no idea what to do or what was happening. And for everything, the lack of control over the situation was probably the worst thing of all.

“And people wonder why I’m not obsessed with looking for my one true love,” Valeera said, affecting a silly voice for the last bit. “No thank you. I’d rather not ever be in your shoes. Or really ever have to care that much about anyone but me.”

“You’re a good friend, Valeera,” Jaina told her, despite the fact that being free of any attachment sounded very good and very logical right now.

“That’s it, I’m leaving,” Valeera stated as she whipped her cloak around with a bit more drama than was warranted.

“Be safe,” Jaina warned all the same.

“I’m always safe,” Valeera told her. “You’re the one who is in danger of being something else besides safe right now. Go to bed and sleep off that whiskey, Lord Admiral. Hopefully by the time you wake, some kind rogue will have left a bit of helpful information at your doorstep.”

Valeera faded into the night, melting into the shadows of Jaina’s doorway as she let herself out. The door closed on what seemed like nothing by a breeze in the darkness, rustling curtains with it as it went.

From the window, the moon still peered inside. Dim and listless as the crescent on Jaina’s hand. Waning.

Maybe it was tired of its constant vigil. Jaina knew she certainly was.

Valeera’s advice was good, and Jaina knew she should follow it. She put the flask back into the bedside drawer, nearly empty now, and made a note to top it off later. And while she did feel some of the buzz of the whiskey warming her thoughts and trying to coax them away from her worries, Jaina didn’t think she’d sleep again that night. Even as she laid back down, her mind raced with what all this could mean. What she would do. What the morning would bring.

But then at the back of it, that slow and serene warmth started to creep in. Sylvanas slept soundly and peacefully somewhere in this world. She always had back in life. Jaina had used that thread of a connection to lull herself to sleep many times. She’d even written Sylvanas a few letters thanking her for that fact. And even the night before she died, she’d slept like a rock, and Jaina had tumbled after that feeling, wanting to believe everything would be all right, even as she knew that Arthas was besieging the Elf Gates with everything he had.

So it was only natural that Jaina did find her sleep in that old comfort. In the lie and strangeness of it. Because it was a guilty pleasure only she would know of and reach for and understand. It might be her only chance to have it again tonight, after all. Or maybe this too was some cruel dream.

It was hard to say.

Just as it was hard to say where the line between dream and memory was for her. Because sleep immediately put her into one that was both. But not the same one. This was new but old. A perfectly rendered scene of a day long past. And through her shred of self-awareness, Jaina could only wonder how it would twist into wrongness again.

She watched as Sylvanas turned to grin at her, shutting the door to her room in Windrunner Spire behind her. She wore nothing but a robe that would be considered scandalously short by human standards, but Jaina certainly didn’t mind the view it gave of her long, toned legs. Definitely not at all, from where she lay on the bed, naked but for the silken sheets that only covered a very small portion of her.

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner ordered. The cook will drop them at the door,” Sylvanas declared proudly. “I realize now that I don’t even know what you like to eat for either and probably should have asked.”

“I’m not picky,” Jaina said with a laugh. “But I also don’t know what’s common for breakfast in a noble house in Quel’thalas.”

“We still have so much to learn,” Sylvanas said, the delight at that notion plain and beautiful on her face.

“We’ll get there,” Jaina encouraged her, beckoning her grinning elf over toward the bed again.

Sylvanas was all too-happy to oblige that request, and even undid the sash of her robe as she strode over, giving Jaina a very nice view of the front of her before she laid beside her. The silk of the robe draped them both like a waterfall. It was a deep cobalt blue, edged with gold, as all of Sylvanas’ things seemed to be.

Jaina slid her hand beneath it, pulling Sylvanas close as she told her, “I like elven coffee, for one, so if breakfast has that, it’s already a win in my book.”

“Of course it does,” Sylvanas told her. “In an enchanted carafe that won’t get cold, should you be distracted from breakfast. And we like pastries here in Quel’thalas. So probably some of those. And fruit. Lots of fruit.”

“Who doesn’t like pastries, coffee, and fruit?” Jaina asked with a laugh. “But the distraction sounds like a threat.”

“Mmm, it is. Truly a monstrous threat,” Sylvanas joked even as she made good on that threat, reaching out to pull her closer as well.

She buried her face in Jaina’s neck, growling playfully as she kissed along it. Jaina could feel her smile into the skin as she no doubt felt the echo of Jaina’s own shiver of pleasure at the act. This shared sensation was new and addicting, especially when combined with sex. Jaina was quite certain that an entire day would not be enough. They would probably need months to get over this, if the night before had been any indication.

Not that she was in a hurry to. Especially as that surge of confidence radiated back to her and started a loop she knew would carry them through long after breakfast had been delivered. She only hoped the cook didn’t have very good hearing. Though he was an elf, so likely not.

And Jaina didn’t care. She stopped caring the moment Sylvanas’ lips whispered across her clavicle and into the hollow of her throat. She’d lost all sense of space and time and what could or would or should be appropriate when Sylvanas tugged her closer and closer until there was only skin touching skin touching skin and a little silk of the robe inbetween and the echoing of it through one another. This was so unlike anything Jaina had ever felt and so very much worth days being spent introducing herself to three dozen odd Rangers and officers and magisters and nobles and Windrunner cousins.

But they didn’t exist now. Not anymore. The world was only them. It was only Sylvanas’ satisfaction in her growing arousal, and Jaina’s bliss in those strong arms she already knew could do so much for her, but was about to learn would do more.

As if Sylvanas understood that without it being said, she used those strong arms to flip them, laughing as she did, until they were both sitting on the soft mattress, and the sheets had fallen away. Then Sylvanas guided Jaina into her lap, and had her kneel there.

“Let me see you in the morning sun,” Sylvanas pleaded, her voice soft and low. Her grey eyes shone with wicked promises.

Jaina could feel a twinge of importance in this request. Maybe it was something cultural, or just the desires of her new lover to watch her this way. Either way, she knew Sylvanas felt the shiver of the request run through her.

Still, she answered, “You can see all of me, whenever you like.”

Sylvanas seemed satisfied at this, though that was an understatement for what Jaina felt across the bond. A bit of surprise. A fair bit of heady attraction. And love. Certainly love.

Sylvanas placed a sweet kiss to the center of her chest, right at the apex of her sternum, then drew her closer and finally touched Jaina where she very much needed to be touched. She watched her as she rubbed slow circles over her clit, and Jaina could feel the delight in how wet she was for her reverberating on top of her own pleasure. It was exhilarating and inebriating at the same time. She was drunk on Sylvanas and the way she made her feel, and how that made her feel in turn.

This was the part of the soulmate bond no one ever talked about, and honestly, Jaina didn’t quite know how she’d even venture to explain it herself. Suffice to say, the sex was insane. And she had a lifetime of it to look forward to.

And if Sylvanas had any complaints about their using this sacred bond so that she could feel how it felt to ride her own fingers once she added them to the mix, then she certainly wasn’t complaining. Nor was Jaina at the reflection of the sensation of herself tightening around them. And not at all when Sylvanas was gasping at the echoes of Jaina’s pleasure into her ear as she came.

The dream never turned. It kept to the memory as Jaina knew it, as she never let herself experience it in her waking hours. It stayed a morning in which she became quite grateful for the enchanted carafe, as the coffee would have long been cold by the time they remembered it. It played out just the same even as Sylvanas finally poured her a steaming cup of it--her hair a mess and eyes wild and grin bigger than ever. The robe was still on her somehow, clinging only to one shoulder. Jaina watched herself, happiest that she’d ever been, debate with her lover about whether they should have a nap or a bath after they ate, like it was the only important decision they’d ever have to make.

And she envied them. She envied the lie they lived in that moment. The old, golden moment.

#Sylvanas Windrunner #Jaina Proudmoore #sylvaina #fanfic #beneath the blue moon #i added the spice earlier than expected for the full spice crowd #let's get our money out of that e rating

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bensolosbluesaber · 4 years ago

Text

Returning a Favor (Zemo x Reader fic)

TFATWS Ep. 4 Spoilers!!

Summary: When your old friend, Sam Wilson, needs your help in Riga you drop everything and go. You knew they broke Baron Helmut Zemo out of jail, but you didn't expect to bond with the villain. (AKA: I thought getting hit in the face by the Shield would at least leave a bruise. Here's how that would go down with a fourth person.)

CW: Blood, wounds, some creepy behavior (not from Zemo), a few Y/N inserts

No smut yet, just cute cuddles and taking care of each other. Maybe smut in the future though! Let me know if you want a Part 2 or added to a tag list for potential future fics! I think the reader can be any gender; I tried to write it that way and be inclusive, but please tell me if I messed up!

If you know me in real life, no you don't:) I write most of my fics on @aurora521 and write on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the same name. Please don't come for me about finding Zemo attractive.

Hope you enjoy!

---

Returning a Favor

Meet me in Riga. -S

That was the text you received from Sam Wilson, your old military friend, yesterday. And now here you are, outside the Riga airport walking toward Sam in traditional undercover superhero attire- a baseball hat and sunglasses.

“Thanks for coming,” he greeted. “We have a little problem.”

“Is his name Baron Helmut Zemo by chance?” You asked, following him to a jet black sports car.

You were very aware of just what type of trouble Sam was getting himself into since you, a SWORD agent, still had access to all kinds of classified information.

“See for yourself,” Sam muttered, gesturing to the back door of the car and climbing in the driver's seat himself.

You hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the back. And yes, Zemo was there, lounging back with legs spread. He’s wearing a long coat with fur lining, a deep purple shirt, black pants, and shiny leather shoes. He nods to you and smirks ever so slightly. Bucky Barnes, who you had only heard about but recognized immediately, turns from his spot in the front seat and smiles at you.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Y/N,” he says.

“And I you,” you respond.

Sam pulls out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. The ride is mostly silent, Sam and Bucky bickering occasionally. That made you smile, knowing that as much as Bucky annoyed Sam, this was the type of relationship he craved. Zemo watched you the entire drive, sizing you up.

The home they’re staying at is obviously the Baron's. He’s comfortable there, leaning against the counters, rifling through cabinets, lounging on the couch.

“So what am I doing here?” You finally asked.

The three men interact easily, and either Sam or Bucky is always watching Zemo. There’s no real need for a fourth person to get involved, at least not in your mind.

“Someone needs to babysit the Baron,” Sam explained with an annoyed sigh.

Zemo shrugged with a smirk so innocent it’s sinister. He’s still wearing that ridiculous coat.

“The two Avengers can’t handle him?”

“I believe your friends find it challenging to be around me,” Zemo answered for Sam.

“You shot a man in the head yesterday!” Sam snapped. “You antagonize Bucky at every turn. Forgive us for needing a break from whatever is happening in your fucked up head.”

Zemo tilts his head as if agreeing with everything Sam had just said.

“Anyway,” Bucky interrupted. “We have a lead on Karli. You can sleep off some jet lag while we’re gone, but starting tonight it’s your turn to keep track of him.”

You settled into a small bedroom. The moment your head hit the pillow, you fell asleep. At home it’s nearly ten at night; here it’s midday.

The trio is back all too soon, heralded by a slam of a door, and you force yourself to wake up to adjust to the time change as rapidly and effectively as possible. As you open the door to the living room, Bucky is stalking toward Zemo. He grabs the teacup from Zemo’s hand and hurls it against the wall.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?” Bucky growled, staring at Zemo with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him,” Sam jumped up and grabbed Bucky’s arm. “He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.”

Bucky’s face softened slightly. Zemo stops tilting his head.

“Let me make a call,” Sam says and walks away.

“You want some cherry blossom tea?” Zemo offers Bucky with a mocking tone.

“No. You go ahead,” Bucky hissed, and after a moment of staring, he followed Sam out of the room.

You had watched Zemo for that entire exchange, noticed the slightest flinch and hint of fear when Bucky had grabbed that cup. The moment the other two men are gone and Zemo thinks he’s alone, he pours himself another cup. His hand is steady, but he draws a sharp, unsteady breath.

You move out of the room, and Zemo looks up at you from his spot on the couch. Without a word, you walk into the kitchen, taking a roll of paper towels and carefully picking up the shattered glass.

“I can do that,” Zemo says, speaking directly to you for the first time.

His voice is calm, accent thick.

“It’s alright,” you answer, then gasp sharply as a piece slices your pointer finger from tip to palm. “Fuck.”

You set the bloody piece with the pile of glass and hold a paper towel to your hand. You used the other hand to wipe tea off the wall and floor before picking up the glass piled on a paper towel and placing it in the trash, carefully tucked in other garbage.

“Let me.”

Zemo’s voice behind you makes you jump. You eye him for a moment wondering if there is some ulterior motive, some way he could hurt you or hold you hostage. Nothing comes to mind, not with Sam and Bucky so close, so you hold out your bleeding hand. He clicks his tongue at the wound.

When he takes your hand in his, his fingers are soft and warm. He moves your wound under a faucet and lets water run, rinsing the blood down the sink. He squeezes the wound a bit, and you wince as it begins to bleed more.

“We bleed to clean our wounds. It is the body’s way of protecting itself,” he says and presses a towel to your finger as he shuts off the water. “Ironic isn’t it. The very thing meant to protect us from future danger, often kills us first.”

“I’m not here to debate the ethics of superheroes with you.”

“Hold that,” he lets go of your hand and opens another cabinet. “I know how I feel about enhanced humans. There is nothing for me to debate.”

Zemo takes your hand back in his. You watch his face as he works. He uses his mouth to remove the wrapping from a butterfly bandage. The bleeding has slowed, and he uses the bandage to pull your torn skin back together. The cut isn’t terrible, certainly not the worst injury you’ve ever had, but it will scar. He adds two more strips, then places an absorbent pad over it and wraps it all in gauze.

“When we get back, I’ll change that for you.”

“I’ll hope you don’t get killed then,” you offer with a grateful smile.

He doesn’t respond but gestures to you to join on the couch. You do, keeping what you feel is a safe distance between the two of you. Zemo hands you a cup of warm tea, but as you grab it, he doesn’t let go. Your undamaged fingers brush his for a long moment and he chuckles.

“Promise not to take after your friend James? I quite like this tea set.”

Your eyebrows knit together as he smiles at his own joke and finally surrenders the cup to you. That’s the last words you two exchange, and when Bucky and Sam return ready for the next part of the mission, they find the two of you sitting in silence sharing a pot of tea.

___

When the three men returned, Sam and Bucky held an unconscious Zemo between them. You jumped off the couch, the book you had been reading discarded, and let them lay Zemo down.

“What happened?”

“John Walker,” the two men answered in the same disgusted tone.

You leaned over Zemo, finally seeing the blood and bruise on his right temple.

“This one disappeared for a few minutes, shot Karli-”

“Didn’t kill her,” Sam interrupted, sounding relieved.

Much like Sam, you sympathized with Karli’s motives if not her methods. And much like Sam, you were glad she hadn’t died.

“Then Walker knocked him out with the shield,” Bucky finished.

There was no jab at Sam this time for which you were grateful.

“Which is the only useful thing he did,” Sam added. “Zemo destroyed the rest of the serum, so right now he’s above Walker in my book.”

You looked down at Zemo, blood had dripped down his face and neck, though most of it was dried now. His eyelids twitched as he slept.

“Are you two okay?” You asked as you walked toward the bathroom.

“Fine. We ditched Walker, but we’ll need to get out of here as soon as we figure out what to do with Karli,” Sam answered, collapsing on the couch with a heavy sigh.

You dampened a washcloth in the bathroom and on your way back to the living room, grabbed the first aid kit Zemo had used on you earlier.

“What are you doing? He’ll be fine,” Bucky muttered.

He was sitting next to Sam now.

“Returning a favor,” you answered as you knelt at Zemo’s side.

You dabbed at the drying blood with the cloth, wiping it off his cheek, out of his hair. Somehow the coat came out unscathed. Sam and Bucky were talking about something behind you, but you were entirely focused on the unconscious man.

Zemo had a handsome, aristocratic face, and he walked like royalty, like he was untouchable. This was evidence he wasn’t.

You moved to the actual wound next. The cloth was soft, unreasonably so. A large hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing tightly. You inhale sharply and shift your gaze to Zemo’s hand then his eyes. When your eyes met his, he seemed to relax, releasing you and letting his hand fall at his side.

“Apologies,” he grunted, mouth twitching with pain.

“It’s alright,” you answer calmly, very aware that the other men had stopped talking and were fixated on a potential threat. “Turn your head please.”

You put a hand on his cheek and turned him to face you to get a better look at the wound that was still seeping slowly.

“The new Captain America might force me to reconsider my stance on superheroes. I would enjoy seeing Sam and James have a go at him,” Zemo said as you prod the wound.

You wiped the cut with antiseptic, and Zemo hissed a bit at that but said nothing. Then, just like he had done to you, you placed three butterfly bandages on the cut. It wasn’t deep, just long and jagged.

“You’re my new favorite,” he joked with a little grin.

You laughed and walked to the kitchen for some ice. There were no packs, so you grabbed a bag of frozen peas, wrapped them in a towel and set it gently on Zemo’s temple.

“I can’t have you dying when I need this changed tonight,” you said, holding up a finger.

When you turned around, Sam and Bucky had both stretched out on the couch. They both wore annoyed expressions that Zemo got a whole couch and they got one to share. Bucky bumped Sam’s foot with his own, much to your amusement and Sam’s annoyance. He kicked his partner back, and you decided not to interrupt their little couples spat. Instead, you move to sit on the ground.

Zemo grabbed your wrist again, this time gently. He tucked his legs up, folding them into a V, and motioned you to share his couch. And you did, sitting in the same spot you had earlier, this time near his feet still clad in shiny black leather shoes.

“Hey, you two,” Sam called. “What’s this cozy little couch situation going on here?”

“You two could have a cozy little couch situation too if you’d just talk to each other,” Zemo shot back.

He didn’t even look at Sam, just held the frozen vegetables to his face, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Zemo asked after a moment. “Can you get me an Advil? Or better yet, some sort of alcoholic beverage?”

“I’m not your servant, Zemo,” you sighed but stood and poured him a glass of some expensive alcohol from a bottle with Sokovian writing.

He sipped it, setting it on his chest between sips as he lounged on the couch with you. Bucky was watching you out the corner of his eye, and you were watching Zemo. Every few sips he would grimace, his lips pressing together and chest catching. Then he’d relax, exhale softly and shift the peas back into place. Eventually you picked up your book and began to read again.

Sam left the room to take a phone call a few hours later and came back shaking.

“Karli threatened Sarah, my nephews. I have to meet with her. Alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky jumped in, already on his feet. “Walker will be there, and you can’t handle the Super Soldiers and Captain Propaganda on your own.”

Zemo was either asleep or doing a good job pretending beside you. The pea bag had been returned to the freezer. He’d discarded his coat and was now wearing only his black pants and a deep purple shirt with shoulder holsters.

“You got him?” Sam pointed to the sleeping man.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you answered, setting the book aside and watching them prepare to leave.

Both men donned their costumes, Sam strapping his wings on, Bucky ripping the sleeve off of yet another jacket so his metal arm could move freely.

“Call me- us if you need backup,” you shouted after them, knowing full well they would do no such thing.

“If we aren’t back in two hours, take his ass back to jail,” Bucky called back.

Baron Zemo woke up the minute the door slammed shut, which made you doubt he’d been sleeping at all.

“And now it is only us,” he said in that thick Sokovian accent. “I will cook us something for dinner.”

He moved into the kitchen, boiling a pot of water while you watched. You perched yourself on the counter near him as he searched through cabinets. When he noticed you, he paused and chuckled before returning to the cooking. You watched in silence, keeping a close eye on him when he picked up a knife and began chopping tomatoes from a can.

He handed you a bowl of thin noodles with a thick red sauce. It smelled delicious.

“A traditional and simple Sokovian dish, a comfort food you might say,” he explained and joined you on the counter. “I made enough for Sam and James. Call me an optimist.”

Zemo didn’t talk much, you realized, as you enjoyed the food in silence. It was delicious, a bit like pasta. Suddenly, the back door clicked open. You glance around nervously, realizing just how wrong this felt.

“They shouldn’t be back yet,” you say quietly. “And they wouldn’t come in the back.”

“My old associates must have found me,” Zemo jumps off the table, and you notice the same nervousness as when Bucky threw the cup. He cannot know about James or Sam.”

You can hear a single person strolling toward the kitchen in heavy boots.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Zemo whispered, and before you could even process the words, he was standing between your legs and pressing his lips to yours.

His movements are slow and careful, trying not to be invasive as he moves his hands to your back, sliding one up to the back of your head. You wrap an arm around his waist and slide the other hand up the front of his purple shirt, splaying your fingers across his chest. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hand keeps you from pulling away, not that you’d want to.

“I heard you were back in Riga,” a new voice chuckled. “I had to see for myself.”

Zemo pulls back, feigning surprise, but kept an arm protectively around you.

“And as you have undoubtedly noticed, I am quite busy,” he replied. “Perhaps you could come back tomorrow? I’d prefer not to discuss our business in front of…”

Zemo nods to you. You were staring at the man who you recognized from work files. He was a former Shield agent. When Shield fell, he used the chaos for his own advantage, working for neither Shield nor Hydra and killing anyone who stood in his way. You suspected, but couldn’t be sure, that some of your best friends had been killed by him. Fortunately, you had enough self-control not to shoot him. His mere presence made you tense and uncomfortable.

“Of course, Baron,” he grinned and look at you in a way that made you shift closer to Zemo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, noon. The usual place.”

He gave the two of you one last look and left with a wink to Zemo. Even when the other man had gone, Zemo’s hands were still holding you against him.

“We will have to be gone before noon tomorrow,” he said looking down at you.

For some reason, you were both still wrapped around each other.

“You know who he is?” Zemo said, a statement masquerading as a question. “I am sorry.”

Your face was only inches from him, and you could smell his cologne. Zemo used the hand on your head to pull you against his shoulder. You set your head there, face turned into his neck, and inhaled deeply. And there he sat and you stood, hugging tightly for no real reason except that no one else was there.

Zemo pressed a soft kiss to your head, and rather than protest you let his lips linger. Finally, his head fell on your shoulder. After a moment, he slid you off the counter, took your hand, and led you back to the couch. Without asking, the two of you settled together on the couch, so close your sides pressed against each other. He pulled a gun out of his shoulder holster, and you froze until he set it down on the table, smirking a little.

“I don’t make a habit of shooting people I’ve just kissed,” he chuckled and raised an arm for you to lean against him.

You raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at the forwardness. You shouldn’t be, after all, he had just kissed you and held you on the counter of his kitchen. Helmut Zemo made no sense to you, but in the end, you curled against him. He shifted to lay on his back, head propped on the pillows he was laying on earlier while you tucked yourself beside him, head on his chest.

Zemo wrapped an arm around you. You put a hand on his chest, fingering the purple shirt. He was warm and soft, and you had to remind yourself that you could not fall asleep while you are supposed to be watching him.

“Why are we doing this?” You whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” Zemo turns his head toward you.

“I haven’t had someone to do this with in a long time,” you answer slowly, cautiously, knowing full well this was a man who could turn on you on an instant or hold onto information until the moment it was advantageous to him.

“Neither have I,” He replied. “German prisons don’t allow much physical contact. Besides, I hope that with enough time perhaps I may kiss you again.”

You tilted your head up to see a grin tugging at the side of his lips, lips that had been on yours a few minutes ago.

“Maybe with enough time,” you answer and brush a lose strand of hair out of his eyes, letting your hand trail over the bruise on his face.

He caged your hand in his, bringing your joined hands back to his chest and holding them there. You felt the rise and fall of his breaths and it soothed you. When they grew deep and steady and the tension seemed to fall from his body, you realized he was truly asleep, not faking like earlier. Soon and against your better judgment, you were dozing off in his arms tossing a leg over his so your limbs tangled together.

Your last thought before you fell asleep was how warm and comfortable you felt with Helmut Zemo, and how completely ludicrous such a thought was.

It wasn’t long before the door opening woke you, still secure in Zemo’s arms. You tried to move, sit up so Sam and Bucky wouldn’t see this little arrangement. You failed. Bucky came in first, stopping in his tracks as he saw the scene on the couch.

“What are you doing? Keep walk- what?” Sam ran right into Bucky’s back then froze.

Their eyes were wide as they stared. Zemo shifted awake beneath you, and you could imagine the smirk on his face. Bucky’s metal fist clenched, and Sam, ever the peacemaker grabbed his arm and opted for a more amicable approach.

“One of you better start talking.”

#tfatws spoilers #tfatws #baron helmut zemo #helmut zemo #zemo fic #zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #spoilers #soft zemo #self insert fic #zemo x you #baron zemo x you #helmut zemo x you #zemo x reader fic #daniel brühl

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regallibellbright · 2 years ago

Text

Well, I lost a massive post I was trying to write, but I apologize in advance because I then proceeded to write an even MORE massive post, because unfortunately for my sense of free time I'm one of those turbo nerds that knows things about the mechanical progression of Pokemon games by generation and will read Bulbapedia for fun, is incapable of shutting up once my brain started thinking down this path, needs a more specific definition here.

So when you say peaked: Do you mean mechanically? Aesthetically, including the new Pokemon designs? Performance-wise? Overall gameplay experience beyond the core mechanics? And what do we consider ESSENTIAL mechanics for Pokemon these days, like, should we focus just on the battling taking its modern shape mechanically, do we count the last new type so far and the introduction of single-generation battle gimmicks, do we count major gameplay elements OUTSIDE battle? Do they only become important if they influence battle? And where do we consider things like regional variants, are those something like a mechanic or just new Pokemon, same as every generation? (Because frankly, I think you can make the genuine case that they are by design standards pretty close to new Pokemon - they need new designs, new moves, and present new challenges to be considered in what they introduce to respective egg groups.)

Because like, I think the generation that best EXECUTES itself, overall, with the mechanics it has and introduces, with the aesthetics, with the overall experience, is probably Gen 3. RSE are stellar, Fire Red and Leaf Green are fantastic remakes that take the baseline of Gen 1 and then clean up a lot of the glitches from RGBY being SO experimental and trying to do SO much on the Gameboy hardware, the designs of the Pokemon are great, the story first starts getting really involved, the graphics absolutely blew my 10-year-old mind...

And I couldn't say Pokemon peaked before Generation 4 at minimum, because that's when we introduce the Physical-Special Split. That is the absolute earliest we can say the franchise's battle system takes its modern form. Gen 3 is still thoroughly Pokemon in its EARLY phase to me, so how the hell can I say it peaked there mechanically, even setting aside all the Pokemon that I've loved since then? But then would I say 4? No. Diamond and Pearl had MASSIVE performance issues (saving a lot of data...), which lessened through the DS era but I would still say were struggles even into Gen 5. All those gates were designed to offset the loading. They also had some ridiculous balance issues Platinum had to fix, since the Sinnoh dex didn't just originally only include two fire-type lines, it didn't even include all of the Pokemon that were introduced in Sinnoh for some reason.

Okay but Gen 5? Listen, I respect Gen 5's idea of only introducing returning Pokemon in the post-game. I respect its soft-reboot style. I think it and HGSS are the aesthetic peak of the series. But also, while some of the Pokemon introduced in Gen 5 are favorites, some of them were VERY clearly designed to take the place of some series standby or other. Woobat distinguishes itself from Zubat from having very different designs, evolution stages/mechanics, and typing. But Roggenrola is literally just here to be Geodude, but Unova. I find many of Gen 5's fighting types fall DEEP into the Uncanny Valley. And let's all remind ourselves that Unova is designed so that, in Black and White, you go literally clockwise around the map and only see half of it - a full HALF of the map - in the postgame. And despite that there's really not a ton to do in the postgame of Black and White compared to some. Its story is one of the franchise peaks, certainly in the main games. They've been trying to recreate the appeal of Cheren, Bianca, and N ever since, and they were absolutely right to do so, the development there is amazing. They are visually stunning. They're the start of the franchise shifting into a new phase, with a region that's not based on Japan and starting to hire Pokemon designers who aren't Japanese. They also make some decisions that I find deeply baffling to this day, and are the point at which we stopped getting third versions that would wrap the increasingly-divergent stories into something more definitive, which also incidentally allowed people who were waiting because they could only get one version and there was always at least ONE exclusive from each game that you fell in love with and you could hope that the third version would use both the ones you want.

Also, I'm saying the modern form battle system, completely ignoring all non-battle mechanics, only really comes to be in Gen 4, AND that's still leaving out fairy types, which as of this year have been in the franchise for a decade and RADICALLY reshaped things. Do you all remember when Jigglypuff and Togepi used to be Normal types? Togetic and Togekiss were Normal/Flying! Baffling. I still think of Fairy as the "new" type and I still have to remind myself about Wigglytuff being weak to Fighting types in old games. You know what else Gen 6 adds, which I can't imagine the franchise without anymore? Dedicated mechanics to interact with your Pokemon casually, outside battle or the battle alternatives like contests and musicals. Yeah, HG/SS had the following mechanic, but being able to look at and pet your Pokemon, or wash them or play fetch starts with the 3DS era. Also trainer customization, which doesn't relate to most of the core gameplay but which is still pretty essential for a franchise where the Player Character is supposed to be a player INSERT. I remember people being really disappointed when ORAS didn't allow even basic skintone variation for its player characters and I guarantee you that's why Let's Go and BDSP decided some basic customization were essential. Because it is. It sucks that it took a franchise that started in 1996 and was always making a player character we were supposed to project ourself onto seventeen years to let gamers with darker skintones represent themselves in game. Hell, it took that long to include blonde hair. Player characters couldn't wear glasses until 2016.

On the other hand, Gen 6 is also the shift from the sprite-like, 2.5D-style games on the DS to the 3D style of the 3DS, and I think there's been one hell of a learning curve for the designers with that aesthetically even as I think it ended up being essential to allow that character customization and the one-on-one interactions with Pokemon. (At the very least, we certainly would've had a harder time doing anything more than pallet swaps with the DS era sprites, and I DO think there's a huge difference between being able to have my Mew follow my sprite and interact with it from a distance and have Mew look at me the player in Pokemon Amie or even the camps in Sword/Shield and Scarlet/Violet.) Especially outside towns, but comparing the human character models and their expressiveness in XY to even Sun and Moon, much less the Switch games, it was rough. The shift from 3DS's still more top-down-esque 3D to Sword and Shield's has been another huge change, and while I think they've gotten the hang of it (and acknowledge that between 'length of development cycles', 'burnout as a result of that,' and simple priorities in that they will always need CHARACTER designers and artists way more than they need environment ones, the environments are a lot weaker than human or Pokemon design,) it's still been rough going. The performance issues are also notable.

But! That's not unique to XY or Sword/Shield by any means. Diamond and Pearl run BADLY, even compared to Platinum two years later. There's kind of been an aesthetic and performance floundering since we went from sprites to 3D, and each progressively "more 3D" style of gameplay. I think they were still catching their footing making the jump from the 3DS era to Switch.

I think, frankly, that Pokemon has not yet reached its peak. We're seeing stronger character designs and stronger storylines again. The open world gameplay introduced in Scar/Vio is huge and ultimately pretty fun. Legends Arceus, which IS IN FACT a mainline title per people who would know in that it holds the same Japanese title designation as any other mainline title, was I think the best Pokemon game I ever played. And I have played a game from every generation of Pokemon on its original hardware (Yellow was after Crystal, so I say I started in Gen 2, but I played that one before Gen 3 came out.) Legends Arceus was THAT GOOD at reimagining Pokemon as a world and game to play.

(Let's be real: Brilliant Diamond/Shining Pearl were intended to be the 'and also' ones released probably in mid-summer 2021 while Legends Arceus would have been the holiday release of that year taking the mainline title slot, Gen 9 in the wings, with them looking at its reception as potential for a dedicated sub-line the way they looked at Let's Go as a potential dedicated sub-line. Let's Go got middling reception, Legends got rave reviews and I think there IS a very real chance of at least a subline if not full integration of more of those catching mechanics going forward, but also COVID hit and so we got two mainline Pokemon games in 2022 and the release in 2021 were the titles they'd outsourced just for people who wanted Sinnoh REMAKES specifically, not the radical reimagining you'd need to put something like Mount Coronet in the new camera system.)

I think we'd need the many gears of the Pokemon Machine to all relax enough that Gamefreak could get more time to, you know, rest and make games that aren't Pokemon for a year or two before returning to make a new Pokemon on a slightly more generous timescale, and I realistically doubt that will happen under capitalism, to get a Pokemon game that is truly well-executed on all fronts. But I also think that Pokemon as a franchise is so CLEARLY continuing to grow and evolve, has ABSOLUTELY been doing this since Gen 5 and 6, and even as it's hitting growing pains here because of the grueling development cycles and developers suddenly having to shift their design philosophies SO dramatically? I think Legends and Scarlet/Violet were promises of what's to come, and while that includes some DEFINITE issues, I think the gameplay experience of what's going to be developed looking at the reception of the 2022 games is going to blow our minds.

PART 2 OF POLL

please see part 1 of the poll if you haven't voted on that

#long post #pokemon #pokemon discourse #I'm just gonna tag that to be on the safe side #but yes I'm sorry OP I am SURE you didn't want to read this brick of an essay about Pokemon as I ask how we choose the best execution #in the context of a series where some of its core mechanics have only been added at the same time as aspects #that caused MASSIVE performance issues and aesthetic shifts that clearly weren't where the devs are most comfortable #and continue to do so #sadly I saw this question and immediately knew I was going to have to either have this rant on the internet or to someone who has homework #because I am incapable of shutting up about Pokemon and will read Bulbapedia articles about outdated mechanics for fun #and as such between that and my remembering the Pokemon Discourse every generation since I started haunting those corners of the internet #back when we still called Sinnoh 'Shinou' because we didn't know how it'd be localized after Gen 4's release in Japan but not the US #I have. Opinions.#I think if you FORCED me to choose one. And I mean FORCED. I'd probably say Gen 6 on the whole. BUT regional variants are a gift.#and frankly really I still think the current peak is Legends it IS IN FACT a mainline title; I can justify this

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