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miss-scarletletter · 2 years ago

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What the Heart Yearns to Know and Remember

Pairing: Comte x OC (Anastasia) Word Count: 9.3k Rated: G Hello everyone! It's been a while since I posted something. As a New Year celebration, I am sharing this fanfic I wrote around December but hesitated on posting it. It's been a long time since I wrote a fanfic (I think it was back in 2019), so writing this fanfic feels weird, and I'm kinda scared of how this turned out. I also published this in AO3 under the username: ComtessesWritingDesk. This fanfic is inspired by the idea of Comte dancing to the song "Once Upon A December", and I also put in some stuff here that is loosely based on a historical event. Also, recently watched "Russian Ark"--and it convinced me to write this fanfic. I hope you guys enjoy this, and feedback would be amazing :)

Ever since she was officially named as his fiancée, many of their friends and acquaintances have presumed that she would know every secret and untold exploit of the Count of Saint-Germain. Indeed, the future Comtesse was aware of who and what her lover was; the intimacy they shared, even before their engagement was announced, gave her enough of the solid foundation of his character, and she was proud to be the key to that knowledge—so proud that she preferred to keep those secrets to herself. Or at least, that was the assumption made by the public.

The truth was that Anastasia did not want to jeopardize le Comte’s identity, which could also undermine hers to some extent, especially if you thought of how she acquired her lover’s background and history. It would be a confusing tale, and even frightening if the concept of immortality, time travel, or vampirism were seen as a source of unnatural horror. Nevertheless, another truth was—there were so many things that Anastasia had not yet known about him.

Surely, she already recognized his character—from his preferences in food, his skill in playing the violin, the way he expressed his fondness for the residents and the subtle ways he knew them in-person, his love for those ridiculous clip-on ties, the brand of his oxford shoes, the sounds of his footsteps, the way he saw her as his greatest pride, and of course: his moments of vulnerability such as the time she saw him in total helplessness that he opted to drown himself in alcohol. The list could go on, but these were the small details she observed as both a participant and bystander in his life. And with these aspects, she knew that Comte was more than just a noble philanthropist with a pretty face. No, there was more to him beyond those golden hues.

She knew him in his present, but his past—a time when she didn’t exist yet—was left blank. She did, at one time, explore a small part of it with the guidance of the red-eyed florist. It was only a chunk in comparison to his long life, but it created a significant impression on her—she understood the depth of his misery, the reason for his hesitations, and the Romantic child in him that yearned to be free from the practicality and logic he was groomed to have in him. She never felt any hatred from that revelation, but rather—pity and frustration. In the end, she had come to the resolve that she loved him unconditionally even with those flaws. And that was why she would eagerly yet quietly ponder about his past.

There was no doubt that you could see that love in those smiling silver eyes of hers. On that one night, for instance, while she was on the other side of the ballroom with Claudine, Anastasia was watching over him as he listened to the old viscount and viscountess from Moscow with such attentiveness. He had a very distinct profile with some sharp features, and that swoop of golden hair that fell over his left eye made him more charming. His smile was both familiar and rare, ambiguous yet visible. And his voice—she knew oh-so-well how much power it could evoke, but it also had a very reassuring warmth in it. He was just so beautiful under the glitters of the chandelier, yet he had no idea how much his darling loved him.

Comte suddenly turned in her direction, and when their eyes met—he smiled and gave her a wink. You won’t miss the way the future Comtesse turned hot and red as she tried to distract herself by talking to Claudine.

“Don’t you think you tease her too much, my dear Count?” asked Viscountess Petrova, who was a cousin of the ball’s host on that night. She expressed no interest in coming to the “minute” celebration until she heard reports of the Count of Saint-Germain’s acceptance of the invitation alongside his future bride. “Look at how the poor thing tries to hide from you. She’s as red as a beetroot!”

“You may say that I am very cruel, madam,” Comte smiled. “But I confess, that expression of hers is a sight worthier than the Crown Jewels.” He was, of course, not just referring to her being flustered but also the way he caught that glimpse of starlight in her eyes when she looked at him. Comte recognized that sort of face—that was the very same look he gave when Anastasia first debuted in Parisian high society. And it still was the same look he gave whenever he caught sight of her. He adored her—so much so that he beheld her as if she were the heaven-sent star that was promised to him to reignite the fire in his life. On that night, he had seen that gaze, again—only this time, it was the star who looked back at him. And what man or beast would not feel the immense joy of being loved by a woman like her?

“She is very peculiar,” Viscount Petrov commented after finishing a glass of champagne and waved to the nearest server to give him another. “Last time I remember—when you introduced her, you said she was merely a ‘friend’ and a ‘guest to your house.’ Who is she really, Count?”

With an amused grin, Comte replied, “Well, sir, if you so want to know where she comes from, you can ask her yourself. But rumor has it that she transcended time and space. I mean what could explain the ethereal glow she has in her?”

“Ah, there you go again with your riddles, man!” the viscount scoffed half-humorously. “If that’s the case, I can see why the two of you ended up together (though, it did take a while)—you want to marry someone who is about as enigmatic as you, Count. But still,” the viscount’s tone made it sound like he was desperate for his initial question to be answered, “that doesn’t negate my curiosity about her origins. And I thought you, being her future husband, would know.”

“Dear, please!” his wife, the viscountess blurted. “I think it is rude for you to insist, it sounds like you want to interrogate the girl.”

“Now, now, don’t jump to conclusions. I have no plans to force an answer out of her. It is not like she came from a commoner background and married the man for money. Well, unless she other reasons—”

“What do you mean by ‘other reasons,’ my lord? And what if she were born a commoner?” Comte interrupted, his brows were slightly furrowed, and there was a visible annoyance behind his golden eyes had these audiences been more observant.

“Oh no, no! I would never think that she came from the poorhouse, that would be absurd for someone in that spawn to marry you—” the viscount babbled rapidly when he noticed the Count’s piercing gaze on him.

“Let me be blunt, Viscount Petrov—perhaps you are forgetting that you are speaking about my bride. She will become my wife. And regardless of whether she was raised in the squatters, she will still have the title of the Comtesse. I did not want to marry her out of pity, monsieur. If you are in any way insulted by her or the circumstance of her birth, then I should walk away from your company.”

“Count, as I was implying, I highly respect Lady Anastasia,” the viscount murmured, slightly shaken. “I don’t want to assume that she is a horrible woman. But I was saying—she is so secretive whenever I ask about her family. You know how we are all open to our lineage—I only asked for names, no need for any details. Unless of course, her reason being that she was born out of misfortune. As such, we never want to talk about the Fedorov family and how they were massacred.”

“Oh, God… is that necessary—” the viscountess looked at her husband in disgust.

“Well, how else do you expect me to explain myself?” the viscount exclaimed, causing some of the nearby bystanders to turn in their direction. “Anyway, surely, you’ve heard of their unfortunate demise, right, Count? I’ve heard your grandfather used to have some connections with the family.”

“Yes, I have.”

“If so, then, you must understand how it is not the most appropriate subject to address in our social circle, let alone to a surviving victim. It was called a massacre for a reason. And if your fiancée, who has been a stranger to us, happens to be someone who has that experience within her family, then we beg your pardon.”

Comte did not say anything.

“Those poor souls—the children, they were robbed of their futures,” the viscountess sighed. “It was unfortunate that they were born from that accursed brood—”

“Oh, come now, don’t make it sound like they are bad people—” the viscount scolded.

“But they are!” the viscountess yelled, causing more eyes to turn to them. “That man was so full of himself, letting his woman spread her legs to a priest—!”

“Enough! You have no right to slander the dead, especially those who offered their hospitality to us,” the viscount hissed. “Besides, that blue diamond around your neck—didn’t you steal that from the woman you were just accusing as a whore?”

“How dare you!” the viscountess grabbed her necklace, nearly scratching her throat. “This is a gift! How dare you accuse your own wife of being a thief! I’ll have you know that unlike that wench, I have a dignity to preserve.”

“You believe what you believe, no one is forcing you otherwise,” the viscount said exasperatedly, drinking the last drop of his champagne.

“Why do you even try to defend that woman? What is she to you?” The viscountess’s face then twisted into that of a mad woman. “Ah, I see—her mouth must’ve been delicious around your—”

“Viscountess, please refrain yourself!” The future Comtesse, who had watched her fiancé from the sideline for the past fifteen minutes or so, just came to their circle and stopped the older woman’s inappropriate commentary. “And I’m not only referring to you, madam—but also you, monsieur. I don’t mean to disrespect any of you, however, you have to consider your place as guests—especially in your cousin’s house, viscountess. Don’t you see how you nearly cause a commotion with whatever heated subject you have been talking about? Are you not embarrassed? I just excused myself from Lady Claudine because I was turned off by all the shouting from you.”

Anastasia’s voice—as euphonious as it naturally sounds—was firm with a hint of impudence that could earn her a scolding from the etiquette police. But at that point, she was too wrapped up to care if she lost her footing, especially when she noticed that Comte didn’t say another word for the last five minutes. Typically, he would function as the mediator in that feud, just like his role in the mansion thanks to his saintly patience. Except for that time, she knew she had to take on that part when he just stood there—pale and paralyzed.

As she spoke, Comte placed his hand on her waist—an act she used to be so flustered about until it became too familiar. It was like his second nature to keep himself in contact with her and it could mean a thousand things. Either way, she responded by squeezing that same hand and running her thumb over his knuckles. The two of them were standing side by side while staring intently at their older counterparts.

There was, indeed, a handful of people who had been staring at them—gentlemen standing there pretending not to look, and ladies whispering to each other behind their fans. Viscountess Petrova, in an attempt to block off the judging eyes, took the nearest drink she saw and gulped it down. Finally, it was Viscount Petrov who spoke first—

“Forgive our rudeness, Lady Anastasia—and to you, too, Count. We didn’t mean to stray our talk to this point.”

“It’s quite alright, monsieur,” Comte replied uninterested.

Anastasia sighed, “Honestly, what was it that you folks were talking about? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to dwell on it too much, I just want a simple answer.”

“We rather not say any more of it, my lady. It was a sensitive topic.”

“Ah, understandable.”

“But on another note, we were talking about you, Lady Anastasia,” the viscountess added.

“Me?”

“Yes. Well, you see, Ma Chérie, the viscount and viscountess were very curious about you. They keep asking me where you came from, so I told them that you came from a far-off land and time-traveled to Paris in the 19th century,” Comte answered with a wink.

Sensing that his spirits were slightly lifted, Anastasia returned the same teasing gesture and wrinkled her nose, “Oh, you naughty boy! Why would you tell them that? And here I am entrusting my secret to you. A thousand punishments for your betrayal, Comte!”

For the next few minutes, the two couples were laughing and chatting away while the rest of the guests moved on to the next thing that entertained them. It was as if they’d forgotten about the previous conversation that caused a mild stir in the reception, but not for the Count and his bride. Anastasia recognized that far-off look on his face—it was one of many faces she could never unsee: one when he would reminisce the bygone days—the pain would peak through his eyes, and he would utilize his gentlest smile to mask his self-deprecation while internally condemning himself. Comte could fool the world that he was just a hedonist, but she knew better. She wanted to help, but how could she when there was so much that she didn’t know yet?

Suddenly, the musicians started to play the waltz from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. As Comte and Anastasia made eye contact, they immediately participated.

“Comte—Abel, are you ok?” she whispered, not sugar-coating the worry in her voice.

Comte considered his response; he knew that she was just trying to look out for him, but he didn’t want to make a serious issue out of something ‘trivial.’ Besides, was it right to tell her his troubles when he could manage them on his own? “Yes, Ma Chérie. It’s nothing important.”

“Hm… is it really nothing important when I saw how deathly pale you looked earlier? Not only that, but your hand is so cold.”

“... honestly, I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” he muttered with a resigned smile. “But seriously, you don’t have to worry about me. You know I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t doubt your fortitude, sweetheart. But you looked as if you’ve seen a ghost, and you can’t tell me that I shouldn’t be worried about you.”

“I… I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t and you won’t. It’s only natural for me to feel this way, Abel. Besides, didn’t I tell you that whatever you are going through, whatever doubts and hesitations you have, you can tell me about it?”

Comte recalled the scene when Anastasia decided to stay with him, even though the cost of it would be an eternity of unseen futures. “Fortitude” … if anything, she was the stronger one. Her determination remained in her spirit, and there she was in front of him—breathing, dancing… living the best of her human life with him. He let her continue speaking—

“I won’t force anything out of you, Mon Cher. But I just want you to know that in your sadness, I won’t let you cry all alone.”

And just like that, he suddenly felt a throbbing pain in his chest.

As the music reached into that crescendo, while the rest focused on the exuberance of the dance, filling the room with amused laughter as they picked up the pace of the music—Comte took that as an opportunity to lean down on his lover and kissed the corner of her small lips, never mind if they were uncoordinated or if anyone assumed they were making a scandal. When he pulled away, he looked down at her with the most poignant and reassuring smile on his face.

“Thank you, Anastasia…”

They came home to their mansion an hour after midnight. They were too tired to talk any further, so they decided to retire. In his room, Comte tried to convince himself to pass out as he took off each piece of clothing. Unfortunately, his mind was somewhere else, and for the next hour, he stayed still on his bed, gazing up at the empty ceiling like it was a blank canvas. The sand in his hourglass continued to fall, piling at the bottom until it created an eroding hill. It was getting late, but his mind’s eye began to rile with images of dancing figures, golden lights, and white horses in the snow. From the dark, there was a gunshot, then another, and another, and another, and then: death—all of these were memories he once thought to have lost in time. Time—his cruel mistress who did not pause for him even in his moments of wretchedness, decided to remind him of the things that cannot be undone nor reattain.

Comte wished he could forget all of it, attempting to suppress it by locking these memories away in the abandoned attic of his mind—but his heart said otherwise. After all, from the same darkness that harbored the sound of guns—there also came the rustic lullaby of the music box. He wanted to remember it, but he would hurt himself if doing so. His heart began to swell upon hearing the echoes of her voice in his head until he couldn’t bear it. In response, he got up and took out his violin.

At around three in the morning, a white figure woke up from a hazy dream, emerging from one of the rooms into the halls with silent footfalls. Passing through the closed doors, everyone in that house was in deep slumber, except one. Having been in his chambers more than the number of times she could count, Anastasia recognized the ember light of Comte’s lampshade seeping through the crack and splayed on the hallway’s Persian carpet.

“I guess you can’t sleep either, Mon Cher,” she muttered under her breath.

Placing the candelabra on the nearby table, she opened his door slightly. Inside—Comte stood there with his back turned to her, his tall silhouette moved in such motion, and she saw the violin resting between his cheek and shoulder. He was playing a piece that sounded like a waltz, yet it was so soothing that she felt her body rocking like a cradle. There was something sweet and melancholic about it, and the recurring melody seemed to sound like a memory that yearned to be retold over and over, again. It was her first time hearing it, but it managed to bring her some sense of nostalgia for a past she never lived—a past that belonged to someone else. She held onto the doorknob and moved to and fro along with the music like the waves of the vast sea.

As the silence fell at the end of the last note, Comte relaxed his posture before turning to the door. “You know you don’t need to hide from me, Ma Chérie.”

Anastasia entered his room with a bashful smile on her face. “That’s awfully unfair of you to pretend not to notice me this entire time, Abel.”

“Ha-ha, well I expected you to enter anyway.”

“In the middle of an amazing performance? I don’t think so.”

She watched him unscrewing the knob of his bow and putting away his violin.

Instead of waiting for him to come to her—by some unseen force, she went up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, which was a sudden move for the Count but no less welcoming. She didn’t need any reason for doing so besides the fact that she just wanted to do it. Anastasia then started to rock them lightly in the same beat as the song from his violin. For a while, they were just two figures standing in the ember glow of the room, surrounded by the stillness of the moonless night.

“Ma Chérie, why are you not asleep yet?”

“I was. But I just woke up for no reason. What about you, darling? Why are you still awake?” She moved her hand higher to his chest as if she were trying to reach out to the depth of his heart.

Comte squeezed her hand and answered, “I was thinking.”

“Is it something that troubles you?”

“…yes, for a while.”

“Does it have to do with what the viscount and viscountess were talking about?”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Comte nodded his head.

Anastasia moved in front of him and gently held his face. She knew how much of a hard shell his lover was to crack; she would not expect the man to be so forward when he had his own hesitancies. Still, he couldn’t live like this. “Abel, do you want to talk about it?”

He gazed at her silver eyes, which were full of sincerity and compassion. It would be selfish of him to take advantage of such kindness, but then— “I don’t know where to start, Anastasia.”

“You can start however you like.”

Comte gestured her to take a seat. Sitting across her, he told her how the viscount and viscountess were actually inquiring where she came from, how Comte tried to hide her identity behind his teasing, and how the viscount nearly instigated him due to his assumptions.

“They thought my family was poor?”

“He considered that it would be ‘absurd’ for you to marry me if you came from a poor house.”

Anastasia looked down at her hands, hiding the hint of disappointment in her eyes. “Well, I mean… there is some kernel of truth in there. You know my real parents were never rich to begin with.”

“Yes, but with that tone of voice and how he thought it was ‘absurd,’ I don’t see the point of any excuse for him,” Comte hissed, gritting his teeth. “Either way, it was slanderous and even if I accepted his apology, I could not forgive him.”

She sat there, grateful that her lover defended her, but also upset by the fact that there were some people in both worlds (of humans and vampires) who would not easily acknowledge her place in their societies. It was the harsh truth that she must face, where her entire being was seen as unnatural in one world, and she would be misjudged in another. If she had been smarter, she should’ve gone back to her home in the future where everyone was more forgiving. But when she looked at the man in front of her—whether she allowed the wool to hang over her eyes to blind herself from that reality, or that she indeed had the guts to face the unknown—she still held on to that hope that they would see past their differences.

“… is that also why the viscountess nearly called me a ‘whore’?”

“A ‘whore’? No! If any of them did, we would’ve left the party sooner without an explanation. No, Mon Ange, it wasn’t you she was calling a whore—it was someone else.”

She drew in a breath. “Did you know that person?”

Comte nodded, “Yes…” he explained the complexity of their discussion, starting with how the viscount made another assumption of Anastasia’s background, which led to the reminder of the ill-fated family. Out of curiosity, she asked him about the Fedorovs. Comte answered—

“Nicholas Fedorov came from a line of dukes who were cousins to the royal family at that time. When it was his turn to rule the dukedom, he inherited all the estates and properties of his forefathers, including the men and women who toiled for them day and night with almost no wages. Unfortunately, he also inherited their vanity and ignorance, caring more about his appearance in the aristocratic circle than facing the destitute reality outside his gates. He was one to squander his wealth over unnecessary luxuries and flaunt them to his friends—in fact, he used to have a summer home somewhere here in France. Besides that, he was also a philanderer—so he was not the best husband nor the best father to his wife and children.”

“What were the rest of the family like?”

Comte paused. He only stared at her as he felt the tears gathering in his eyes, before finding the strength to speak again.

“They were wonderful. The children, who were not even in their prime when they died, were raised in a sheltered household. But it was the duchess, their mother—Maria, that taught them humility. She understood the situation in her husband’s dukedom and tried to advocate for them. However, her sickness restricted her from her duties, and she was seen frequently by a priest in hopes that she could be healed through his prayers. But it only backfired when they spread rumors of their nonexistent affair, thus tarnishing her image until it reached the common folk.”

“…Did her husband do anything to stop it?” Anastasia questioned.

He looked down sadly. “If only that’s the case. He allowed it by saying that he also participated in his own debauchery.”

“How despicable!” she hissed. “Also, I don’t understand why she was seen as a bad woman even to the public despite the fact that she was only trying to help.”

“Darling, understand that appearances were and are everything inside and outside the noble gates. Maria was unfortunate to be married to an oppressor despite her good heart. And the false report about her affair with the priest was depicted in erotic sketches for everyone to ‘understand’ that the advocator was nothing more than a harlot.”

Anastasia sighed, “Still… it is so unfair…”

“Yes, Maria did not deserve to be treated like that,” Comte shut his eyes, recalling the days he caught her hiding her face in shame and grief. “She never wanted that marriage to begin with, and she begged for her father to send her to a convent. But when she had children of her own, she only wanted nothing more than a day in the countryside—just her and her daughters—away from the sneers of the court.”

“Comte…? You seem to know so much about her. I mean, I know you said you have some connections with her, but the things you just said, well… I don’t want to assume too much.”

“You are right to say so, Ma Chérie,” When he returned his gaze to her, she could see the tears glazing his eyes against the orange light. A sad smile then transfigured his face. “Maria was my godmother.”

“Oh, Comte…” she looked at him in shock, and even more so—she felt the heaviness of guilt weighing in her heart as if she just opened Pandora’s box. “I’m so sorry, Comte. I’m so sorry…”

Comte shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize, Mon Ange. It already happened and there is nothing we can do about it. But yes, she confided in us to express her troubles since my parents were not too quick to judge and have been understanding of her situation. On the other hand, I was the boy she was constantly watching over; she was like my second mother, and I—the son she never had. She was the one who molded my sense of humor, and she would allow me to skip my lessons so I could play with her children. By night, she would bring her music box and play it to me while she sang a lullaby until I fall asleep… to this day, I still remember the melody of that song, and her voice—distant as they are, still haunts in my head.”

Anastasia recalled the piece he was playing on the violin. She knew immediately by his implication that it was the same tune coming from the duchess’s music box—which was maybe, at this point, abandoned somewhere in time. In other words, Comte couldn’t reattain the physical remembrance of his second mother, so he recreated the song from memory. It was perhaps a painful process for him (his eyes showed too much), but at the same time—it must’ve been cathartic.

“You must’ve loved her so much, for all that she had done for you…”

“I do… I miss her… I understand that the people had their cause, and it could have been prevented if those in charge actually listened. But I wish—I wish—she didn’t die that way…” Comte’s voice trembled. Then, the awful memory of the gunshots flashed in his mind.

“I was there when they died.”

Comte was only a young boy (at least, in the eyes of humans) when he spent his last winter ball with the Fedorovs in their vacation home in France. The celebration went well for most of the evening; everyone was in the midst of ecstasy under the influence of champagne and filled their stomachs with the best veal. It was not until Nicholas Fedorov raised his glass for a toast that someone shot him in the heart. Apparently, an assassin—a commoner who suffered under Nicholas Fedorov’s authority—was sent to kill the family and any of their relatives. He was accompanied by other masked men who helped him obliterate the place into ruins, seizing whatever they could find, and killing those who tried to fight back. There were some who died, and many were injured in the process, but it didn’t matter for the rest as long as they made out alive.

In the midst of this hysteria, Comte lost sight of his mother and father. He couldn’t remember how he lost them when they were just in front of him a moment ago. He couldn’t remember how the duchess managed to find him in the tempestuous current of people running in fear, trampling each other for the exit as their last route to survive.

He remembered vaguely how the duchess herded him and her daughters, how a man stood in their way, and how she tried to shield them from his bullet. But Comte clearly remembered the blast of the gun, the blood that spurted out of her chest, and the way she fell like an angel crashing her head on the cobbled street. It all happened so fast like a storm passing in the dark. The woman whom he used to call “Mama” lay there, staring at the empty space with dark eyes, her mouth slightly opened as if to tell them to run.

He remembered himself running with the other children into the woods, how some of the men were only a few feet away from them, how their legs gave away to the numbness of the cold night, how he tried to protect them just like their mother did, and then—another gunshot.

He couldn’t remember how his father managed to grab him and brought him to the safety of his own mother’s arms as they rode away. He only remembered Maria’s death, the sight of her children being shot twice in the head, and the guilt that still ran in his veins.

A year earlier, Comte was taught about the difference between humans and vampires—between the transient and the eternal, between the dying and the deathless. On that winter night, he was reminded of that cruel reality, and it was one of his first lessons in regard to the briefness of human life.

“For the next ten years, we steered clear from that side of France. I didn’t have the chance to see their funeral, or else we would have been caught. When we came back, the mansion was rundown, and the family was all buried in an unmarked grave… ever since, I had forgotten where that mansion stood.”

Throughout the entire time, he told the story to her in this trance-like state, focusing only on the details of his hazy memory, that he didn’t realize how cold he became. Furthermore, he didn’t realize that his lover was already at his side and pulled his head to her breast. It was not until he heard her heartbeat that he finally felt her warmth, and he allowed himself to be soothed by her whispers of apologies.

“No, Ma Chérie. Forgive me. I knew it was an upsetting story but here I am—”

“No, Comte. Please, please, don’t say anything. You have enough…” she embraced him tighter, burying her face in his golden hair. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry you have to go through all of this… for bringing this up… for everything…”

Comte blinked once, realizing there were still more tears left in his eyes. The guilt still ran in his veins. He murmured, “I’m sorry…”

III

Time passed, it was the morning after Christmas and everyone in the mansion was still asleep until high noon—or at least until the alcohol left their systems. Like a household tradition, they had a celebration the night before, which meant the Count spending his money on supplies and ingredients needed for the banquet. And per request by the residents—the best wine and champagne were served during the feast, and, at some point, during a drinking game. It was a riotous occasion, but it was something that Comte welcomed in his house. That celebration served its purpose in making it into one of his core memories—he would remember those wild hours of mirth and pleasure-seeking just for the way his family was living the highest point of bliss. He wanted it for them, and so he contributed and participated from the sidelines, looking over them as he usually would. Until a certain Italian challenged him on who could empty the most bottles before passing out on the dinner table.

When he woke up, he started cursing Leonardo under his breath for peer-pressuring him, which didn’t help the headache that suddenly pounded his skull. Just then—the door opened, and Anastasia appeared. Comte did not overlook the mischievous grin that plastered on her face as she strolled to his bedside like a fairy child who had done some minor chaos in her trail.

“Did I wake you, my darling?” she asked while pushing away the swoop of hair from his eyes.

He groaned. “The headache did, but I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need anything? I could make you some tea if it could help.”

“Maybe later, Ma Chérie,” he took a closer look at her—she was dressed elegantly in her favorite white muslin dress that was decorated with cultured pearls. She put on her cosmetics, and her hair was curled and tied with a satin ribbon. He looked at her neck—she was wearing the necklace he gave her as a Christmas present, and he could smell the whiff of ambergris and saffron from her perfume. In short, she dressed as if there was another celebration.

“You seem… too content, sweetheart.”

“What, I can’t be too happy to see my husband?” She said coquettishly, lying her head on his pillow so it was easy for her to gaze into his eyes.

“Not when you say it in that tone—I am inclined to believe that you did something,” he said, returning the same playfulness in his voice with a smirk.

“Ah! I’ll have you know I am not like your boys,” she tapped his nose. “At least I did not cause some serious damage.”

“So, you did do something.”

“I didn’t say I deny it.”

“You naughty girl! What did you do?”

Biting her lip, she said, “I told Sebastian and Leonardo to give me the day off because you and I are going somewhere.”

Comte chuckled, “And did they believe in you?”

Anastasia blushed, “Only if you tell them. And I don’t mean to say that to skip work or my studies, I would rather just want to spend the after-party with you.” Then she pouted, “Unless you have a busy day ahead, then I’ll—"

“Now, why would I prioritize anything else over you, Ma Chérie?” He pulled her into his arms, making her lie on top of him while he brushed her dark hair. He would also very much prefer to skip his paperwork for the next day and pamper his wife. After all, the after-effects of the party were still fresh, and the adrenaline was still running high. “What do you have in mind for us?”

“Well, since the weather is a little bit better than yesterday, we could go horseback riding,” she answered, clinging to his sleeve while watching the branch trembling gently against the winter wind.

“Horseback riding? To where?”

“Anywhere!” she said enthusiastically. “We don’t have to go shopping or anything like that. Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been to before.”

Comte smiled at her and caressed her face. “I don’t think there’s ever a place where you’ve never been to, Mon Ange. If I take you to one place, it will feel like I am just taking you to another corner of your home.”

“It is all thanks to you, Abel,” she said, shifting herself higher until she was hovering above him. Pecking his lips and lightly touching the tip of her nose against his. “But I don’t think I have explored every corner of your world as you may have thought.” She looked down at his golden eyes, wondering if they were blessed by Aurora’s kiss as they glimmered in the afternoon sun. “I know there is something more out there, and I want to see it.”

Comte deeply adored her—no doubt fascinated by her honesty and tenacity in her pursuit to know him better. That part of her never changed, and he smiled at the reminder that this was the woman he married.

“Well then, Ma Chérie—you should get your coat.”

Comte left some instructions to Sebastian while he was preparing their horses. He also told Leonardo that he and Anastasia would probably ride out of town. To where specifically—no one knew. Before they left, Anastasia saw Dazai and Arthur peeking through one of the windows. She made a gesture that meant she still had her eyes on them even during her absence; they just gave her a thumbs-up while making a blank expression. A moment later, they rode off.

They did pass through every street in Paris. The cold wind swept through their tangled hair, hooves treading on the snow, the flutter of their coats, the rush of adrenaline in their veins—it almost felt like a competition, never mind who became the winner in the end as long as the excitement lasted. At some point, they reached an open road.

“Are you ready to head back now, Anastasia?” Comte asked while patting his horse.

“Uh-uh! No way!” she replied breathlessly. “Let’s go for another mile, then we’ll go home.”

Comte laughed in amusement and agreed to her deal. She went before him, but before he could catch up, he stopped his tracks halfway and turned to the wooden area to his right.

Anastasia turned around and saw her husband in an immobile state. He was staring at the woods like it was an ancient entity he encountered once in his life. She did not know what was happening to him—he looked almost afraid. Did he sense that someone was watching them? Were they in danger?

“Comte? Is everything all right?” she called.

He promptly turned to her, “Yes, dear. It’s just that—there is something odd about this road.”

Anastasia went to his side and there was indeed a trail that led somewhere further. “Do you think it is safe?”

“…I think so,” he answered (well, it almost sounded like a question). His sight not leaving the set of trees that lie on the deepest end.

“Should we go and check it out?”

Comte nodded his head.

They went in silently.

While Anastasia navigated this unfamiliar place, Comte was experiencing a sense of déjà vu. He looked at the way the branches loomed over the ground, how the roots coiled in the dirt, how the snow contrasted the black barks—he had seen all of these before. Then, there was the smell of mint—all of those memories when he was a boy came flooding back to him.

“Comte, there was a mansion over there!”

In what was considered as a cruel twist of fate, he was led back to the place he never knew he would see again. On the other side of the woods, there was a mansion that was far greater than the one they had back in Paris—it almost resembled a palace, which made sense since its former master wanted a “copy” of his house back in Moscow. Great as it was, it stood there like a withering flower in the dead of winter. The walls were no longer white like they used to be, as the entire facade was covered by soot. The pillars that held up the entry were cracked, and the stairs were decorated by moss. The windows were all shattered, and some of the doors were barricaded with rotten wood. On the side, a statue of an angel fell from its pedestal and smashed its head on the ground, decaying into the earth along with the rest of the house.

Comte got off his horse and moved slowly to the entrance. He recognized the same pathway he took when he was a boy, how he would run in that same yard while his godmother watched over him. He let his hand graze upon the marble surface of the pillar—recalling how they used to be the size of colossus in his youth. Through the threshold, he could already see the grand staircase that led to the ballroom, He kept telling himself to retreat, but the idea of revisiting this part of his past was very tempting, and his own foolishness got the better of his logic.

He turned to Anastasia apologetically, “Forgive me, Ma Chérie—but I need to see something in here. I won’t take too long—"

She shook her head, got off her horse, and took his hand. “I’m going with you.”

He squeezed her hand.

Inside, the rundown state of the mansion was even more palpable. Every corner was filled with black tar and mold. Shards of porcelain and rubble were scattered on the floor. The carpets and drapes were torn apart. The diamonds on the chandelier were fogged by cobwebs. And some of the furniture was toppled over. As they walked up the stairs, the foundation creaked lightly under their footsteps. When they reached the second floor, they were greeted by the foreboding shadows of the sculptors, lining up from the east wing to the west as if they were the last sentries to guard this wasteland.

There was a broken chandelier, lying in the middle of the ballroom, cracking the glass dance floor below. The paintings that were once hanging on the walls left only a mark on their wake, except there was one that was abandoned on the side.

Comte crouched down and straighten that painting—it was a woman, with skin as white as death, light hair, and eyes as blue as the sea. She was wearing a wedding dress, a wintergreen wreath on her head, and diamonds around her neck while looking desperately at someone on the side in helplessness. Anastasia couldn’t see his reaction, but when she read the name at the bottom of the golden frame—Duchess Maria Fedorova—she gasped.

Comte only stared at it in solemnity, hoping that his silent prayer could be reached in Paradise where she might be resting. He looked down and there was a small box peaking behind the frame. When he picked it up—his eyes couldn’t believe it.

“Comte, is that—?”

“Yes… the very same…”

It was the duchess’s music box. Even in age, its golden embellishes never lost their luster, there was hardly a crack on its blue paint, and the key was intact in its place. He opened it, showing two bears positioned in a waltz, and the lid had an illustration of swans spreading their wings. He tried winding the key, but no matter how many times he attempted—it was jammed in its place, rendering it soundless the entire time. Comte felt his last chance of hope being snatched away from him when it was already in his grasp. On the other hand, he knew it could still be salvaged by either Leonardo or Isaac, but his impatience and desperation overwhelmed him at that moment.

Still clutching onto the memorabilia, he started to look around the ballroom as if he were expecting a voice to turn up.

“Here… everything happened in here…” he murmured, wandering in the hollow room like a soul stuck in purgatory. Everything was silent, the only sounds that occupied the space were their breaths and his footsteps. The ceiling was so dark he hardly saw the murals over them; it used to be a well-lit room, full of chattering, and tireless dancers.

He remembered how the chandeliers looked like pixie dust in the air. The small sizzles of champagne in the tall glasses. Masked faces moving in circles. The sway of the men’s tailcoats and ladies’ skirts across the floor. The sound of laughter and smiling voices while they spoke. His mother and father impressed the rest of the guests with their footwork on the dance floor. Maria’s daughters, who were all dressed as cygnets, were doing a simple ballet that they had recently learned at the side. The musicians played one piece after another as the audience would request an encore.

When the crowd dispersed from the dance upon the end of the Glinka’s mazurka*, a boy with golden hair and sunshine eyes trotted his way to the duchess with the brightest grin on his face. Maria was only twenty-seven at that time, but her sickness slowly drew out the youth from her body to the point that it physically hindered her. Since the beginning of the night, she had been sitting on her chair, watching her children and her friends prancing around like merry horses in the white light. Her husband was nowhere to be seen at that moment—so, she was left in this position where she only felt the coldness in her solitude. But when she saw her beloved godson, dressed as a bear, coming in her direction—she felt a comforting warmth enveloping her as if his presence alone was magic.

�� “How do you like the dance, my little Helios?” she asked with a weak smile on her face.

“I love it, Mama. But I don’t think I did well with the mazurka.”

Maria laughed, “You don’t need to worry about that, child. You will master it eventually, just like how you mastered the foxtrot within a week.”

His eyes turned serious all of a sudden, “But what about you, Mama? Don’t you want to dance, too?”

“You know I couldn’t dance for too long, child,” she brushed a strand of hair away from his face. “I mean I could, but I don’t think I could last. I’m simply happy that you are all happy.”

“… I would rather have you dance with us,” his chin started to tremble. “You told me that tonight is your last night with us.”

“…Yes, I did tell you I am going back to Moscow tomorrow,” she said, looking at him piteously. “But I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The young boy only stared down at his shoes, and from the corner of his eye, he could see his parents talking to one of the nobles. “…I wish you could dance with us just for tonight. You keep saying that you are ‘happy,’ but you always look like you are ready to cry… and when you said ‘soon’, it almost sounds like you are not coming back… I don’t know when we will see each other again…”

The way he spoke sent shivers down her spine; there was something heartbreaking and melancholic in that child’s voice. And the look in his eyes reminded her of someone in desperation—it reminded her of her own eyes whenever she felt the overwhelming painfulness in her isolation. Had this boy been that lonely in his life? Did he realize that he was bound to survive in a life full of expectations and judgment? He was too young to know the bitter realities of the world. At least, they should let him be a child for a moment. But if that’s the case, she would do in her power to shield him from that suffering.

“Of course, we will see each other again!” she explained in a lighter tone. “You have to understand that I have to go back to Moscow so I can find a cure. That way—we could spend more time together. We could take a hike into the alps, hold parties, go to an opera—whatever you name, we could do it together as long as I could walk properly with you.”

He looked at her for a short while before he started blinking rapidly and avoided her gaze. His cheeks were dry, but his eyes had this glaze as if he were trying to hold himself from crying in front of her. Her only response was her touch, holding his little hand in hers. It was comforting, but the sight of his golden skin against the pallor of her worn-out hand only hurt him so much—a small drop of tear fell on her skirt.

From the background, the musicians started another piece—this time, it was softer, requiring the participants to dance slowly, which was the antithesis to the previously vivacious music. He refused to partake in the dance with the other children, and instead—volunteered to accompany the handicapped woman beside her. In thanking him, she thought of an idea and took out the music box from her purse.

“I know I said I couldn’t dance with you, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t.”

She winded the key—the two bears started to twirl and in came the bell-like sound of a lullaby.

He stood while she sat, holding her hand as if they were positioning for a waltz. They started moving their arms to and fro while they sang together.

Dancing bears, painted wings

Things I almost remember

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory

He turned under her arm while she smiled blithely. Any time now, this boy would become a young man. She could see it, and she could see herself watching him grow in the sidelines, captivating the entirety of Paris with his golden touch.

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory

She got up from her seat, cradled him in her arms, and moved slowly with the music.

Far away, long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

Things my heart used to know

Things it yearns to remember

And a song someone sings

With the faltering strength in her knees, she sat down, still carrying the boy in her arms. From the crook of her neck, he looked and saw the face he would remember for the next one hundred years…

Once upon a December…

“Abel?”

As if waking up from a deep sleep, he jolted around and saw Anastasia standing five feet away from him. He looked around, realizing that he was sitting on the other end of the ballroom with the music box still in his grasp. He was back to reality where the lights no longer flicker in these empty halls, and everyone had left, sailing to the Elysian Fields. All of these, the crumbled edifice of the past glory, were nothing more than rubble. It could be repaired, but it would no longer be the same without the souls that once inhabited it. ‘Everything passes,’ Dazai was right. The past was a dream, melting away like snow in the rain.

Then there was Anastasia, slowly walking to him with an outstretched hand. Of course, she was there—she was always there for him. But he only dragged the poor woman to his own pathetic state. He realized how much of a fool he was to let her see this side of him—her husband, who was supposed to be the stronghold of their house. What did he do while he was in that unconscious state? Did it matter? No! He showed her enough of himself that could never be unseen. He thought he deserved punishment for his selfishness. They were laughing earlier, but then there they were—him on the floor while she could only watch him turning into a lunatic.

And yet, what he received was not condemnation—she kneeled down and wrapped her arms around him.

Anastasia would never forget the night her husband told him about the story of the family he considered his own. She couldn’t imagine the depth of his despair until she saw his ghost-like form wandering in that ballroom while repeating the only melody he remembered. She herself had lost two mother figures in her life—she knew what it was like to lose someone, she knew what Comte was going through. For a man who had lived for so long and had experienced nearly every chapter of history, the past will always haunt him to the very end. He would forever be tormented by his own immortality—an eternal sea of mourning after watching one life flicker away like a candle in the wind. That’s what she understood about him, and she acknowledged it. The best course of action was to help him alleviate his pain, to remind him of the present, and to be lost in their own happiness. She just loved him too much to abandon him like that.

The warmth of her body and the beating of her heart against his ear were the sweet reminders of her being alive. It was her gesture of love and promise that he would have someone to accompany him in his moments of loneliness. Comte had no other choice but to give in, pouring out all the remaining tears he held back from the beginning, filling the silence with the sobs of a man who finally admitted he was hurt, until he finally dropped the music box to the cracked floor.

They stayed in the same place for a while until she helped him to his feet. Without saying a word, Anastasia took his hand and led him into a slow dance, humming the same lullaby he played on that violin. A moment later, he decided to take the lead while also humming the same song with her. They moved across the room as if the gilded sun waltzed with the brightest star in the gray heaven. There were no other guests to accompany them to their dance, not even a musician or the music box itself was playing their song. It was just them—she let herself glide as her skirt was floating above her ankles. He held her close by the waist as he sang.

Far away, long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

Things my heart used to know

Things it yearns to remember

And a song someone sings

Comte felt immense relief in Anastasia’s caresses, returning the same affection with the sweetest kiss. Ah! The smell of mint was replaced by the scent of ambergris and saffron. The waltz was over, but neither dared to part.

Both eyes—gold and silver—stare at each other with longing. Yearning to spend the rest of their lifetime—their future—in each other’s embrace.

Once upon a December…

Note:

Glinka's Mazurka: dance sequence from Mikhail Glinka's opera "A Life for the Tsar".

#ikevamp comte #ikemen vampire #ikevamp fanfic #ikevamp le comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp oc #comte x oc #hurt/comfort #angst #comte maybe ooc #loosely based on the story of the Romanovs #once upon a december

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magpiemirroring · 4 months ago

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I do not find solving math problems particularly enjoyable and never have. I have never really experienced that joy and sense of pleasure from contemplating a nice/clever/beautiful equation or the satisfaction of solving a an interesting math problem. I envy those of you who get to have those experiences! Sometime in middle school I lost whatever connection to math I had and I nearly flunked algebra in 8th grade which kinda did a number on my relationship with math. Luckily, I did not have my heart set on a career in a math-focused subject and went off to study art instead! But I've been trying to stop saying I Hate Math, so here's some experiences with math that were positive for me a Non-Math Person:

10th Grade Math Class (Geometry? I think?) where the teacher always set aside time at the end of class for us to start on our homework. We were encouraged not only to ask him questions, but to talk to each other. This was great. Teamed up with a couple of other weird kids in class and took turns asking each other about stuff we got stuck on and trying to explain the ones we felt like we got right. I got solid Bs that year! Explaining things and working with peers gave me back a lot of math confidence and I started to connect to math again! (This was utterly torpedoed next year, lolsob!)

Physics. Ironically, despite being Bad At Math, I really liked Physics class. It was very very basic physics, but I think having concrete ideas that made sense helped a lot. Math felt like it had substance and weight that I could hold onto with my mind and that was very exciting!

Honestly, there's a lot of math concepts I find fascinating. I used to to zone out in math class staring at posters about the fibonacci sequence or fractals or get distracted pondering prime numbers. So I've read a fair number of "math concepts for people that don't like math" books that talked about trying to conceptualize infinities or the 4th dimension, or different counting base systems, or weird topology hijinks. It was interesting to see how those ideas were expressed in mathematical notation even if I couldn't do enough math to do anything with these things. I stayed up way too late one night when I was in art school happily trying to visualize some of things I was reading about. I'm suffering from burnout right now and reading is hard much less reading things that challenge my brain like that, but I do look forward to shoving my brain at concepts again someday and rotating them in my head like the weirdest blorbo.

I'm a digital artist. I haven't had to do algebra in awhile. But math underlies the tools I use and can inspire interesting work so I I am trying to find reasons to appreciate it. Geometry and other mathematical ideas can be used to codify ideas of balance and shape and form in a composition. Math can be used to describe the rules of perspective. Math is a language that can be translated into the language of color and motion that I speak, so that like a translated poem, I can understand the ideas, even if they're not quite the same in translation.

I didn't wanna derail the other post but I still wanna spread some love for my favourite subject...

Reblog if you've ever felt genuine joy or excitement from doing and/or thinking about math

#math #mathematics #i love all you people with a deep passion for math #i love that equations and formulas are beautiful and delightful to you!#I envy your ability to handle numbers without them getting tangled in your brain #i hope you don't me joining in here

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smexychip5 · 2 months ago

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After a week of pondering, I finally gathered a list of my thoughts/what I hope will happen with Secret of The Mimic. Keep in mind my criticisms are less from a negative place, and more of me knowing/wanting this game can live up to its potential. Okay, onto the list below.

• Have the game be non-VR or if they do want it to be VR, have both the VR mode and the non-VR flat mode be released at the same time instead of months afterwards.

• While I sort of don’t mind having comedic moments in the FNAF games, I think one of the major reasons why my favorite Steel Wool games are the first Help Wanted, and Ruin is because they focused less on the comedy. Though from what I’ve heard about the demo, it seems to be more horror focused, so that’s promising. Hopefully the rest of the game is like that.

• One prediction that Dawko and FuhNaff discussed about the game in a video is that the factory will burn down at the end of the game, and that will kind of explain why the Secret of The Mimic situation hasn’t been brought up before, but I quite honestly hope that does not happen at all in the game. It was extremely dull and lazy when it was done in Security Breach, why would you think it would work again? There are other creative ways to end a story besides just doing FNAF 3 again.

• On the topic of the books, since The Mimic is 99.99% the same The Mimic from the books, and this game is about the origins of The Mimic, Edwin Murray will likely be involved in the game because he was the one to create The Mimic in the first place. Whether he’s the protagonist or not, and or mentioned who knows, but the important takeaway is that it could end the debate on if Tales from the Pizzaplex is canon. That or it could be like the Into the Pit game, where it loosely bases stuff from the books and serves as an alternative for people who haven’t read the books and or have no desire to.

• While going off of the established lore from the games, books, and etc., the only threat at that time period would be The Mimic, I think the game would get pretty boring and repetitive very quickly if you only had one enemy in the game (I mean, look at how well that worked in FNAF 3). Maybe if you go off the established concept of The Mimic switching costumes like they do in the books, and changing their mechanics depending on what costume they’re wearing it could maybe make the game more interesting, but that sort of doesn’t really change the problem of there only being one threat. The solution to this is by going off of another established concept that The Mimic is capable of in the books and possibly Security breach. Being able to control technology and more specifically being robots. Going off of what’s been described of the demo by people who got to play it, while the factory that the game takes place in seems to be just making mascot costumes, there is a mail sorting S.T.A.F.F. Bot, and Jackie seems to be more robotic. So there might be a possibility that the factory is also making animatronics and or storing a few. The Mimic can take control of the other robots in the factory including Jackie (unless Jackie is The Mimic), so not only would there be more enemies in the game but there would be more story/gameplay potential. Heck, you can even still have The Mimic switching into costumes if you wanted to.

• The potential problem of nostalgia bait/adding past FNAF characters in the game. Look, as much as it would make sense to see the Afton family, the Emily family, Fredbear, Spring Bonnie, and or any other Clickteam Era character that would be alive/around in 1979, in a similar vein to how people thought about William Afton returning as Glitchtrap/Burntrap at the time before the revelation it was The Mimic (maybe? That’s still sort of debated about, which leads to another point I’ll bring up later), I don’t really want to see old characters unless there’s a solid reason for them to show up. Now it would make sense that at the very least that Henry Emily and or William Afton would play some part in the situation happening in the game since they are still (at the time) the owners of Fazbear Entertainment. So any situation like whatever is happening in the game involving characters/places owned by Fazbear’s would at least leave some impact on them. Plus they could maybe do something a little bit interesting with fact that none of the big impactful events in the lore have happened yet (Charlie becoming The Puppet, The Bites, the murders, Sister Location, etc.), but then again, if you really wanted a game/story heavily involving them, then just replay FNAF 1 to UCN, and read the original trilogy. The only three things from the past games that I somewhat would be fine with the game bringing up are ending two ongoing debates, and a joke solution to the “one enemy” problem. The debates being the official designs of Fredbear and Spring Bonnie, whether Glitchtrap/Burntrap is The Mimic, William Afton, or both, and the joke solution is having William Afton being an enemy in the game. Look I know that ironically this game is about the past, but this game is specifically about The Mimic’s past. It doesn’t necessarily have to also be about the past games. If there is no valid reasons to bring up the past games, then there is no reason to bring back/recall the same stuff again. Yesterday is history.

TL;DR: They should release both VR and non-VR modes simultaneously. Prioritize horror over comedy. Avoid revisiting past game elements unless they serve a purpose. Introduce more enemies to prevent repetition, perhaps by having The Mimic control other robots.

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #five nights at freddys #fnaf secret of the mimic #fnaf sotm #secret of the mimic #random thoughts

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nettlestonenell · 3 years ago

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Part Two:

Ardent Human Desire vs. Fate and the Manpasikjeok OR Why Are There So Many Obstacles Between Lee Gon and Jeong Tae-Eul’s Ultimate Reunion?

If you haven’t, please go back and read Part One: Questions About the Flute OR User Manual, Manpasikjeok Edition

Let’s agree to a few things to start, here.

1. In a parallel universe, everyone has a counterpart/doppelganger.

2. In TKEM’s version of this, your counterpart/doppelganger shares not only your birthday and therefore your age, but also your exact genealogy—which is to say you have the same parents, grandparents, bloodline across each universe. In TKEM this means you will have the same family name (Jo, Lee, Jeong, Myeong) across all possible universes, though your first names will change depending on your iteration. This also means that you are fated to be with the same family/lover/spouse across all possible universes. This is pre-appointed and applies to everyone. *exception: as the worlds begin to show their cracks, Jo Yeong’s parents have divorced, while Jo Eun-Sup’s stayed together, and have had twins. (The finale, when the worlds are again harmonized, reunites Jo Yeong’s parents and they do have twins, which seems to signal that this was their proper Fate)

3. Episode 16, the series finale, seems to really muddy the waters of #2 in a way that I probably lean toward being sloppy consistency rather than deliberate revoking of world-building absolutes [Example: Jo Yeong’s parents are together in 2022 and have twins, but those children would be several years younger than their Republic counterparts (who are said to be starting Kindergarten at that same time), which is…not parallel universes in balance? It would signal exactly the opposite—that time and life flows entirely differently in each universe after repairing the flute…and 1:1 doppelgangers are no more--which is maybe yet another post needed to ponder that on…]

If we take on #2, we are left asking ourselves about three particular characters and their doppelgangers: Lee Gon/Lee Ji-Hyun, Jeong Tae-Eul/Luna, and Kang Sin-Jae/Kang Hyeon-Min

Across all universes, how are they fated to hook-up? OR Who is Jeong Tae-Eul’s true, fated love across all universes in the mind and will of Manpasikjeok?

Is it Jeong Tae-Eul/Luna, and Kang Sin-Jae?

For example, if Shin-Jae of the Kingdom is fated for Luna, and vice versa, and he’s been taken to the Republic (against the will of the flute), he can’t be with Luna. BUT, if that is the fate, that those two are to be together--especially to have a child--then it translates across all parallel worlds, and means that Jeong Tae-Eul is meant for Kang Hyeon-Min, yes? The two Republic-based iterations. This also would illuminate two other things:

1. The fact that Sin-Jae "has feelings for” Tae-Eul. She’s not the “right” iteration for him (he’s Kingdom and she’s Republic), but she’s the closest he can get to the satisfaction of his heart, in a frustrated Fate.

2. It could be suggested -- Did you ever notice that the youth embodiment of the flute appears at least twice in situations that throw KSJ and JTE even closer together? In one, he’s leading that group of high schoolers past the TaeKwonDo center where KSJ first sees Tae-Eul, and in another he’s bullying KSJ so that JTE fights for KSJ. It doesn’t seem coincidental to me that the flute makes an appearance trying to throw these two together—even though they’re the wrong match. Poor thing, it’s trying, in its broken state, to still do its job, to still steer fate.

3. But yet, Tae-Eul never--even long before meeting Lee Gon--has romantic feelings for Sin-Jae.

4. And what we’re shown in the final episode of the series between Sin-Jae and Luna in the Kingdom could at best be called pre-romantic. (and more likely be termed platonic) Their relationship mirrors the JTE/KSJ relationship in the Republic, of her hyung-nim well before Lee Gon appeared, before KSJ expressed that he had feelings for her.

Is it Jeong Tae-Eul and Kang Hyeon-Min?

If it’s meant to be JTE and Kang Hyeon-Min as a fated couple, that’s impossible, as KHM has been rendered comatose in a way that we’re not shown is related to either the Traitor or the Treason. We are shown in Episode 16 what was “supposed” to happen was that he would NOT be struck by the car—his original fate doesn’t hold, there, and as such, his character in 2022, now a chaebol, is removed entirely from JTE’s circle of acquaintance. I’d say, importantly, in the Episode 16 re-set (pre-LG’s return), she not only never looks him up, she never encounters him, which if he were her fate or her potential fate, she surely would have.

Is it Jeong Tae-Eul and Lee Ji-Hyun?

I confess this is where my money is. Of course, Lee Ji-Hyun, in the Traitor’s made-over version of the Republic, dies at age 8, so JTE would never have met him, and therefore I posit would have lived as a single, childless woman until her death in that version of the Republic. (Without the LG re-set)

(Had she not met Lee Gon) I believe that JTE and LJH were fated, in the will and agenda of the flute. They are its preferred match.

What about Lee Gon, then? Who for him?

Remember, in Episode 16, Luna gets a found-family re-set, and PM Koo is jailed after some political intrigue (though not having risen as high as PM). While Lee Gon would not likely have met Luna 1.0 the street rat, it’s not impossible to think that he might, at some function or another, have met a politician’s sibling who was college-educated and working as a civil servant.

I choose to believe that all versions of JTE and LG are fated to be lovers and ultimately parents to children. It is only Lee R/Lim’s cockblock that makes it impossible for the Republic’s iteration of JTE to meet Lee Ji-Hyun, dead aged 8.

Which is where Ardent Human Desire comes into play in altering Fate.

What is Ardent Human Desire when we’re talking about Fate?

Let me direct you to a little moment in a show called Goblin/Guardian: The Lonely and Great God, written by Kim Eun-Suk, the writer of TKEM.

A moment of set-up: the Grim Reaper has a tea room behind a solid (to living human eyes) wall. In it he entertains dead souls before they leave this world. In one episode, a living human man comes through the door, begging for a bathroom. Both Goblin and Reaper are stunned: no one living should be able to come through that door, much less see it. It’s not their Fate. Fate is unchangeable, right? But after directing the living man (in pain from a need for the toilet), they muse that ardent human desire can perhaps open any door (alter any assigned fate). [Something Goblin is eager to accomplish, subverting fate]

Seeing as it’s from the same author’s mind, I’d argue that that concept comes into play in TKEM, too.

From the Night of the Treason forward, Lee Gon has an ardent human desire to find JTE. Not Luna. No, he wants to meet the woman from the Republic who’s a police officer. That’s 25 years of a (let’s be clear: non-sexual, non-romantic at the time) persistent desire that never lessens, never fades. Furthermore, it’s a desire of the king who’s a potential player of the flute, of the growing child who heard the flute call to him. Of the man who chooses ultimately to retrieve the flute whole at ultimate personal risk (and risk, even, to his relationship with JTE, the object of his Ardent Human Desire).

And the flute tests him—in fact, I will argue with you all night and into the weekend that what we’re shown of him opening every door in the universe is just that: a test by Manpasikjeok. “Are you sure she’s what you really want?” it’s asking him. “How far will you go to find her? How many iterations of her happy can I show you until it lessens your desire for her? Until you give in?”

I think it’s terribly important that in no iteration does LG find a JTE doppelganger that’s in a bad situation, in need of rescuing. [Case in point: Luna 1.0 street rat--he’s allowed to see nothing similar] He expressly tells JTE that she is happy every time he finds a version of her. And yet, because of how fate works in TKEM’s universes, he likewise never finds her married or involved with anyone, or with children—because, as Part One laid out: if one Lee Gon/JTE has children (same birthdays)/hooks up with their fate, then ALL iterations of Lee Gon/JTE have children (same birthdays)/have hooked up with their fate--particularly once the timeline and flute have been repaired.

We know that if those JTEs had met their LG iterations they would have AT LEAST recognized our LG’s face when he presented himself. But they don’t. Nope. She is always employed, always still living in the same building with one, if not two, parents. Because of that we’re never shown that LG has trouble locating her (as JTE did in the Kingdom locating her mother, checking their address, b/c there her parents were both dead).

This shot will never look above-board.

To think about how these/this situation works, keep in mind that last leap during their epilogue dating trips—where LG had just left the Kingdom and they were blipped back there only minutes later. The flute, in its whole form, is clearly controlling where they are sent and when (and perhaps that’s a different post, too, about how the flute is preparing/teaching Lee Gon to be its eventual player). The flute, when whole, controls where you end up. It’s not a transporter where you dial up your destination, it’s spinning a roulette wheel if the roulette wheel is fixed by the House.

Here, in the immediate wake of resetting the night of the Treason, the flute is actively NOT LETTING Lee Gon get to JTE. It is MAKING HIM open every door in the universe, seeing if he will persist, showing him what it wants him to see. (Her happy and at peace, not in need of him.) The flute is trying to see if it can convince Lee Gon to let her go since, as they are from two different worlds, they are not each other’s assigned fate.

Obviously, showing him a JTE in straitened circumstances would only encourage him to find her. That’s not going to lessen his desire, so the flute doesn’t go that route. Instead, it shows JTE with purpose, first (I think) as an airline pilot, then a soldier, a graduate of the police academy, and finally as some version of an ‘Idol’ (I think.) [*All positions that also do a surprisingly good job of showing qualities that would sync well with being the Queen of the Kingdom, so perhaps the flute is a little conflicted about JTE as well…]

And what’s more, during this time, as LG is opening every door in the universe (and also, I assume, only being able to venture into the liminal space and leave the Kingdom occasionally b/c he’s still got King Work to do), the flute decides to put someone directly in bitterly lonely Tae-Eul’s path as well.

And it’s not to break her heart (nor viewers’).

Think about when she encounters Lee Ji-Hyun on the street. On my original views it seemed to me that he didn’t take any notice of her at all (she is, at her height, well out of his line of sight), but upon closer re-watch he DOES actually have a second of looking at her. It’s not extended eye contact, and maybe not direct eye contact at all, but he does see her. In this, the flute gives Tae-Eul the chance to see her original, pre-LG fated love. And what does it have him dressed in, just for her sake?

That’s right: his military uniform. It’s not the same coat Lee Gon wore when washing rice, that was white—but it’s the black one he and Yeong are wearing in their selfie. “Here he is,” the flute/Fate seems to be saying to her, “he could be yours if you’ll only accept him.”

[*It is also perhaps because Lee Ji-Hyu- iterations are serving his military service that the other JTE-iterations have not met him yet in the other parallel universes]

But the Ardent Human Desire of these two lovers refuses to be swayed, even after a year of separation and total ignorance of each other’s post-reset situations. Persistent. Ardent. Human. Desire.

The flute is indebted to both of them. They each took steps that culminated in a destiny/fate they each chose to embrace (to use Prince Buyeong’s words). They sacrificed their own Ardent Human Desires to fix the timeline and the parallel universes while knowing it might well separate them forever from that which they desire (the exact opposite of villainous Lee R/Lim’s actions). [In fact, making ultimately Kingly choices, shows of wisdom and worthiness.]

The King Lee Gon chose for not only his subjects, but also the citizens of the Republic, and the future Queen JTE chose to brave the liminal space with Lee R/Lim for her love, the King.

And in the wake of that, fate—and the Manpasikjeok—agreed to bend.

Which is why LG and JTE then become what is fated.

#tkem #tkem meta #the king eternal monarch #the king: eternal monarch #lee gon #jeong tae eul #manpasikjeok #kang sin jae #tkem luna #kdrama #more like okay: drama!#fate

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aizawaskittenwhore · 4 years ago

Text

𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭

words:3.7k

pairing: aizawa x fem!reader

warnings: tw mention of blood, tw mentions of death, mentions of drugs in case you forgot this is a cartel au, murder, swearing, keigo being a cocky lil fucker, sexual harassment towards the end cause yakuza men suck

rating: 18+ cause shit gets real this chapter

a/n: i FINALLY FINISHED IT FUCK YES chapter two mothafuckas!!! i’ve been having so much fun brainstorming everything to come, and here you’re gonna really get a feel for how big this cartel is. player two, f/n l/n, you’re up! <3

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 ↳ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

September 13th, 2181

2:56pm

Musutafu, Japan

“Hold the fuck up. This doesn’t make any sense, I mean—these are Pros. Well known and well respected Pros, at that. The hell would they be tryna’ run a fucking cartel for?!?” Ken Takagi (more commonly known as Rock Lock) rubbed the bridge of his nose in confusion, not understanding the motive or correlation. “I mean think about it. These motherfuckers got more money than they know what to do with. Endeavor is a shareholder in goddamn Nintendo, Hawks owns his own fucking agency and line of sports cars, and I could’ve sworn I saw Eraser getting Shinsou fitted for a fucking Cuban on his birthday a few months ago. It’s not like they’re strapped for cash these days.” Ken huffed, the agent’s arms crossed as he leaned back in the conference chair.

In an attempt to try and broaden the range on your current investigation, your department recruited the help of several Pros to provide reinforcements in Japan, the States, and wherever else sales were being made. Going undercover was already plenty dangerous, and going alone was the equivalent of signing your own death warrant. Enlisting the help of Rock Lock, Ryukyu, Miruko, Fatgum, Edgeshot and plenty of others was relatively easy; these were Heroes that had experience with smugglers and narcotics-based operations, so when you’d approached them with the task at hand, they’d happily agreed.

However, some needed more convincing than others.

“Takagi. Think about it. Sure, they may not be living paycheck to paycheck, but look at the timeline.” You state, looking over your shoulder towards the holographic board displaying an interactive timeline of the investigation, including photos, invoices and even audio recordings pulled from surveillance cameras. “Two years ago, we seized a truck containing approximately 78 kilograms of crack cocaine. When we questioned the driver on where he was taking it and where he got it from, he didn’t budge. Luckily for us, the dumbass wasn’t smart enough to avoid a paper trail, leaving the insurance documents in the glove compartment when we’d taken him into custody. The insurance company was under the name “Target Lance”, but after doing some digging on the name we found out the corporation went bankrupt six months before and was eventually bought out by Chevrolet.” Pausing to return to the screen welded to the wall behind you, your hands swiped as you searched for the file reading December 5th, 2178: A live video feed of a towering skyscraper being built, the building’s name reading “Chevrolet Corvette Inc.” as it hovered above tens of stories above each worker.

“But you all haven’t heard the name Chevy in a while right? That’s because two weeks after that building was built, the hundred-million dollar company was bought out by Takami Corporate-”

“-who owns Takami Motors. Which is the brand associated with the Peregrine Speedsters, Hawks’ damned sports car line.” Ken finished for you, brown spheres twinkling in sudden clarity. “Now you’re speaking my language.” You nod, hands waving as you continue to brief the room of Pros.

“The Todoroki and Nintendo console collaboration didn’t happen until about earlier this year, March to be specific. Which is quite convenient..since around that time the price of cocaine per gram stabilized in both America and Japan, rising from $112 to $138 bucks a pop. I’m nobody to speak on looks either, but for as long as we’ve known of him, Eraser has dressed like a depressed college student with insomnia that doesn’t understand the concept of soap or a pair of clippers. Now he’s got his wife in Cartier bracelets and getting his shirts tailored because the collar “doesn’t allow him enough room for his capture weapon”?!? Bullshit.” You huff, stifling a smile as you watch Miruko and Edgeshot snicker in their seats at your...blunt observation.

“It makes sense. Three years ago all our agencies, including those overseas, started cutting our checks down by half. They can barely afford to pay us a quarter of what we used to make, and these guys are making these lavish purchases while we all starve?? No way. Something’s fishy, and it’s damn sure not this takoyaki.” Fatgum spat, hands quivering with rage as he struggled to grasp the food with his chopsticks.

“Fatgum’s right. Hero unemployment is at a staggering 8.7 percent. Meanwhile, these men are spending money like it’s going out of style. It makes no sense.” Miruko pondered, Ryukyu folding her hands in her lap as she voiced her approval for immediate action. Edgeshot nodded in agreement, brows furrowed in frustration at this blatant disregard for the law. “So we’re all in agreement that our own people have resorted to breaking the law. Cool, got it. Question is, why? And what the hell are we gonna do about it?” Ken demanded, his patience having worn thin from all this speculation.

“Good question. I think they’re trying to take advantage of the tough spot the Hero Commission is in right now, manipulate that vulnerability and use it for their own gain. They’re not invulnerable to the tough times Pros are facing in the workforce. So they’ve gotten together to try and make it work for them, even if it means breaking the law.” You query, hands typing furiously at the virtual screen to pull up the files of each Hero, displaying all the current information on them from their blood type to each known family member. “These three banding together though? Along with other people? There’s no way. They hate each other. Or at the very least couldn’t get anything done even if they did have a common goal in mind.” Edgeshot murmured lowly.

“I thought so too. But then it hit me: it’s not just some flimsy group project. Sure, crime has gone up since the formation of this cartel, but nobody who holds any rank has been murdered or harmed in any way. No no no, these guys are singing in tune for now...which means there’s a damn good choir director among them. So I’ve volunteered to go undercover, work my way through this organization and figure out just how high up this goes.” You assert, shoulders rigid and chin aloft as the harnesses of your costume frame your figure.

“Alone?? Are you outta your goddamn mind? Let me go, you’ll need back up-” Rock Lock sputters, hands fanning out in shock.

“No way. What about your wife, your kid?! This isn’t just some average drug bust, we’re dealing with powerful men in possession of superhuman abilities that have the game on lockdown. You’ve got too much to lose, more than any of us anyway. Edgeshot and I will go, we’ve seen the other side of the law before, and our quirks are better suited for stealth should anything go wrong.” You fire, eyes narrowing into slits. “The rest of you will be working in tandem with the DEA and our resources, and we’ll report back to you with all future developments. We’ll also need you to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice, if we need it.”

A thick silence clogged the air, Ken settling back into his seat across the table. His amber eyes flickered in irritation before huffing in acceptance, the situation being out of his hands. All the conference participants’ gazes fixed in determination, some with anger. The tense aura weighed on everyone present before Miruko cleared her throat, ivory teeth gleaming in a smirk.

“Well we’ve got a solid plan. So all I wanna know is...when do we start?

June 2nd, 2182

In all honesty...you thought the nickname was just a sad attempt to stroke his ego. But seeing the way over seventy commercial-size planes and approximately 30 seaplanes sat aloft balmy concrete in the Guadalajara sun showed you exactly why they called Hawks “Lord of The Skies”. Arrays of laborers with avian-oriented quirks loaded kilo after kilo of coke on to each and every plane, some by hand and others by forklift. Welders were personally hand selected by Keigo himself to eliminate the issue of utilizing every available inch of space; each vessel having been stripped of everything from the seats to the built in mini-bars (much to Keigo’s chagrin). From where you stood in the scalding hot beams, the runway seemed to extend for miles as it brimmed with visible heat-waves.

Dressed in a simple black tank top, black biker type shorts, aluminum plated gauntlets, steel toed combat boots and harnesses that encapsulated the curves of your body before coming to a stop at your thighs, you silently rejoiced in the airflow your gear allowed you in spite of the color. The bandanna atop your hairline helped to absorb some of the sweat, which was a bonus.

“Not bad for a starter fleet huh? The wingspan on these babies almost makes me jealous.” A rich and decadent voice called from your left. Sleek carmine appendages and brassy blond hair entered your peripheral vision, giving way to the man who ran the show: Keigo Takami. Adorned in a pair of low rise denim jeans that were so incomprehensibly tight they accentuated every bit of his dick (which was likely intentional), a plain white tee and ebony cowboy boots that looked like they cost three times what you make in a week; he most definitely looked the part of the People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” and Playboy’s “Player of the Month” titles he’d earned. Luminous olive skin glistened with sweat, droplets sliding down the deep v neck of his shirt with ease; the way the daisy-hued fabric stuck to his crafted abdomen leaving nothing to the imagination. Tourmaline and Argentium piercings dangled effortlessly from both ears, and if you weren’t so hell-bent on putting the motherfucker in jail you would’ve had no problem admitting how attractive he really was.

“Starter fleet? You’re about to put Delta out of business, look at this shit!” You guffaw, arms folded, an eyebrow raised in astonishment at his “humble” admission. “Flattery will get you everywhere, and then some.” Keigo chuckles, breath hot against your ear the instant he bends at the waist, hands settled in his pockets with that cocky aura about him.

“-And having your damn breath against my ear in 107 degree weather will, respectfully, get you my foot up your ass. I didn’t fly down here to get treated like one of your poor interns. I came here to make money, so let’s talk it.” You lash, the climbing tempature slicing your tolerance for bullshit to shreds.

“Shit. Straight to the point huh? I like it. You wanna talk shop, say no more. Over lunch though, I’m starving out here.” Keigo clicks his teeth with a grin, escorting the two of you towards the very jet he’d arrived in. “A little unknown fact about me, usually I hate flying ”conventionally”. Gives me anxiety, and I’m awful company when I’m nervous.”

Settling into the light taupe hued cabin, you observe the not-so-subtle elements of class. Ivory shochu bottles with intricate crystalline glasses to match, the bar fully stocked with gold accents along the upholstery. Plates of costly Kobe style beef rested atop spotless porcelain, romaine lettuce coupled with grilled applewood bacon, chicken, avocado and buttermilk dressing settled into envy-inducing black marble bowls. The plane was spacious, and certainly cost a pretty penny or two. “You’re upfront, so I’ll be honest with you. As of right now, this plane is the last thing I’m worried about-” Hawks mutters lowly, dijon eyelets tapering into thin slivers.

“-It’s the Shie Hassaikai making their encore appearance, and with the Colombians at that.”

You choke on a sip of Vega Sicilia, pupils dilating at the thought.

“Now you spoke about wanting to make some money, right?” You nod, heart rate steadily rising.

“What if I could offer you something more? Something of...extensive value.” Keigo drawled, dark undertone flooding the air like a thick smoke. “Like what, Takami?” You inquire.

“A seat at the table.” He shrugs, like one would if they were discussing something as trivial as ice cream flavors or Friday night plans, not the reorganization of a crime syndicate. “You’ve been workin’ for me shy of a year now right? Somethin’ like that? Anyway..”

He takes a deep, contemplative swig of the chestnut liquid, eyes boring into yours.

“You’re efficient, and you don’t take anyone’s shit. Good help’s hard to find in our line of work, and before you know it, this little hierarchy is gonna go under some..reorganization. Only the people who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty will have a place in the new order, so I want you there.”

“What’s the catch? I’m not dumb enough to just assume this is some promotion for busting my ass.” You tread, brain working double-time to try and decipher just what Keigo’s getting at. “Clever girl. It’s a simple task, in and out.” He assures, middle and ring finger sliding a matte-finish photo across the mahogany. Displayed was Kinan Zango, a member of the Shie Hassaikai’s middle rankings shaking hands with Joaquin Fuentes, a Columbia native known for having a body count in the double digits.

“Another fact about me: Only one thing heightens my anxiety more than planes...people who fuck with my money. This asshole Kinan’s been selling my routes to the fucking Columbians and pocketing the profits, and getting 20% of the product as a little “thank you” when he knows nobody moves coke through the Gulf other than Takami fucking Keigo. He’s becoming a problem, and I don't like those.” Kei growls, left eye twitching minutely. His nails are sinking into the polish of the wood, his energy vehemently furious.

“Take care of this for me, and you’ll be my plus one to Guadalajara tomorrow.”

The general public often made the mistake of writing Keigo off as just your average “pretty boy”. Whereas a trained eye could see that while he may be pretty, he was nobody to be tested. The sheer intellect he possesses to seek, hand-craft each and every route, assign planes to their designated locations along with alternatives should there ever be an issue? He just didn’t get enough credit.

So he took major offense when someone had the audacity to treat his hard work as though it was theirs.

Besides.. you got a man with looks, money and bloodlust? Tch. You’ve just created a monster.

You weren’t necessarily opposed to the idea of ridding the world of another drug-dealing degenerate, but the idea of casually committing a murder as a DEA agent in a foreign country just didn't sit right with you. Undercover agents weren’t permitted a “license to kill” should the investigation call for it either, so it was between committing a murder as government agent, or declining Keigo’s request and missing out on a front row seat to the cartel’s entire operation.

The silence that followed his sentence was deafening. Ice cubes chimed loftily as they swirled around inside his glass, clear liquid sloshing around while he awaited an answer.

Your jaw sets, eyes piercing into his.

“Consider it done.”

Blood spattered onto the pale concrete, moonlight illuminating the scarlet hues. Your knuckles throbbed with pain, the sensation blossoming through your hand as your lips curled back in a snarl, vigorously ridding your hands of the other man’s bodily fluids.

“ If you really think coming after me for that bird brained motherfucker is gonna change anything, you got another thing fucking coming.” Kinan spat, nose steadily flowing with red. His lip was busted, face splotched with yellowing purple bruises. Tugging at his restraints he thrashed, mouth spewing white-hot venom.

“You’re talking a lot of shit for a middle-ranking yakuza who thinks some new coke routes is gonna keep the Hassaikai from dumping your body on the side of some road in Zacatecas.” You observe, sending a harsh kick between the mans ribs, steel toed boots making an audible crack. “The Japanese are like Dixie Cups to them...”‘use em’ once, then throw em’ away”, right? You’re a fool if you think your days aren't numbered once you wear out your welcome.”

“Fuck you. You’re little boy toy threw a temper tantrum, so he sent you to “take care of things”, isn’t that right?” Kinan coos, eyes softening in a mocking pout.

“Trust me, you're not the first slut Takami’s been sticking it in that he’s sent to kill me. Only difference between you and the rest of those bitches-” He huffs, head craning back against the metal chair to let our a soft breath of laughter. “-is that you’re gonna put up a fight.”

Suddenly his bones began to shift, popping and snapping as his skin began to pool below him; you recoiled in fear watching his body slowly slip from his imprisonment like gelatin exits a mold.

“I’ve got elastic bones kid! Whatever breaks just snaps right back into place.”

Skin stretching and pulling as he regained his original form, legs sprinting towards you. Before you could fire off your Quirk’s sonic blast his grip seized the back of your neck, a blade taking residence just below your left eye; it’s tip pressing uncomfortably into your water line.

“Now, if you're good, I’ll make it quick. Though I’m known for being pretty... through with my toys.” Kinan leers, a hand slowly slithering down your sides to reach for the muscle of your ass.

“Go to hell, and die there while you’re at it!” You shout.

Bile creeping into your throat, you seize the momentary shift in energy, generating a small sound wave that sent Kinan a few feet to your left; giving the two of you some distance. Your Quirk allowed you to absorb sound to power-up your physical movements, or send it out in the form of sonic blasts or sound waves, so the louder the sound, the more power it gave you. Readying your fists in anticipation for combat, you silently willed for a sudden disruption in the deafening silence as he rushed back to your rigid body.

What you didn’t anticipate was that the sudden bang that filled the air, and the lifeless body of Kinan dropping to your feet with a thud, his head...

excavated, for lack of a better word.

“Don’t you know the entire point of having backup while under cover is to... call for backup?” Edgeshot snarked, striding towards you, gun settled back into it’s holster. His foot carelessly nudged the bleeding man before removing a Polaroid camera from his knapsack and snapping a photo of the carnage.

“W-what the fuck?! Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful when I say this, but what the absolute fuck did you just do??? We’re government agents, in a foreign country, we can’t just fucking murder these assholes nor do we have the license to-” You sputter, brows arching in frustration.

“This was your ticket into Guadalajara. I just secured you box seats when you were this close to getting stuck in the damned nosebleeds. I believe the correct words you’re looking for are thank you.” Kamihara snaps, shoving the photo into your hand.

“We’re in a world completely different from our own. It’s forgiveness first, and permission later down here. I don’t like it either...but it’s just the way things are.” He sighs, hanging his head while his shoulders settled like the solar system rested on them.

“I’ll take care of this. Now take that to Hawks, and don’t you dare fuck it up. Don’t let me have killed this poor asshole in vain.”

You nod, stepping over Kinan’s body.

Good riddance.

“Thank you, by the way.” You putter. Kamihara returns the sentiment with a nod, before turning to the corpse before him, phone raised to his ear as he spoke with whoever was on the opposite line, eyes that were once grey now swam with deep scarlet.

“Excellent work! I won’t lie, I had a feeling you were hardcore, but damn, this is some seamless shit! You deserve my praise.” Keigo beams, pearly teeth sparkling in the light of the cabin. Nodding in acceptance you grasped his hand upon his offering, permitting him to escort you towards your respective aircraft.

“Well, a promise is a promise. And if nothing else, I’m most certainly a man of my word. Meet me at this airstrip same time tomorrow, 8am. Pack light, Mexico’s a bitch in the summer, though you already know that.”

“Got it. Pleasure doing business with you, Hawks.”

“Call me Keigo, if you want. I hate all the formal shit, long as we got respect, that's all I need.” He shrugs.

“Understood. See you tomorrow, Keigo.” You affirm, climbing the ladder to your jet, body visibly relaxing at the thought of rest.

“Wait--before you go, I wanted to ask ya. What’s with the whole ancient hieroglyphics tat you got goin on, on your spine? It just looks familiar, is all.” He queries.

Home.

November 12th, 2174.

“Y/N! I found somethin’! It’s this super cool protection rune I found in grandma’s things. Check it out! It wards off all evil, and whoever’s in possession of it can, like, balance their energy with the divine power.”

“You’re such a hippie, I swear to god.” You grin.

“Don’t hate because my chakras are balanced and yours aren’t, bitch.” She grinned, index and thumb coming together to flick your forehead.

“At least take it with you for your exam, for good luck! Pleaseeeee! I think it’ll really help.” Her doe eyes melting your steely resolve. You could never deny her, those eyes constantly solidifying her role as the younger sister.

“...Only if you’ll clean my room for me when I come back for Christmas.” You demand, an eyebrow raised in mirth.

“Deal.”

And even though you never did admit it to her, that tiny piece of paper tucked into your bra did more for you during that exam than any late night cram session ever could’ve.

“It’s a protection rune. To ward off all evil energies, spirits and all that shit.” You mutter.

“Hm. Looks like it works, seeing how well tonight panned out for ya. Could use me one, would probably keep old man Todoroki out my fuckin’ hair.” He chuckles, hands releasing from the railing as he threw you a wave.

“But I wouldn’t worry too much about tomorrow, anyway. I got a feeling you’re gonna fit in just fine with us.” He smirked.

Ah.

If only that were true, Keigo.

taglist! : @liliesoftherainmain @therealwalmartjesus

#aizawa x female reader #mha x reader #aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa x you #mha #bnha x reader #hawks #nyafterhours

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

Text

In Style (Rated G)

Aziraphale ponders the evolution of the modern family while Pepper mourns her curls after a bad haircut. (780 wods)

Written for @drawlight‘s ‘31 Days of Ineffables’ prompts sleigh bells, silent night, and choir.

“Brian. Wensleydale. Miss Pepper.” Aziraphale welcomes the children walking into his shop without his eyes leaving the paragraph he’s reading, the jingling of the sleigh bells hanging over the door announcing their arrival. “To what do I owe the honor of your …?” A heavy, spiritual sigh passes through the room and he glances up, his Celestial Observer sliding from his grasp in astonishment when he gets an eyeful of the young lady weeding through her companions to explain. But she needn’t say a word.

Her hair says it all.

“Good Heavens! Pepper!” He bobs left and right for a better look at the mess that has been made of the once neat curls that crowned her head, now a sloppy - and in some cases, hacked to death - mop of mayhem. “Not again!”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale sighs. “So, what’s the occasion this time?”

“Choir recital. I have a solo. Silent Night.”

“Yeah, and we’re all gonna be there to watch,” Wensleydale says, beaming with pride for his friend.

“That’s very nice of you,” Aziraphale says, and Wensleydale smiles as if he’s just won the World Cup. “Pepper, my dear, we’re always happy to help you out, but if you don’t tell your mother what your aunt is doing to your hair, she’s going to keep sending you to see her.”

“I know.” Pepper’s eyes wander, taking stock of Aziraphale’s trinkets and knick-knacks, searching for her favorite among them – a cherub with hair and a nose like hers, crouching down to pet a beagle puppy. She finds her reflection instead, in the door of one of Aziraphale’s curio cases. She sighs when she sees the massacre, raises a hand to touch it, sadly twirling her remaining curls around her finger. “But it makes my aunt feel so good to help. It’s been a long time since she’s felt like part of the family, you know?”

“I know, my dear.” Aziraphale watches the boys put a hand on her shoulder and give her a squeeze. She smiles at them, huddles a step closer, and they reassure her with their smiles.

Family.

It seems like such a solid thing. Indeed, it is the foundation of most human lives. But, in truth, it’s a nebulous concept. In the beginning, the first family – Adam, Eve, Cain, and Abel – all they had was each other. One would think that would cement a bond so great none could break it. But Cain and Abel turned on one another. And throughout time, it’s been that way – brother against brother, sister against sister, father against mother. But here, in the so-called ‘modern age’, humans define family for themselves regardless of how the Almighty originally intended it. Friends can be closer than family. Aziraphale has seen it in his shop. Found families they’re called. The families people choose as opposed to the ones assigned by birth.

Aziraphale has often wondered how God feels about that, seeing as She is the one who assigns them. But best not to ask Her.

She’s not so much a fan of questions.

And besides, had She not favored lamb over a plant-based diet, Cain might not have slaughtered his brother, and would things not be different?

Who knows.

Aziraphale knows the story of Pepper’s aunt and the fight that caused her to leave the fold. But now, after over a decade, she’s back, living in Soho of all places, though Aziraphale has yet to cross her path. And Pepper has been acting as the family’s official dove, carrying olive branches and mending fences.

Creating a whole out of two broken halves.

Unfortunately, her hair often gets caught in the crossfire.

Aziraphale holds out a hand for hers. When she takes it, he puts his other over it and silent blesses her. “Pepper, you are a wonderful human being.”

She looks down, slightly embarrassed by the compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Fell.”

“Crowley? Dear?” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder.

“Yes?” a disembodied voice calls back.

“Miss Pepper is here and she’s in need of the usual.”

“A snip and a fix?”

“Yes, Mr. Crowley,” she answers with a giggle.

Almost in a puff of smoke, Crowley is there, standing in the doorway of Aziraphale’s back room, one hand on his hip, a frilled black apron tied around his waist, a towel draped over the back his neck, and a pair of scissors in his hands. Not that he’s going to use them. He’ll need to miracle most of Pepper’s hair back to right.

He just enjoys any opportunity to dress the part.

He tosses his hair dramatically as the children giggle and his angelic husband rolls his eyes.

“I’m on it.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #31 days of ineffables #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #Frankie writes

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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1999, Chapter One (Jaida/Crystal) - Roza

summary: jaida is a foreign policy advisor to the government during the cold war and travels to france for diplomacy work. crystal has her hands tied behind her back but can’t help but enjoy every last day she has and live it to the fullest even if it means interfering with jaida’s own work.

author's note: mamma mia here I go again with another songfic based on history. part of me loves this concept because I am about to major in international relations after next year so I hope this will come off okay, was feeling extra inspired. thank you jankie candle for screaming about jaida’s hair.

AO3 Link / My Tumblr: @leljaaa / ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ

— *.✧

June 26th 1986.

Washington D.C., USA.

“So you’re being assigned to head to France I’ve heard,” Trinity grinned as Jaida lifted her head from her stack of paperwork, attempting to make it somewhat neat and organized as she nodded her head. The Milwaukee native hummed in response to the comment, neither confirming or denying if that was true.

Jaida flipped her long, curly hair with a grin painted across her lips as she admitted that she was indeed going to France, insighting that it was her first real and big task. “I am going over to try and talk to some other diplomats about the possibility of nuclear war, you know, the fun stuff,” she joked as Trinity rolled her eyes.

“Well, a lot has happened since you’ve been here working for the government unfortunately,” Trinity replied somber as the brunette finished up throwing the old documents in the garbage bin behind Jaida’s desk. “You’re gonna do great, maybe you’ll finally get inside those stupid men’s heads.”

“I will do what I have to, It’s my job after all,” Jaida explained softly before stapling the final stack of documents that had been placed on her desk before scoffing at the second sentiment knowing that she was most likely going to be the only woman of colour at that table.

"Men are fucking stupid, the fact they even have positions of power is incredible to me," Jaida mumbled under breath as she stacked her papers neatly on Trinity's desk as she heard her friend cackle loudly.

“What? I am not lying! I am the culmination of everything men in politics hate: young, black, educated and a woman.”

Trinity sighed, knowing that she could not exactly disagree with that sentiment at all. Jaida was young and passionate and had a drive and was extremely charming but yet would never be taken seriously even if she had graduated Princeton and had earned her position.

"Child just wait and see, if this talk doesn't go well then we'll be one step closer to nuclear war."

"Because we truly can't get any closer," the native Floridian huffed before she heard Jaida's recognizable laugh fill the space. The two spoke about how the American felt about living and being in Paris for the next few months and the twenty six year old only felt excitement.

"I'll be turning twenty-seven in Paris," Jaida squealed as she chuckled, telling Trinity about how badly she dreamed about being a designer before she got into the realm of politics and how her childhood destiny was to live near the Eiffel Tower and make a successful clothing brand.

"How basic," Trinity replied jokingly before Jaida smacked her shoulder. "You make most of your own clothes anyway, you've accomplished a bit of your childhood dream at least."

That was quite true, Jaida was used to making her own clothing and designs especially when she first moved to Washington D.C. and didn't yet have her government salary to live off of. It was an expensive city but eventually she earned enough money to travel and get by.

"It gives me something to do when I don't wanna think about politics and I look damn good always so I consider it a win, win situation," Jaida winked as she ran her hands down her purple dress.

"Well, have fun when you can; you never know how much time we might have left," Trinity added somber before lifting up the tone and asking for Jaida to bring her back a cute souvenir or flag for her wall at home in Orlando.

Jaida leaned against her desk, clearing her throat as she asked the brunette about how everything was going with her partner though they didn't say a word, only communicating in glances.

"She's good," Trinity finally said aloud as Jaida clapped happily, thankful to hear that her partner was safe and okay back in Florida considering all of the uncertainty and scare building around the AIDS Crisis.

"Good. I'll bring you and Detox something from Paris and that's a promise, I'll probably be stuck at the airport for a few hours anyway," Jaida manifested before she ran her hands through her hair smiling wide, still excited at the prospect of going to such a high profile conference.

"You'll do great for sure, you're the only one I would even pay any attention to."

Jaida rolled her eyes though she knew Trinity was being quite serious and was simply speaking the truth, as she always did.

"I am leaving early today to go and pack because my flight is in a few days but if you want to help me I am happily inviting you to help me decide what to bring," Jaida asked chipper though Trinity looked as if she wanted absolutely no part of that.

"I don't know—can I truly take three hours of looking through your closet for you to only pick the worst outfits?" Trinity pondered teasingly before Jaida scoffed, offended.

"No need to be so shady, I will give you alcohol if you come and help."

"Done deal."

Jaida grinned, if there was one thing that could possibly win over any woman who worked with fumbling men all day it was absolutely wine or hard liquor. "Great, you just knock on my door and I'll be home," she promised before Trinity nodded and leaned against her doorway asking if she wanted any more help.

"You've helped enough."

"Then I will see you in a few hours, I expect good alcohol," Trinity called out before closing Jaida's door firmly. The younger woman jumped a bit to the loud noise before turning her head back to her work.

She sunk in her chair, counting down the days on her small calendar that faced her desk knowing that she was going to be in France soon enough for better or for worse.

If everything goes to shit then at least I'll die nice and pretty in Paris.

— *.✧

June 28th 1986.

Paris, France

"I am finally home!"

Jackie's head turned the moment she heard her roommate's familiar voice, her eyes gently glanced up from the words of her novel up to Crystal who waved two thick stacks of money in front of her face before quickly shutting the door behind her.

"Oh Crystal…"

"Here you are," Crystal hummed as she tossed Jackie the stack of French Francs her way. The redhead stuffed her hands inside of her dyed purple fur coat before seeing Jackie's expression suddenly harden.

"I got it completely legal and it is not counterfeit do not give me that look," Crystal clarified as Jackie sighed heavily, not even wanting to ask any questions as she knew she'd receive absolutely no solid answers from her roommate.

Crystal threw off her jacket as she revealed her matching lilac ensemble before turning her attention towards their quaint kitchen. "Now you can finally take Gigi on a nice date finally," she added aloud before letting her hair flow down to her hips.

The Persian rolled her eyes, biting her tongue as her fingers sifted through the colourful, thick wad of cash. Jackie shook her head, assuming that the activities that Crystal had to do to earn this money were certainly not worth it.

"What did you do this time?" The Middle Eastern woman asked as she sat up against the couch in their apartment, Jackie reaching for the remote as she lowered the television set. "What did you do to almost get arrested this time?"

Crystal giggled before correcting Jackie that no police had been involved for this specific encounter.

"I sold some drugs for them to tell me some dirt on the Soviet Union and give us money of course," Crystal replied as if she was bored of the subject and it was just another day of work coming home from something miniscule like an office job. "Typical espionage things," the Mexican girl grinned as she shuffled in their kitchen as she looked for some kind of beverage.

"You seem angry for someone who is holding an entire tower of cash."

"You got yourself into this mess, not me," Jackie spat as the Persian let the cash fall onto the table with a hard thud before she turned her attention back to her book, attempting not to start an entire conversation and rant about how much danger Crystal was putting herself in everyday just for some cash.

"Do not educate me on the politics of the Soviet Union or NATO or I will throw this soda in your face and that's a promise," Crystal grumbled gently to her friend before taking a long sip of Cola. "I am doing this because I need the money and need to support us while you're out of a job."

Jackie couldn't argue with that.

Crystal jumped onto the brown couch with a wide grin as she offered the Persian some of her drink, Jackie declined as she returned to her books as always.

"You're so boring! You should come to the nightclub with me tonight, you can't expect me to let you just stay here rubbing your nose into your long and boring."

"They're not boring!"

"There's no pictures," Crystal whispered offended before the Persian chuckled amused at her antics though she was quite uneasy about even the idea of going to the club with Crystal made her wince.

"I don't know, I'd rather not spend money on overpriced alcohol and pass out on the streets of Paris with you."

"This war is gonna kill all of us soon eventually, we might as well party and swallow alcohol by the dozen while we still can," Crystal replied a bit too bright for something as serious as the looming threat of nuclear war.

"You have such an optimistic opinion when it comes to this stuff, I'm both impressed and mildly horrified."

Crystal shrugged, everyone seemed to think this entire decade was going to be the last in human history. Even if it was—which it might damn well be: why waste your time moping around at home? There were so many things to see and do and now was the time to finally break away from authority and party until you passed out.

"I'm not a politician, I just want to have fun with my roommate before everything goes downward is all," Crystal admitted as she finished up her can of sugary soda with a sigh of euphoria.

"Also Nicky really wants to see you," Crystal teased as she rubbed her shoulder against Jackie's intent on getting the Persian out of their apartment for at least a night.

"I don't exactly think I however need to see her."

The redhead gasped surprised that Jackie had seemed to move on so quickly from the French woman. "You two were so cute together, I will make this pair happen again even if I think Gigi is good fun and all," Crystal rambled before seeing the Persian cock a brow, crossing her arms.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," the redhead responded on the dot as she noticed Jackie's facial expression change almost immediately at the idea of Crystal trying to put her and Nicky together again in a romantic sense.

"Just trying to help out my fellow immigrant sister," the Mexican smirked as she pushed Jackie's hair back and out of her face. The Persian flushed, aggravated knowing that Crystal was not going to stop unless she agreed to go to the stupid nightclub.

"Fine, I'll go with you," Jackie finally said as Crystal squealed in excitement, immediately grabbing the Persian's hand as she dragged her to their closet needing to know what she was going to wear.

"I have people you need to impress," Crystal joked playfully though she was quite serious knowing that she had to do some dirty work to get her next paycheck.

Jackie smiled completely unamused, "I am not about to be roped into your stupid spy game and you better leave me out of it," the immigrant commented serious as Crystal rubbed her shoulders telling her to calm down.

"You're truly absolutely no fun."

"I'm serious, do not rope me into any kind of game, this is the last thing I need right now after leaving all of my family back home in Iran."

Crystal raised her hands in defeat as she promised the Persian that there would be no funny business. "You have my word," the redhead said smiling softly as she pulled out various dresses from the closet in front of them.

Though that word just might break to help the both of us. I might need your help for this…

"Now, let's see what you're gonna wear!"

— *.✧

June 29th 1986.

Paris, France

Jaida felt like she had stuck in the same room for almost three hours and judging by the watch around her wrist; she was not too far off with her original estimate.

The ministry was beautiful and was far more enjoyable to look at during a tour than it was to be an advisor inside that same building. The American sighed under her breath, making an attempt not to look completely bored and angered with how things were currently shaping up to be at the moment.

Child if I hear one more time about the World Cup during this meeting…

As expected, the woman had yet to even get a single sentence in though she supposed it was not too much of a surprise considering the room was filled namely with old, almost all white, over the ages of fifty five.

"Is anyone going to actually speak about the problem at hand or are we just going to ignore the threat of Nuclear War that's on everybody's shoulders?" Jaida finally spoke up as almost all of the advisors and diplomats in the room seemed impressed and offended she had even spoken up.

"What say the woman, do you have an idea to bring world peace?"

Jaida smiled, knowing deep within her heart that her snapping at a man in her own league over being a prick was not the best idea. Not yet .

"We have a Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, enough ballistic missiles to end this entire planet and not to mention the complete disregard for human rights but go on, talk about your sport event that certainly won't exist after Gorbachev pushes that button."

The conversation quickly escalated to how it was both Soviet and American forces pushing this threat and how Jaida was being blinded by her own country's policies to only bring up the Soviet Union.

Well... they're at least on topic now.

Whoever said diplomacy was peaceful clearly had never seen any kind of meeting, summit or assembly in action.

Jaida couldn't say that they were wrong, it was every country that was poking at one another, they all had blame even if she had to swallow the fact that her own government was completely picking and choosing what issues to care about.

Another hour passed before they were dismissed for their own two hour break. They had at least made it to screaming about the topic and current issues going on in politics and not sports.

"Meeting is adjourned."

Jaida wanted to scream "Hallelujah," as she exited the room that had become stuffy and filled to the brim with nothing but tension and uncomfortable silence.

The advisors were beginning to at least agree upon the idea of a summit of some sorts though the details were scattered and messy.

She knew that she was completely the odd one out though she was determined to show she was not just some kind of diversity quota. The American immediately headed for the restroom knowing that holding everything in for almost four hours was truly not the brightest idea.

Nobody seems to care about the fact people are being harmed except me.

Jaida walked into one of the stalls as she tapped her fingertip's against her bare skin with a heavy sigh.

She at least certainly looked the best though it wasn't exactly a fair comparison when she had a black, tight, perfectly fitting dress with beautiful custom jewels around the waist as opposed to the dozens of black and white suits that filled the room.

The American washed her hands thoroughly as she noticed another woman beside her. She attempted not to stare knowing it was impolite and a bit too flamboyant during times like these with everything going around.

"You can say I'm pretty," the woman beside her finally spoke up as Jaida laughed, amused though her cheeks turned a bright red as she prayed that this wasn't some kind of intervention.

"Shy?" The redhead asked as she wore a tight and short floral print off the shoulder dress that perfectly seemed to hug her body. Jaida shook her head, managing to spew out that she really enjoyed the dress and fabric she currently had on.

"From someone who looks like a statue I'm so honoured," the mysterious woman winked as Jaida laughed nervously before adjusting her hair and giving in to the glances sent her way.

"I'm Jaida," the American finally spoke before holding out her hand for the other to take. She explained how she was currently in the meeting down at the Ministers cabinet as part of her job.

"Oh she's a diplomat is she?" the woman grinned before she accepted her hand. She shook it firmly before introducing herself as Crystal. "I'm not that educated and smart, I'm just here to get some work done for my uncle," she managed to get out confidently.

"Crystal," Jaida repeated with a slight smile printed across her lips as she noticed Crystal's own grin appear as she reapplied her dark red lipstick.

"How long are you in Paris for?" Crystal asked curious though she knew that this conversation was beginning to unravel far too many questions and ideas than expected.

The Mexican kicked herself for not thinking of a better storyline knowing that she had to steal what she had to before she was kicked out of the building.

I just need these stupid documents… maybe she can help me out here.

"A few months," Jaida admitted carefully not knowing how much trust to put into the woman who seemed certainly beautiful but also a bit younger and more free spirited than her.

"You should come visit my arrondissement," Crystal suggested casually as she began to like the idea of getting to know Jaida for every wrong reason. She was stunning and certainly seemed far more rich and poised than the Mexican who was simply here to snatch some documents and information.

"A native Parisian showing me around?"

The redhead laughed gently, "The Mexican who immigrated to Paris more than ten years ago more like," she corrected as Jaida gasped, her expression reading as if she had been almost relieved to hear that information.

"So someone from North America? Even better," Jaida replied as she explained she was the American foreign policy advisor for the federal government. Crystal did not understand a single word of what she had said except that she was for one thing important but also most likely filled with information she could use.

"When is your meeting finished?"

Jaida chuckled, "The evening, I'll be out of here just before ten at night." Crystal immediately pulled out a sticky note from her bra before asking to borrow the pen the American had attached to her legal pad.

"Meet me tomorrow and I promise I will show you a good time without all the tourists."

Something about this felt oddly staged and it made Jaida's stomach churn just a bit though it also felt wildly engaging and exciting.

The American nodded as she took the note between her fingers.

"You have a deal."

#rpdr fanfiction #jaida essence hall #crystal methyd #jackie cox #gigi goode #trinity taylor #nicky doll #crystal x jaida #gigi x jackie #jackie x nicky #song fic #lesbian au #historical au #eighties au #1999 #roza #s12

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starblazerm31 · 5 years ago

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Love Like Yours Fest Day 3: Say It Like You Mean It (Imalia x Asra)

Day 3 of @lovelikeyoursfest. I’m late with this, but that’s how it looks like it’s gonna go with this event. *cries*

This is a re-write of a fic I posted a few months ago where Imalia and Asra confess their feelings for each other. It’s told mostly through Asra’s viewpoint (it felt right *shrug*).

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

Imalia and Asra walked through the ruins, trying to make out the strange symbols etched on each and every pillar. The ghost-like moans of the wind as it wove in between each skeletal stone spire sent shivers down their spines. They tried their best to interpret something, anything from the engravings but they just could not pinpoint anything familiar. Imalia looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I wonder if they would react to magic?" she said, her thumb absently flicking her labret piercing.

"Perhaps," Asra offered. "But I'm a little nervous about trying anything with these being in the state they're in."

"Hmm...agreed," Imalia said with pursed lips. She took a small notepad and enchanted quill out of her bag. "Just sketches today, then!" She merrily set to work sketching out various symbols that seemed to be the most frequent. As she did so, Asra walked about the tall stones, simply admiring them.

"These must have been beautiful when they were first built," he remarked.

Imalia looked up for a moment, sweeping the brown and burgundy bangs out of her eyes. "Oh yes, the condition this stone is in...it had to have been made by excellent masons; it's quality granite. But the various chips in the cracks suggests that it was once covered in a more opulent stone." She peered closer. "Cobalt, by the look of it."

Asra leaned close to one of the pillars and looked into the deep cracks and etchings. Sure enough, specks of dark blue could be seen within the rock. He walked past a few more of the structures to look at one that was standing in a ray of sunlight. The blue could be seen vividly here, sparkling like the ocean.

He glanced back at Imalia who was still sketching out more of the strange symbols. She held her tongue between her teeth and her hips swayed as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, causing the leather straps of her coat to shuffle together. She was so focused and intent. This was her element. Out in the world, exploring and studying the lost places that ages forgot long ago. He was so happy she had asked him to come along again. He would have never found a place like this on his own. Plus there was the added bonus of being able to spend so much time with Imalia alone. When she spoke to him of history and deeper magic, he was always rivited. She had a way of expressing her interest that was simply infectious. And he always understood what she was saying, even if the concepts were a bit beyond him. Her eyes lit up, her arms were animated, and her tone was always one of excitement. She was *excited* to share her knowledge, and he was excited to receive it. And being out in the world, seeing magic and history firsthand with her...it always struck him straight to the heart.

An errant gust of wind through swept through the spires. Asra watched with growing concern as he saw a few of them actually sway. One spire, not far from Asra, swayed a bit more than the rest. Its base began to crumble and splinter, the ancient stone turning to powder under gravity's force. Asra's eyes widened as the spire fell right towards him. He held up his hands, throwing up a protective shield. He watched as the spire's head struck the shield...and then the shield shattered. He heard Imalia scream his name right before the spire crushed him...

And suddenly he was airborne, carried snugly in Imalia's powerful arms. Imalia had teleported in and snatched him, then ported free of the falling spire just as it hit the ground, and the two of them reappeared in mid-air. They sailed over the billowing cloud of stone and dust that burst forth as the spire fell, taking out several other spires with it.

"Ray Wing!" Imalia shouted. A clear bubble formed around them and they hovered where they were as the dust below them engulfed the entire area. Asra's heart pounded furiously in his chest. He watched the destruction beneath them in profound and regretful awe. All that history...all that knowledge lost over a single gust of wind. He looked to Imalia. The golden sun sigil on her black headband glowed slightly, maintaining the spell so that Imalia didn't have to concentrate solely on it. She stared back at him, her eyes laden with concern.

"Asra, are you alright? Did you get hurt?"

Asra let out a nervous laugh, winding his arms around Imalia's neck. "No...I was definitely afraid, though."

Imalia smiled with relief and held him tight. "Good. I'm so glad."

"How did the stone break my shield?" Asra pondered aloud.

"I believe it has to do with the markings," Imalia replied. "I think they are magical in nature. Perhaps there is-was...power still in the stones."

Asra noticed that Imalia was shaking slightly. He knew it wasn't because of his weight; Imalia had no difficulty carrying him. And she hadn't loosened her hold on him. She held him fast against her, and Asra could feel her heart pounding underneath her orange leather coat.

"I thought I was about to lose you too..." she said after a moment. Her crimson eyes welled with tears.

Asra placed a hand on her cheek and stared straight into those eyes. "But you saved me, Mal," he whispered. "I'm still here because of you." He felt warmth blossom in his chest and he could simply not help himself. He drew her face to his and placed a lingering kiss on her lips. Imalia took in a sharp breath through her nose and then sighed. Asra could feel Imalia's tears fall down her cheeks and he brushed them away with his fingertips.

"Thank you, Mal," Asra said once parting. "Thank you so much."

"Oh, Asra," she murmered, returning his kiss and taking it deeper. The kiss was slow and languid but intense. He could feel her powerful aura sweeping over him, caressing his entire being in a way he had never felt before. He felt her emotions as if they were his own; the uncertainty, regret that morphed into resolve, but also the deep satisfied thrill of *finally* tasting him. It was unexpected. It was overwhelming. It was fathomless and solid, a feeling he knew all too well but had not felt since Azalea died. Love. Firey and pure. He felt it build up even further when she parted from him and immediately went for his neck. Her hot lips trailed down from his jaw to the divot at his collarbone where they lingered for a long while, decorating the spot with kiss after kiss and making Asra sigh in bliss. He felt his own aura reach up to hers, mingling and entwining, begging for the sweet contact he had denied himself for years. And she responded. She enveloped him further, each kiss on his skin an oath and each surge of her aura around him a haven.

The dust below them had settled, and Imalia parted from Asra's skin to look into his eyes. Asra stared back with heavy lids.

"Asra...I love you," Imalia said, her gaze the softest and warmest Asra had ever seen in the twenty years he had known her. Asra felt a wide grin spread across his face. His chest felt light and his stomach fluttered at the words.

"I-I love you too," he replied.

They drifted to the edge of the stone columns and settled down gently on the ground, the powdery granite dust swirling up slightly as Imalia's feet touched the grass. She gently lowered Asra so that he could stand on his own. She took his hands in hers and kissed each of his fingers. Asra flushed under her stare.

"So...are we going to tell Azalea?" Imalia asked, a hint of mischief in her voice.

Asra gave that cat-like smile that Imalia had secretly adored.

"She can find out when she gets back to Vesuvia," Asra replied. And with that he wrapped an arm around Imalia's back and dipped her down, kissing her one more time.

#lovelikeyoursfest #lovelikeyours2020 #the arcana asra #the arcana oc #imalia gabriev #imalia x asra #fan character

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blog20041994punam · 4 years ago

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Numerology Calculator and Numerology Chart Explained

Learn about negative and positive numerology traits check out the easy numerology calculator and numerology chart and learn how to DIY for free. As the years continue to go by more and more people are turning to numerology charts, readings, reports, calculations and many other methods to get to the true meanings of their purpose or life path.This could range from pretty much anything, love, emotions, success, wealth, happiness, health and the list goes on and on.

Its no coincidence that a 3,600 year old astrology science is now widely used by millions of people all around the world, as the future approaches we are constantly looking for the truth. As we grow closer to the stars and the universe numerical values are being used more and more. Numbers are the truth behind everything, most people simply can not see this but as our society ages we will become in tune with numerical values for the simple fact that they can not lie and will always tell us the truth!

Using numerology charts is one of the easiest methods to get started with numerical values. For example you can calculate specific names, words or dates taking them from a letter based value and converting them into a number based value where they are in their base form, further calculations can be made based on numerological analysis to determine a core number for a certain name for example.

What does Numerology mean? Here is Wikipedia's exact definition:

Numerology is any belief in the divine, mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. It is also the study of the numerical value of the letters in words, names and ideas. It is often associated with the paranormal, alongside astrology and similar divinatory arts.

So what does any of this have to do with our NAMES and DOB?

Quoted from Wikipedia...

"Pythagoras and other philosophers of the time believed that because mathematical concepts were more "practical" (easier to regulate and classify) than physical ones, they had greater actuality.

St. Augustine "Numbers are the Universal language offered by the deity to humans as confirmation of the truth."

Everything has numerical relationships and it was up to the mind to seek and investigate the secrets of these relationships.

Skeptics argue that numbers have no occult significance and cannot by themselves influence a person's life. Hundreds of millions of people strongly disagree with those skeptics and believe otherwise!

This is where it starts getting good, numerology is believed to tie directly into ones life path via the form of names and numbers ex: times, date of birth, words etc...

So now that you have learned the basics lets get into some numerology calculations.

We will be going over some basic numerology charts for specific purposes (ex:love) and they all have their own relevance relating to their purpose. Before we get into that lets start off by doing some very basic numerology so we can get the hang of calculating numerical values from names or words.

This is the most basic and common numerology chart, for the English (Latin) alphabet

1 = A, J, S, 2 = B, K, T, 3 = C, L, U, 4 = D, M, V, 5 = E, N, W, 6 = F, O, X, 7 = G, P, Y, 8 = H, Q, Z, 9 = I, R,

As an example we will use the name "Mark".

M = 4 A = 1 R = 9 K = 2

So the name Mark has a base numerical value of 4,192.

To get the sum of the base value here is the calculation chart for doing so.

4,192 > 4 + 1 + 9 + 2 = 16 > 1 + 6 = 7.

So the sum or core number of the name Mark is 7.

Lets do another example this time the name "Angela".

A = 1 N = 5 G = 7 E = 5 L = 3 A = 1

So the name Angela has a base numerical value of 157,531.

The core of the name Angela can be calculated like this:

157,532 > 1 + 5 + 7 + 5 + 3 + 1 = 22 > 2 + 2 = 4.

So the core number for the name Angela is 4.

We will do one more final example for a basic numerology chart understanding, this time we will use a word instead of a name.

Lets use the word "Success"

S = 1 U = 3 C = 3 C = 3 E = 5 S = 1 S = 1

So the word Success has a base numerical value of 1,333,511

Now let's get the core of the word success.

1,333,511 > 1 + 3 + 3 + 3 + 5 + 1 + 1 = 17 > 1 + 7 = 8

So the core numerical value of the word "Success" is 8

Hopefully this wasn't to confusing for you, but hey you now know the basics of a numerology chart and also know how to get core values of names and words. That is a very good start.

So moving along we will be getting into descriptions of each core number in the numerology chart. Each number has a meaning and definition, different places will provide slightly different meanings or descriptions but they all basically sum into the same thing. It helps to think of the number as a person even though you might be using it to calculate a word or something else.

Here is a list of the most common core value numbers 1-9 and all have a positive as well as a negative.

Personality traits of numerology number 1.

Positive Qualities: Individualistic and autonomous, demonstrating administration and drive. The numerology number 1 is manly, centered, an originator and self-starter; it is likewise dynamic, solid willed, brave, independent and defiant (usefully).

Negative Qualities: The number 1 can be tenacious, egotistical, frail and undisciplined, or an outsider.

Personality traits of numerology number 2.

Positive Qualities: Delicate, careful, political and helpful. The numerology number 2 has a tendency to be peacemakers and are cherishing, studious and quiet. A 2 may express numerous melodic or ladylike qualities and furthermore has a tendency to be exotic and instinctive.

Negative Qualities: Numerology number 2 is frequently discontent and can be viewed as ruined or languid. They can be thoughtless, especially with reality, however when reprimanded for their shortcomings are oversensitive

Personality traits of numerology number 3.

Positive Qualities: Numerology number 3 is inventive, expressive communicators and craftsmen. They are tolerant, happy, idealistic, moving, skilled, joyful, young, dynamic, the rundown continues forever!

Negative Qualities: For as rousing as the number 3 may seem to be, there is a value: they are frequently vain, indulgent and inclined to griping. Bigotry, bad faith, restlessness and triviality are not bad, but at the same time not enough to blow anyone's mind with regards to numerology number 3.

Personality traits of numerology number 4.

Positive Qualities: The numerology number 4 is taught, solid, steady, practical, sensible, solid, tried and true, dedicated, separating, exact, efficient, upright, cheap, gave, devoted and dependable!

Negative Qualities: The number 4 tends to pay for their steadiness and logic by inclining toward the exhausting side. This may communicate with an absence of creative ability, feelings, compassion. The number 4 may not try to put much care into their appearance, and their social cumbersomeness can make them appear to be foul, unrefined or envious.

Personality traits of numerology number 5.

Positive Qualities: The numerology number 5 is vivacious, audacious, brave and flexibility adoring. They likewise have a tendency to be flexible, adaptable, versatile, inquisitive, social, arousing, speedy considering, clever, valiant and common.

Negative Qualities: On the other side, the number 5 can be precarious, disorderly, liberal, unreliable or thoughtless. They ought to be careful the results of medication manhandle and undesirable sexual inclinations.

Personality traits of numerology number 6.

Positive Qualities: The numerology number 6 is dependable, cherishing, generous, defensive, thoughtful and merciful. These unwavering, maternal figures are local, reasonable and optimistic healers or instructors.

Negative Qualities: The number 6 can overcompensate its inalienable defense and wind up noticeably restless, troubling, suspicious, jumpy, impulsive, skeptical or desirous. They incline toward the ordinary side.

Personality traits of numerology number 7.

Positive Qualities: The numerology number 7 isn't only a fortunate number. It's additionally otherworldly, smart, systematic, engaged, reflective, studious, natural, learned, pondering, genuine, driving forward, refined, generous and shows significantly internal astuteness.

Negative Qualities: The number 7 can be detached, far off, mocking, socially clumsy, melancholic, fearful and, when they're even from a pessimistic standpoint, double-crossers.

Personality traits of numerology number 8.

Positive Qualities: The numerology number 8 is legitimate, business-disapproved of pioneers. They esteem control and have a tendency to be capable, but on the other hand are adjusted, tangibly disengaged, effective and practical. They wind up in administration positions, are effective, competent, road brilliant and great judges of character.

Negative Qualities: The dim side of the number 8 can be barbarous, uncaring, fierce, bullish or ravenous. At the very least, 8s can wind up noticeably prejudiced religious extremists.

Personality traits of numerology number 9.

Positive Qualities: The numerology number 9 is useful, sympathetic, distinguished, refined, altruistic, liberal, compassionate, sentimental, agreeable, inventive, independent, pleased and benevolent.

Negative Qualities: The numerology number 9 can wind up being egocentric, pompous, self indulging, wistful, discontent, flighty, chilly or rationally shaky.

I really hope you found this numerology calculator article interesting, helpful and easy to understand. There is so much more to learn about numerology all the way from life paths and what you should be looking out for based on your core value, all the way to love, success, health, and so much more. Once you understand enough about numerology you can only then begin to calculate your true destiny. It is no coincidence that millions and millions of people have turned to numerology to get to the truth of their very existence and life / destiny path.

Learn more about it and get your personalized numerology report for free.

#numerology #numerology prediction #numerology test #numerology meaning #what is numerology #numerology calculator #numerology chart #astrology and numerology #astrology #spiritulawakening #spiritualgrowth #spiritualwisdom #spiritualawareness

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zanrai-kid · 4 years ago

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Pride Question Day 2: How old were you when you discovered your sexuality?

I was 22 and in college. A lot of my college career was based on the idea I had to unlearn a number of things and learn a number of things about the world that I couldn’t really experience in the suburbs. I went to an arts college and was privy to some of the best courses and some of the most inspirational teachers I have known in my life. A lot of this was galvanized when I had a one-two punch for incredible teachers who were both out and proud gay men in the heart of Philadelphia. One was my Internet Studies teacher, and one was my internship supervisor. For all this talk, all this history I had been given throughout the 2000′s that being gay was unacceptable, to see these two men work tirelessly and passionately to help their communities and students was a revelation. I think around this time my uncles finally got married after decades of being just roommates.

It’s funny how all this talk of Avatar on Netflix brought up The Legend of Korra. My high school and college years were spent entertaining myself with animation, which I had fell in love with in seventh grade while in the throes of childhood depression. It was escapism but also a method of telling stories incapable of existing anywhere else. In December 2014, The Legend of Korra concluded with the final scene showing two main characters, Korra and Asami, falling in love having saved the world for a fourth time. They were both women who had dated the same man, Mako, earlier in the show’s run. A year later, much of my mindset was set in the fact The United States had voted to confirm that marriage equality was the law of the land. In my lifetime, I was able to see what millions fought for and died for. At the end of the year, as I submitted my final project, I thought about what I was going through in 2015. I realized I was noticing femme men more often, finding them kind of attractive, wondering what that was all about. I had known straight and gay my entire life, but I think it was an article I came across about Korra that explicitly said “Bisexual”.

I had heard the concept of liking guys and girls, but never to such an obviously defined word. I had something. So, the night after I turned in my final project, I went for a walk and took stock of my life. There’s a walking trail near my back yard that I’ve walked hundreds of times at this point. I pondered if I had earned my degree, what I could do next, where I could go next. And then it happened. I asked myself if I was gay. No. I asked myself if I was bi.

Yes. My body said yes.

After years of hearing slurs thrown about the playground, been called slurs on the job, been driven to panic attacks; it’s no wonder I thought I wasn’t gay. I didn’t want it. But here was this word, this structure, this unshakable fact. I needed to know that things were solid. For now, I was okay. I knew I was a bisexual man.

It would take another four years for me to come out publicly. Many relationships, many opportunities, many chances were probably lost because I was in the closet, but the burbs were and, in many ways still, are not kind. I’m happy to report I have someone I love. Another man who, with me at the age of 27, will take me on my first date. Because of my orientation, I am more stable, more unshakable. More of myself.

#whatsnewpride #day 2

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pumahat · 4 years ago

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The End of Eternity.

The first chapter to a story I am writing. Please Enjoy.

I hate executions. Simple as that.

Walking down The Grand Basilica’s Western Hallway, Doffer Mao pondered, By the all the gods out there, why does this hallway have to be so long? Maybe there was a point in it, the agonizingly long walk did seem to give prisoners enough time to reflect on their ‘sins’ as they were led past dozens of paintings and statues depicting the ‘glory’ of the Mages. It very well could be the case, but as the Grand Mage of fifteen years, it’s unlikely Mao would ever know what went through the minds of those soon to be purified. Then again, Mao realized, this was a hallway exclusive to master mages.

After some time admiring the ancient masterpieces of the western hallway, Mao finally approached the large ebony doors at the end of the road. He smirked. And I shall look upon them and dub ‘The Black Gates of Death’. Knocking four times, Mao patiently waited for the doormen to let him into the chamber. Four minutes of dull silence was broken by the soft groaning of the ancient doors. The doors; ancient and still strong, fifteen feet tall, each five feet in width, and five inches of solid ebony wood; masterpieces in their own respect. Although not ornately designed like the rest of the Basilica, the doors held an ominous, almost demonic aura to them. Pitch black doors leading to hell.

Mao remembering his history lessons from decades ago, knew that the wood for the doors were taken from the oldest and largest of the ebony trees of Gods Grave to the east. The cutting of these trees was blasphemy at the highest level to the ‘pagans’ who worshipped the old gods of nature, but a fitting symbol of domination from the heavily Heratik[1] Mages Guild. Even after witnessing these doors open more times than he can count, it was always astonishing to watch the three men it took to open each door, and even then, the process was slow.

“My dearest apologies for the wait, Grand Mage.” huffed the shortest of the young apprentices in charge of manning the doors. From the nervousness of the apprentices’ face, Mao assumed that he was new, not used to approaching the grand mage.

“Nonsense child. You’ve done your job as was instructed,” He paused before adding: “Next time you’ll be a bit faster, yes?” as he passed the apprentice, Mao placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder and strutted past, glancing at the expectedly stunned face nodding back at him. In the thirty years as a member of the Mages Guild, Mao has never met another ranked Mage who really respected the apprentices. Most mages who get ranked past adept more often than not acquire a distasteful superiority complex, a curse that makes many see themselves as ‘above’ simply because they held the title “Mage,” they let power get to their head. He knew that this pride is what prevented many from rising higher in the Guild, pride is the pillar and the ceiling. Laughing to himself at the thought of the apprentice that manned the door taking Mao as a role model, he entered the waiting chamber.

Striding through the great ebony doors into the waiting room, towering over everyone else with long graceful strides and gaunt stature, the Grand Mag Doffer Mao stood out like a redwood in a forest of beech, a giant amongst men as the saying goes. Without stopping, Mao promptly approached the small dull door at the end of the waiting room. Placing his hands on the magical seals locking the door, he focused energy from deep within his core out towards his fingertips. Pouring raw power into the ethereal manometer[2], Mao spun and twisted the magic circles of the manometer into varying positions and altering their sizes to create an intricate design, the deep scent of lilies filled the immediate vicinity as the room hummed with gentle green light. After several minutes, he stopped pouring magic into the manometer and pushed gently on the symbol of a gyrfalcon engraved in the center of the door. The symbol twisted and melted into the door, granting him access as the magic circles dissipated into the void. The magic seals were designed to give access only to those who could accurately release the proper amount of magical pressure while completing a complex series of magical puzzles, a feat only those with skills above that of a Grand Master could accomplish.

Once unlocked, the dull doors shimmered and melted away revealing themselves to be made of pure white mithril. The doors glowed like the full moon in the dark waiting room, with the floating everspark sconces as dim stars in the night sky. The radiant doors stood just as beautiful as the day Mao first set his eyes on them. These doors depicted various Guild stories; from men discovering the arcane arts, to the conquering of the Corellan continent, to the building and completion of the Grand Basilica as it is today some five hundred years ago. Yet for all their beauty, they could not hide was ugliness beyond.

Entering his private viewing area, situated several feet over the rest of the arena, Mao scanned the chamber with his mismatched eyes; one a pale sapphire, another a brown so dark it was almost black. Although called the Chamber of Purity, there is nothing pure about it. The entire arena was suffocated by the stench of charred flesh and dried blood that seeped out of every crack.

Sitting down on a monstrosity of a red velvet Mao couldn’t help but hold back his urge to vomit. The rotten stench of death. According to the Mages Manifesto, the Chamber of Purity can only be cleaned during the equinoxes and solstices, when (according to scripture) ‘the One True Goddess was close enough to see the blood of her enemies washed away along with their sins.’ An old barbaric concept that Mao has petitioned to remove from legislation time and time again but has always faced resistance from the Grand Jury; the Judicial and Legislative body of the Guild. At the very least, the logic behind this is more colloquially known that the cleaning calendar is based around natural energy levels and the aligning of celestial bodies, like how legally the world is flat, but every educated human knows it is a sphere.

Taking up the entirety of the Grand Basilica’s Western Wing, the chamber itself could easily fit close to a hundred comfortably throughout its colosseum-like seating arena. The large domed ceiling was roughly a hundred feet high. Ancient spells etched into the stonework caused the ceiling to seemingly to vanish, summoning various types of clouds and weather phenomena that could be altered through spells and magical auras. The only thing that broke this illusion of a roofless chamber was the ‘Eye of Judgment’, a wretched mechanical monstrosity of magnifying glasses and rune-etched metal, a reversed telescope of sorts, that was situated slightly off of the center of the dome. As Mao looked up at the Eye, he felt as if it was the eye of the heavens, with whatever gods up there looking down upon the world heavy with divine judgement.

Normally only the Jury, Mao, and twenty or so Master candidates were granted access to the chamber, except, this time, in addition to the usual suspects, some nearly fifty expert and adept level mages as well as a handful of the absurdly ornate True Goddess Clergymen occupyed the rest of the normally sparse seating arena. Someone wants to make a show of this, He thought, analyzing the situation. Based off of the current political climate, it was most likely a statement against the Cast Movement. Mao resisted the urge to bite his fingernails. I can think of no one else who would waste this much time and resources for such a trivial thing other than our Supreme Judge. Ah! And there he is, waltzing in.

Slamming through the air like thunder breaking the silence, Supreme Judge Clivus Corduroy roared in his deep booming voice calling the attention of all in attendance.

“Today! My fellow mages, we once again are blessed to witness the purification of another disgusting Eternal. Today on the seventh day of First Harvest, in the year twenty-nine eighty-seven after the Last Storm, we are joined by not just our brothers, but by several esteemed members of the True Clergy. With their presence let it be known that our journey to cleanse the world is truly just and filled with divine purpose. Now as the sun approaches her peak, let us bring forth the wretched Creature.”

‘Wretched’ doesn’t even start to describe what was once a man, Mao said to himself.

Dragged out by chained limbs, stripped of the decency of both hair and clothing, the prisoner was less of a man and more of a pile of bones held together in a thin bag of worn, lifeless skin. Mao couldn’t see much of the prisoner from this distance and requested a zoom scope from a nearby servant. When it arrived, he found the Creature to be more disturbing than he had thought.

The Creature hunched over, stood no taller than the two guards dragging him in, each of which were of average height and build. Although if he had been standing straight, Mao guessed that he would’ve easily towered over everyone in the room by a full head, most likely the same height as himself.

Gaunt, atrophied limbs hung down from his empty torso like ropes, no strength left in his body to even move them. Mao shuddered to himself at the level of abuse the Creature was clearly subjected to. His fingers and toenails ripped off; bulbous and red lash marks throbbed with little time to. Tattooed across his body were ornate pagan symbols of fire, one side of his body representing life, the other representing death, elegantly faded from age and damaged with torture scars of blades and lashes. It was castrated, burned, clearly strangled, stabbed, and beaten. It has died several times already. But what truly revolted Mao was the discovery that the Creature was covered in an unusual amount of spider veins. At first, Mao guessed that it was somewhere around the mid-thirties to early forties but looking closer he realized that they weren’t ordinary spider veins; unlike the normal blue that came with age, they were a bright unnatural green: the telltale sign of magical torture.

This form of torture was banned by the Guild twenty-five years ago, it was deemed unethical due to the extreme process of forcibly shooting waves of raw magic into the victim’s blood stream. Once forced in, the victim was subject to the full manipulation of the owner of said magic becoming puppets on strings. You could break bones and force them back together you could tear muscles and force them to keep moving, anything you wanted to do to the victim was in the realm of possibility. Once injected with the magic the victim became yours to control.

“You sick bastard, Clivus,” Mao cursed under his breath.

Focusing back on the scene unfolding before him, Mao looked into the Creature’s empty defeated eye. They didn’t seem to notice anything in the room around him. Yet something strange happened as the Creature was moved to the center of the arena. His empty eyes suddenly filled with flames of purpose as they looked directly at Mao- no, not at Mao, rather they looked into Mao, into his very being and soul. His heart caught in his throat; his eyes locked in an embrace with the Creature’s now beautiful deep amber eyes. He felt the urge to speak, to answer the voice that called to him in his mind. It tried to show him something, a name, a face, something was there. He could feel it was on the verge of existence in his mind, like the first rays of light of the rising sun. “Serve me” it spoke, and what could Mao do but accept?

In that exact moment within moments, the sun’s beams flooded into the arena through the focusing lenses of the Eye of Judgement. It was a dazzling spectacle, beams of refracted lights moved throughout the arena. With each passing beam, warmth flooded into the arena. The crowd was entranced, they gasped in wonder and joy, murmurs could be heard throughout the crowd. As everyone stared in wonder at the beams of light, Mao couldn’t help but stare at the poor Creature. That’s when he felt it.

“By the gods…” Mao whispered as his attention drew from the Creature’s amber gaze to Mao’s own hand. Slowly branding him was the symbol of the Fire Djinn Agni, the two faces of fire. Life and Death. Creation and Destruction. Light and Shadow. A balance. As he was about to lift his hand to the sun to look at the newest addition to his tattooed body, he found he didn’t need to shine a light upon it, as the brand itself glowed like dying embers. Forcing his eyes off of the wonder appearing on his hand, he looked back at the Creature. But no more did those intense amber eyes look at Doffer Mao. Now they gently closed in peaceful acceptance of his fate. Though this creature was barely human, he still retained his dignity.

Slowly the Creature was shackled to the X-cross in the center of the arena by his hands and feet. Then doing the honors himself, Supreme Judge Clivus Corduroy marked on the Creature three points with ink. A dot on the forehead, a dot on the heart, and a dot below the sternum. Representing Mind, Soul, and Body, respectively; the three aspects of existence. Once Corduroy retreated back to the control panel situated close to the Eye, the purification began.

Using the magic of the twenty master candidates, the Eye of Judgment was adjusted, aimed, and focused. The light of the sun splitting into three concentrated beams of light each precisely aimed over the three corresponding ink dots on the Creature’s body. Slowly the candidates began chanting and drawing magic circles in the air, pouring their magical energy into the 3 beams of light. As the energy flowed through the beams the Creatures skin began to blacken into charred flesh.

“More power! Make him scream!” barked Corduroy, his eyes a firestorm of rage. Following the Supreme Judge’s order, the candidate’s skin began to glow with their focused power, the air filled with magical pressure, and the dust off the ground began to stir into wild tornadoes dancing across the floor. The scents of charring flesh, rotted corpses, and magical essence was a medley of aromas unlike anything else in the known world. Soon enough the charred skin flaked away revealing a bubbling broth of melted muscle and boiling blood. Yet the Creature did not scream.

As frustration and anger filled the Supreme Judge and the candidates, the room of onlookers began to join in. The mob’s fury was a raging inferno, while the Creature, in stark contrast was at peace. Unable to believe his own eyes, Mao drew and casted a magnification spell onto the zoom scope to get an even better look at this Creature. Quite audibly, he gasped to himself in disbelief. Looking at the rage and frustration in Corduroy’s face Mao chuckled to himself. The bastard is truly crazy, He thought. Gripping the arms of his chair, Mao was at the edge of his seat. It was a rare event to see something defy the Supreme Judge Corduroy for this long and watching the anger and frustration flow from his colleague’s face brought a sick pleasure from Mao, he was almost rooting for the prisoner to retain his strength. His face grinned a grin he hasn’t felt in decades, not since he was back in his adventuring days has Mao felt this much excitement.

As much as he hated it, he wanted it to last an eternity. The screams of Corduroy bellowed like the sweet sound of the pipe organ Mao played in his youth. Mao was lost in this sick pleasure. Then came blood curdling scream that disrupted both Mao’s pleasure and the roaring of the crowd.

The Creature writhed in pain. His tensing muscles straining against the leather restraints, fingers moving in a sporadic repetition between a death grip and being sprawled out in all directions. Its torso flailing left and right shaking with so much force that the cross struggled to hold the pained Creature. The Creature struggled more and more to move with the dance of death, his convulsing head slamming against the headboard with so much force that boiling blood seeped from the head wound. Mao could imagine it now, seeing with his mind’s eye as Judgment’s Eye cooked the Creature’s skull like a boiled egg.

Wondering why the Creature is reacting only now, Mao scanned the arena. He noticed that some of the candidates began chanting hyper-sense tomes, designed to increase one’s overall awareness, but in this case altered so that the chant focused one’s pain receptors. The Creature had been resisting death with its fire magic, only now, that protection slowed the inevitable.

This scene of terror went on for almost half an hour before it lost both its strength and its will to live. Slowly but surely the beams of light empowered by the magic of twenty master candidates bored three precise holes through the Creature. It’s lifeless corpse still suspended to the cross by its arms and legs. As the beams of light faded away, judgment has been cast and the room of rage because a chamber of holy silence. Melted meat dropped from the corpse, muscle beneath the skin was noticeably torn and ripped, leaving strange indents and gorges in its charred flesh. The Creature’s amber eyes had long since bubbled and melted away, leaving empty sockets infinitely deeper in strangeness. Smoke radiated from flesh that had turned to smoldering piles of ash. The Creature’s final death was marked by countless others.

After several long minutes, it was the deep brooding voice of Supreme Judge Corduroy that broke the silence.

“Brothers, clergymen. The deed,” he paused. “…Has been done. Another blasphemous Creature purified from this world. We Mages have done our part in this holy cleansing. Now let us leave the final prayers to the clergymen who have joined us today on this momentous occasion.” Pausing and scanning the room, letting the clergymen speak their holy prayers in ancient Mottenese, Corduroy noticed the disappointment on Mao’s face and held his head high.

After the prayers finished, his voice boomed once more. “Today was more than just the purification of another pagan beast, today is the day we show our strength to the world. Today we show that these ‘Eternal Hosts’ are not people like some would claim. Neither are they the weapons of world domination that the Tyrant to the east want us to think. And they are not eternal. No, these Creatures are no more than rabid beasts, beasts that defy the laws of nature and the laws of Holy Truth. And what do men of logic, men of holiness, men of power do to rabid beasts?”

“We put them down! We punish their sins! We purify their souls!” the mob roared in delightful unison.

“Yes! My brothers and clergymen, today we denounce Lord Cast’s ideas that the Eternal Host’s should be weapons of war. Today we denounce Jordane’s belief that they deserve the same rights as us, the pure. Today we denounce the Eternal Host’s and all those who support them!” Corduroy boomed.

Oh great, he’s talking about me.

“Today my friends, we shall unite our forces with the One True Church and purify this land. Today is when we ask of the Empire to join us and help us purify all of the known world in the name of the One True Goddess! The Goddess of Truth!” The Supreme Judge concluded with deep finality.

Roars of excitement and blind allegiance moved through the crowd like the waves of the sea. The tide of their energy pushed and pulled with the movements of Corduroy’s body. Soon enough the crowd was a mind of its own, Corduroy’s seeds of destruction had taken root. A coy smile flashed on Corduroy’s face. Mao could do little to reverse what he had started; Mao was but one man with little to no allies that could help. Not even all the power and influence he had would be of help now, this was not a matter of magic or politics; this was people falling into the age long plague of rage and hatred. Simple, pure, and near impossible to break let alone bend.

Time was of the essence, and to Mao there was not enough time to get everything done. He needed to act fast before Corduroy could have time to strike. This was a different type of battle. Corduroy had taken the first step, now everything depended on how Mao responded. He could cower in the corner and let Corduroy take the lead, or he could strike back. He moved before he had the chance to even contemplate the possible risks and rewards for either choice. Thinking won’t be enough for this task. It was time to step out of the spotlight and into the shadows.

Being the Grand Mage for decades, Mao has gained too much notoriety within the capital. His face was already known as well as his disposition against the unification of the church and guild. Precautions would already be in place in order to either coerce Mao into submission or to eliminate him as a threat. That final speech was simple, it labeled Mao as an enemy of the new world. He had felt this time was coming, but he did not expect it to be so soon.

He needed to leave the city and go underground. From there, his action could go more unnoticed. A big fish in a small pond made too many disturbances, but out by the sea they would be little more than ripples amongst the crashing waves. Quickly moving out of the arena before the crowd dispersed, Mao moved through the Grand Basilicas halls and stairways. Although the path was roundabout and at many points he moved in circles, he needed to cover his path. Confuse the Jury and their pawns before they could be moved into positions likely to end in checkmate. After some time, he began smudging his trail. Within the palace walls it was impossible to completely hide his trail, powerful spells ingrained in the walls, ceilings, floors, and foundations of the Basilica tracked movement of everyone within. Mao knew this as well as some counter measures. It’d buy him some time, and that was all he needed.

Like time mended a wound into a subtle scar, Mao did the same to his trail, dulling it and confiding it to only the immediate vicinity. Although not completely gone, at a glance one would look right over it. He hoped. It’s never a sure thing, some people like trained mages may be looking for tricks like this; others, usually palace guards untrained in the magical arts, would look for the blatantly obvious. He hoped the latter would be sent after him.

In the center of one of the hallways in the eastern wing, somewhere around three quarter’s down the hall’s length Mao placed his hand on the wall by the tips of his fingers palm up and rotated his hand counterclockwise. Just as the seal unlocked, Mao could hear the movement of people down the hall. Quickly Mao walked through the seal as if he walked through the wall itself. Once through, he spun around and quickly placed his hand back in the place he left it off on the other side, palm down, and turned it back clockwise, resealing the door.

With a sigh of relief, the aging Grand Mage pressed his back against the now solidified wall. He could hear the soldiers moving on the other side of the wall as if it were paper thin, but they would never be able to hear him from his side. Although simple in theory, he had used a very powerful and complex spell in order to guarantee that he remained hidden from the palace’s watchful eyes. The spell itself simply locks whatever the caster wants and can only be opened by the caster or whoever knows the exact steps to open or manipulate the seals. Simple yet effective. After enough time went by, Mao had decided that he had regained some energy and began the long descent down the stairway in front of him.

Suddenly thoughts of fire began blasted into his mind as his branded hand began to glow and sizzle with heat. He knew what was happening. He needed time to research, before it gets out of hand. I must keep moving.

Down and down he went for what seemed to drag on without end. An ancient spiraling staircase built into the earth marked the secret entrance into Yggdrasil, an underground labyrinth of tunnels and passageways that spread out across the continent. Through here Mao knew he could escape without being followed. The vast tunnels were essentially invisible to magic. According to rumor, when the Guild and other groups decided to map the vast tunnel system during the war against the Native Corellans some three centuries ago, they discovered that the tunnels themselves were naturally absorbent of magical energies. This meant that any magic used from within the tunnels would die out extremely quickly. He hoped these were more than just rumor, he needed to hide from arguably the most powerful source of magic on the continent.

The wheels of change slowly began to turn, no matter what Mao could do, he was only one man. He needed to act, he needed to succeed. Unfortunately, the people of the Empire had to wait for his help, for now what needed to be done could not wait. Staring down at the mark on his hand, he felt an urge, a tugging as if someone were pulling him gently by a string. The job of guardian and guide, and slave, has been pushed into Mao’s arms, he recognized the signs.

Shit.

It was called the Calling, something he’s only read of down in the archives of the Basilica, but without a doubt this was it. From what he could remember the Calling is a form of magical bonding created between an Eternal Host and their target, it was a string of fate- no matter how far the two that are bonded go from each other they are connected. Now the descriptions written down were vague and honestly sounded like a bunch of ramblings of a madman, it went something like …Once the host and target are bonded through time and space, the minds are melted. Not through thought but through feeling, through urges and power. Magic. Strength. Emotions will guide your way, and where your emotions falter so will the body… The general gist Mao was sure he would further understand with time. For now, the issue with the Empire, Church, and Guild had to wait. As a matter of fact, Mao realized that if he let the three fight amongst themselves, he may be able to have more time to find the new Eternal Host and… and what? Keep them safe? Mao wasn’t sure what would happen, maybe in time if he cannot find the new Host, the pain of being apart would turn Mao crazy, maybe it would kill him, maybe it would drive him to kill the new Host. Maybe it would do nothing at all, if the Host never truly awakens, Mao guessed he could live with the subtle burning in his hand.

Unlike most people in the Empire, Mao never found any reason for the hatred and prejudice towards Eternal Hosts, it wasn’t their choice to be given the powers that they have and as a result they were to be systematically executed. It was punishing before there was a crime. It was fear. Eternal Hosts are beings between existences, Humans are beings of the mind, Animals of the body, and Eternals of energy and the spirit. A Host was the combination of them all.

Reaching the bottom of the stone stair, he sat and caught his breath. I’m forty for the fuck’s sake, I’m not built for exercise. He groaned at the strain of getting back on his feet, stretching his legs, and cracking his spine brought some relief to him. Sighing, Mao moved toward the entrance of the tunnel, and picked up one of the old torches from off the wall.

At first, he tried to ignite the torch on his own but remembered that the tunnels would suck up any magic in them. It wasn’t pitch black down there, there were luminescent fungi and glowing veins of earth magic throughout the tunnel and small cavern that made up the room he stood in. He suspected that the source of the magical absorption may be from these glowing veins, but he couldn’t be sure as the Guild ceased research on the tunnels two centuries ago when faced with conflict from the arriving Akarrans lead by Lord Akira. Yet the prospect of a torch’s warmth brought a smile to his face, Mao unfortunately left his favourite winter robes back in the High Keep of the Basilica, the thought never occurred to him that the tunnels would chill to the bone, it seemed age had taken his wits from him as well as his strength.

After some time, Mao’s search for something to help ignite his torch came up fruitless. Resolved, Mao quickly ignited a flame hovering over the palm of his hand and in a swift stroke ignited the torch. It took to the flames quickly and soon it was healthily ablaze. Before he could let anymore magic become drained from himself, he quickly cut off the flow of energy into the flame and, like a Gaslamp, the flame winked out of existence leaving Mao alone in the cave with only the light of the torch and the glowing mushrooms to keep him company. The feeling of the magic being sucked out of him was astonishing, he could only describe it as if the air he breathed slowly became… less. It was a feeling he didn’t want to keep on experiencing, but it became evident that he would have to repeat this process of quickly igniting torch for warmth several times before he would find a looters city or an exit out into the wild.

As a First Rate pyromancer, he knew he could last quite a while repeating this process. Granted he didn’t like the feeling of his magic sucked out of him like drinking out of a straw, but it was necessary.

Hours went by down in the tunnel and there was no end in sight, forks in the road occurred every now and then but generally they were marked up in the old tongue which Mao could read. He relished the idea of not seeing any signs of civilization for a while, it left him alone with his thought, time to think without really thinking.

For the thousands of years that the Guild has stood, it was the center of learning. It was where knowledge was unrestricted, as long as you had the skill to understand it. It was where magic flourished, and where logic was the most important trait a mage must have. But ever since Corduroys’ ascension to Supreme Judge ten years ago, the Guild has become more and more religious. More and more irrational zealots fill the halls that once nourished logic and thought. The fate of the Guild was all but certain as of today. No more would the Mages Guild be the center of the learned, now it will be the training ground for Battle-Priests and holy warriors built to cleanse the world of arbitrary threats like the Eternals, who are simply people born with immense magical capabilities. Thinking this much was more too much work for Mao to do right now, his day has seemingly never ended and continuing this walk now would do him little.

After finding a small cave hidden by an old mine cart, Mao decided this would be his place of rest for a while. The cave was little more than a hole in the wall barely big enough for him to lay down but offered much needed privacy in the unlikely event some vagrant or traveler walked by, so it sufficed. As he lay there, resting on a pile of smooth stones with only the light of the glowing mushrooms keeping him safe from the darkness of the cave, he found that instead of worrying about the impending war, or pondering about what uncertain future lay ahead of him, or planning his next move in the great game, he dreamed of fire.

End of Prologue.

[1] (her-Ah-tick) The major religion of the Mott empire. The belief in the “One True Goddess, Hera, otherwise known as The Mother.”

[2] Device that measures pressure levels

#fantasy #OC #story #writing project #game of thrones #wip #scifi #lord of the rings #creative writing #young writer #new writers on tumblr #series #amwriting #editing #creative #indie authors #originalwriting #My writing

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hencethebravery · 5 years ago

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TITLE: A Super Solid History of the “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy(s),” c. The Beginning (or There About) to Now-ish

SUMMARY: Human beings are absolute fools when it comes to love. It’s largely the reason why God, in all Her infinite wisdom, so cleverly decided that the beings in Her employ (and thereafter) would have nought to do with such petty, earthly matters. Not they had seen a memo or anything, but it merely seems obvious, does it not? (Ao3)

NOTES: Hello, hello! Here be my very first Good Omens fic. Please note that I have only just started the novel and so this is mostly a product of my having watched the series several times over.

. . .

+ Perhaps one of the cruelest tricks that God has ever played (and the list was indeed long) was in allowing angels to believe they were incapable of love. There is some amount of debate as to whether or not this was entirely by accident. She was a busy woman after all━perhaps that was why it, the question of whether or not angels were truly capable of love, had slipped through one of her metaphysical cracks (of which, admittedly, there were many). Those who managed to refrain from falling had quite an easier time believing this particular theory to be very much the case. A largely unspoken, slightly offended, “She would never,” followed by an affirmation of the belief in the long held assumption that they were above such things anyway, so really, what did it even matter, and can we please return to the task at hand?

Those who did happen to fall on the other hand, went in rather the opposite direction. In a somewhat convoluted fashion (they were technically still angels after all), demons argued that, no, celestial beings had never been capable of love, and, yes, this was done with abundant amounts of purpose. Not to mention the longstanding rumor that perhaps they were always capable, which served the purpose of both dividing and controlling the heavenly population by means of dispensing vague, unverified information. And to the more skeptical among them they might say, “Well, she’s God isn’t she? It’s not as if she lacks the ability.”

In point of fact, they were both wrong.

From the very moment they had begun their stint upon the Earth, Aziraphale had often pondered the nature of love. They had heard the rumors, of course, not that they held much affinity for such behavior. No good has ever come from a rumor, they thought, particularly when their mind was especially prone to recalling those terrible centuries of heavenly warfare. No taste for it━the whispering between nebulas; the speculating of who would be staying and who would be going. Aziraphale had often suspected that it was part of the reason why Crowley had ended up doing… what he did. That perhaps the assumption they would fall did more to provoke the descent than anything else. It was a shame, but it had been so long ago, and there didn’t seem to be much to do about it now, at any rate.

Regardless, the question of love as it pertained to earthly beings, that made rather a bit more sense. Not to the humans themselves of course, but to Aziraphale, and even to Crowley, the emotion was in fact easily explained and somewhat predictable when applied in almost every conceivable situation. Usually.

“There is no possible way that girl is worth so few goats.”

Aziraphale had never felt truly comfortable with early human rituals as they pertained to establishing their various relationships. The use of the dowry, for example, particularly when a father might value a herd of sheep over the life of his child (and at this point in time, rather too young, in their estimation), stirred something… untoward in their gut.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

Even then, Crowley had possessed the somewhat uncanny ability to speak the words that Aziraphale often thought but feared to say aloud, and while a part of them was grateful to hear them spoken, the other part was curious as to how their supposed enemy could be so well-attuned to their thoughts. Could be the point, I suppose, they thought, looking quickly away before Crowley could notice, to catch us unawares with their deceptive bouts of intimacy.

“Well there, Aziraphale, how ‘bout it? Can I count on you?”

“Oh, um, my apologies,” they stammered, unfamiliar fleshy fingers tangling together, “count on me for what?”

“Your discretion,” Crowley reiterated with an air of unrepentant espionage curling around the crown of their head, “she is worth far more goats than... that.”

Aziraphale envied the demon’s seemingly instinctive use of their own hands; tossed about in the air, waved vaguely in the direction of the unfortunate scene which played out before them. How did one use one’s own hands as a means of further emphasizing their point? Marvelous. They would have to spend more time working on that.

“ Aziraphale ,” Crowley repeated, one eyebrow raised smartly above their golden eye, “I know you can’t be a fan of this either.”

“Well, no,” they admitted, “but I am merely here to observe, and I did promise myself that last time would be the last time.”

Crowley hummed with a mildly infuriating tone of knowing skepticism (which Aziraphale didn’t much appreciate), “Alright, well, if you’re here to observe and all, I guess there’s nothing you’d be able to do about this.”

Aziraphale was, as it turned out, not quite quick enough in noting that, as a matter of fact, yes, they would be well within their rights to interfere when a demon was involved, but by that point Crowley had vanished from their side, and a slithering serpent had already begun making its way towards the feet of the large old bearded gentleman who had offered far too few goats for so young and bright a person.

. . .

It was right around the time human beings started getting rather more polite with their food that Aziraphale managed to develop a fair higher degree of grace with his own hands. Rather difficult to eat a steaming bowl of noodles without the use of… “chop-sticks.” Gracious, Gabriel would be horrified by the very idea. Not just by the “sullying of the vessel,” but the notion that one might do so with sticks? Unthinkable. Regardless, it all came fairly easy after that (the hands); throwing a pair of dice, holding a quill or a pair of knitting needles. After a time he discovered that he very much enjoyed the tactility━the variety of sensations felt on the surface of the skin he had been ordered to have.

He had also, around this time, begun to go about being referred to as “he.” Moreso to blend in than anything else. It was hard to pin down when exactly, but at some point humanity became far more reliant upon noting the difference. It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed, if they were going to insist upon such hierarchical-like systems to survive.

“They are Her creations after all,” Crowley reasoned, casually (almost certainly, casually) observing Aziraphale’s hands as they cupped his bowl of broth.

Aziraphale made a somewhat half-hearted attempt to cool his soup, lest the demon sitting across from him note his discomfort. In as polite a fashion as possible, so as not to rock any proverbial boats, he made the potentially ill-advised decision to be predictable and “play dumb.”

“And,” with a mild stutter, “and what is it you mean by that?”

“Oh, don’t be dense, Angel, you know exactly what I mean by that.”

He hated when their conversations took these kinds of turns. When their differences became undeniable and he was forced to reconcile with the truth of their circumstances: That all evidence to the contrary, the demon sitting across from him was supposed to be his mortal enemy━and for what? Some… pesky disagreement? An oversimplification to be sure, it must be conceded, but all the same, for… what, exactly? What had it all been for?

Having accepted the frequent refrain of Aziraphale’s silence in moments such as these, Crowley had returned to his own drink; a sharp yet sweet rice wine that Aziraphale had recommended. All the better for his own sanity, for his own return to his hot bowl of flavorful broth (with some kind of... fish base, in which large pieces of seaweed, accompanied by smaller cubes of to-fu floating alongside; absolutely fascinating, by the way), and unsettling, unwelcome questions that did little good for him to ponder over. But ponder he inevitably would, and he felt it prudent to admit that he had himself often wondered what might have happened if he had been more… present during the whole debacle (the war, as it were), or even if he had known Crowley at the time━would the outcome have been the same?

It doesn’t seem a particularly worthy avenue of thought to continue shambling down, especially if one were to consider the fact that it was all decided upon long, long ago; but as he sneaks a glance upwards, to the sight of a demon sat across from him at a table, taking careful sips of a rice wine he has no reason to drink (other than to acquiesce to Aziraphale’s own enthusiastic request) he does have to wonder, How bad can they really be?

It’s on this particular evening that Aziraphale and Crowley happen to “brush hands” for the very first time. Azirphale had, on occasion, been made aware of the concept, but had yet to fully partake in such an episode. Human beings seemed to make quite a to-do of the whole affair. He had borne witness to such things with his own eyes, and was rather struck by the intensity of something that seemed so bafflingly simple. But then again, that seemed to be the nature of love. At least as it pertained to human beings. Angels were immune to such things, clearly.

They had both reached for the bottle at the same time, is all. Nothing to fuss over. It was bound to happen sometime━trapped as they were in these rather cumbersome… things; adjusting to the speed and the space of it all. Moving with both certainty and uncertainty, holding things too tightly or not tightly enough. Silly, unreliable things. You had to wonder what She’d been thinking (not that Aziraphale would ever say so, of course).

The poets will speak of a spark, but Aziraphale didn’t much know about all of that. He could acknowledge a warmth, perhaps even a… tingle? In retrospect he might even recall a raising of the soft hairs along his arms. But really, there’s not much to say about it. Other than the fact that from the perspective of an outsider there was perhaps an unnatural pause. A stiffness that mortal beings struggled to find. Most living, physical beings required breath you see━they are frequently at the whims of their world; it is, quite nearly, impossible not to be in motion for any extended period of time. That was just the way She wanted it. The unrepentant motion. The force. The push forwards. Don’t stop, never stop. Until, you know, She says so.

These two beings, however, they weren’t human beings. They were created by God, of course, but they were relatively new to this “body,” business, and as such they still seemed to be encountering the unfortunate and inconvenient side effects. Touch being just one of many. Angels didn’t really touch in the same way humans did. Their natural forms failed to really give them the ability. They did in fact… collide with each other from time to time, but it was limitless. There was no barrier. If anything, it was a bit unpleasant━the lack of boundaries. Something about “seamless teamwork,” is what Aziraphale could recall from his discussions with Gabriel, or Michael. It was difficult to tell the difference sometimes. Regardless (or perhaps irregardless), human touch would appear to be quite a bit different. Because there was a pretty significant boundary, and for whatever reason that Aziraphale had yet to identify, it felt somehow more intimate than the traditional, angelic “brushing of hands,” as it were.

Crowley, in a rare moment of clumsiness, must have felt similarly because in his shock had pulled his hand back so swiftly that he managed to knock the half-empty bottle to the table with a soft snick, with a gentle, rhythmic dripping of the remaining wine to follow.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale muttered, moving quickly to right the bottle and dab at the developing stain. Crowley had stood rather abruptly after that, and not in the smooth, serpent-like manner that Aziraphale had become accustomed to, and with hardly a “so long,” turned and fled the scene. They would never mention that particular moment again, but Aziraphale, to his great, great consternation, did struggle to put it entirely out of his mind.

. . .

Oh, centuries pass. Not entirely unlike an unfathomably long sigh, the world continues as the world often does. As do the angels and the demons playing their parts in some… hip yet indescribably vague off-broadway production (with no discernible plot) written by and for an audience of precisely one. Maybe. Probably. Over the course of The Great Exhale (™), Aziraphale observes. He learns. Which should be obvious, as that was something of the job assigned to him in the first place, but he really takes a genuine interest in the task. So much so that he keenly starts to observe other observers, humans who frequently come to be called “authors.” Authors are truly outstanding observers in their own right; even going so far as to record their observations in impressively long works of art━in letters and in image, the authors and artists in question lend a helpful amount of weightiness to a position he had come to doubt on occasion.

“They see things in ways we can’t, you see,” Aziraphale had tried explaining to Gabriel during one unexpected (and painfully awkward) meeting. As he had come to expect, Gabriel listened with a look of mild confusion (and pity), but it didn’t bother Aziraphale all that much. He had his books. “You can tell the others there’s no reason to worry,” he continued quickly, hoping their conversation had reached its conclusion, “I have all we need right here.”

“No surprises, Aziraphale,” Gabriel warned in goodbye, slipping out the door, “and remember, they can’t see nearly as well as we can.”

“Well, we know that’s not true.”

The surprising (yet unmistakable) tenor of Crowley’s voice echoed from the darkness of Aziraphale’s office, which had been empty the last he checked. The angel in question could do little to prevent the slight hitch in his breathing, concerned with not only the unexpected appearance of a demon, but so quickly after the departure of an angel that would certainly see said demon immediately and irrevocably smited.

“That’s cheeky,” Aziraphale mumbled as Crowley sauntered out of the back room, his hair in its usual impeccable coif.

Shortly after Aziraphale acquired the bookshop, and not without some degree of honest ignorance as to why, Crowley did what he unfortunately happened to do best, and asked Aziraphale precisely what was the point of it all? And as had become usual practice, Aziraphale had a maddeningly difficult time coming up with an answer.

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” he finally admitted, “as soon as I do I shall let you know.”

“With bated breath, Angel,” Crowley had responded in distraction, his own nose lost in one of Aziraphale’s many books that he had seemingly no definitive explanation for.

. . .

The thing about Aziraphale’s exchange with the archangel Gabriel, that is the somewhat truncated version of an answer to Crowley’s “why,” was much longer and perhaps more blasphemous than Gabriel wanted to hear. But it was, possibly, exactly the kind of thing a demon (or rather, this demon) would want to hear.

Though Gabriel’s visit made for something of a stressful few hours, it was a particularly lovely day nonetheless. The leaves had begun changing their colors, but it was still pleasantly warm when standing in the sun, and should he feel just a touch too warm, a perfectly timed (some might say, miraculously timed) gust of wind would breeze on through the open window. Despite the fresh autumnal air, the smell of the books often lingered; the unmistakable scent of old paper and ink blending seamlessly with the decaying leaves which wound through the air and along the pavement.

“Do you happen to recall,” Aziraphale began, pouring Crowley an exquisitely steeped cup of Earl Grey, “when I first acquired this shop?”

In so much as Crowley could be predictable, he did, quite predictably, feign forgetfulness (not that angels or demons could forget very much by the very fact of their design). “Not certain,” he pondered theatrically, his sharp chin resting in the palm of his hand. “About what century was this, d’you think?”

Making the conscientious decision to refuse to participate in Crowley’s strange theatrics, Aziraphale continued, adjusting his vest as if it had suddenly shrunk while he was wearing it (which was certainly possible, he supposed). “Well, you had asked of me an admittedly fair question as to why I had purchased the shop at all, and I had told you I wasn’t quite certain as to why, and━”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, taking a sip of his tea, “let’s hear it then.”

“Well,” he began, somewhat taken aback by Crowley’s abrupt demand for an answer he had recently pretended to have forgotten, “I━I do believe it might have something to do with… love. Of all things.”

Crowley’s nose did indeed wrinkle, as if a bad sort of smell had passed beneath it from having even heard the word, but he did have a thoughtful look. If Aziraphale had to describe it, he might find himself comparing it to a rather more subdued version of the look that had passed over Crawley’s face subsequent to the infrequently mentioned Flaming Sword Incident (™). An expression of pleased surprise which, in retrospect, betrayed a yearning optimism that most demons should not, under any circumstances, possess.

See, as it happened, Aziraphale had been doing a lot of thinking as of late. Not a great habit, a stern-looking Gabriel would often scold in his head, It’s all been figured out anyway, no need to go reinventing the wheel. As it happened, Gabriel was quite unimpressed with the invention of the wheel. No great feat, in his estimation. Not that he found humans to be impressive in most cases. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he supposed. Gabriel hadn’t been tasked with the job Aziraphale had━maybe if he had been, he would’ve arrived at similar conclusions (likely not so, but it was hard for Aziraphale to deny giving others the benefit of the doubt).

If you were in fact playing one of the two roles assigned to you (that of Angel or Demon), you might be privy to something of a hotly debated topic. Love. What was it? Who was capable of it? Was it a uniquely human trait? Was it freely available to all beings? And of course, as was the question in most things, how in the world was God involved in all this?

“Oh, Angel, not this old… chestnut,” Crowley nearly spat. Despite the darkened frames over his eyes, Aziraphale practically felt his rolling of them.

“Now, hold on,” he continued, hoping to cut Crowley off at some self-righteous pass he knew wasn’t far behind, “just… wait.”

Obviously, it was rather difficult for anyone to speculate with any degree of certainty the true machinations of God’s mind. Whether God had designed everything (angels included) with the capability to feel and/or express love in its entirety or not, Aziraphale had begun to wonder whether or not it very much mattered (the debate, that is). You had to start with the Assumption (™).

“Which is…?”

A self-fulfilling prophecy. An angel such as Aziraphale, assuming that it didn’t much matter (whether or not God had given angels the capacity for love), which was the general opinion of the heavenly chorus━or Crowley and other demons similarly assuming it was all a vile manipulation borne of boredom and the Almighty’s irrepressible urge to have a hand (metaphorically speaking) in just about everything. All this and still the usual refrain from both sides: Humans and love, they know not what they do. As if the heavenly (or not so heavenly) were, at the very least, immune.

“It’s the isolation you see,” Aziraphale managed to somewhat tangientally conclude, “the being… trapped, as it were. In their bodies.”

It was in that moment that Aziraphale worried whether or not he had gotten a tad too close to the Spilled Wine Incident (™) which had occurred several centuries earlier ( long unspoken of). Wondered if perhaps Crowlely had, in his own time, reached a similar conclusion, and was in fact thinking the same exact thing. That of angelic… mingling and the somewhat invasive ability to see into the heart of someone’s soul, versus the perfectly human ability to hardly know a person at all except perhaps through a brief brushing of hands. The arrangement of words on a page. The splashes of color on a canvas. That perhaps God, in all her… strange, bureaucratic dereliction of parental duty had in fact given human beings one single instance of superiority.

“Love.”

In a limit imposed by God, human beings could only love one another given truly uncomfortable degrees of uncertainty, and what angel or demon had ever taken such a risk?

In case you (the reader) were wondering, interrupted God with a very gentle boom (otherwise one’s head was quite likely to explode), it’s them. The two of them. Idiots.

“So, the bookshop,” Crowley spoke, filling the void of Aziraphale’s silence, “you wanted to know more about this… Risky Business?”

There was almost certainly the undercurrent of a joke in there that Aziraphale would require an explanation for at some other juncture, but for now he merely nodded. “I believe so,” smiling into his cup, “for how valuable are our observations if we’ve only ever made them through our own omniscience?”

Long, long story, very much shortened to a far more reasonable and linear degree: Since The Beginning, angels and demons had largely felt confident in their belief that they knew far more than the average human (Agnes Nutter aside, of course); and Aziraphale, in the midst of an occasional crisis as to who knew what and how well, had, with the acquisition of his quaint little bookshop been unconsciously soothed by a truth several centuries in the making. That angels, like humans, did not in fact know everything. That they were not necessarily immune to what it was they had supposed, and that, quite blessedly, there was just… so very much to know. Even after all this time. Pages and pages and pages of things to know.

“It’s a fair point,” Crowley answered with a brief smile of his own, “never much cared for all the…” A signature wave of his free hand, bereft of his teacup, “...business anyway.” Referring of course to the traditional forms of angelic and/or demonic communication, which funnily enough, neither gentleman had experienced for quite some time.

And it was, during this particular turn in the narrative (quite nearing its conclusion, I promise you), that an angel and a demon would brush hands for a historical second time. Historic for the existence of hands, the fact of their briefly touching again, and of course the reality of their circumstances (which Aziraphale had become rather tired of noting). They both reached for the teapot at the same moment you see, which, if one were a betting man (or woman), they might imagine a divine hand or two, or several, or however many hands God might prefer to have, in the mix.

What made this particular time so different from the first was not only the fact of their very recent conversation, but the privilege of having several hundred years to have a good, rational think on the matter. So rational, in fact, that the urge to spring violently apart and knock something over seemed to be entirely absent.

“You know, I’ve often found it rather funny,” Aziraphale began quietly, painfully aware of where their fingers touched, “that despite my theory, you have often been quite good at mirroring my own thoughts.”

“Ironic,” Crowley agreed, “though you are rather easy to read I’m afraid.”

The beautiful thing about a brush is the secondary movements that might come after━particularly when the brush might provoke a pause. Most anything can occur in the midst of a pause. One might move a finger, for example, which in turn might elicit a not unpleasant shiver down one’s spine. There’s also the accompanying sound, which, for all his talk of humans being superior, it was a shame that their hearing was so dreadfully ordinary. It would be rather difficult for a human being to hear breath in the same way Aziraphale or Crowley might, sitting apart as they were. The intake and the exhale, all occurring within a brief, blissful pause which, along with their shared breath and the clinking of china, was accompanied by the continued autumnal breeze, and the scattering of dried foliage.

“I think,” Crowley continued, his hand moving, ever so slowly, to fully grasp Aziraphale’s own, “that we should consider testing your theory again.”

“Q-quite,” Aziraphale managed to answer, wonderfully overwhelmed by all the knowing (and marvelous not-knowing) occurring within the tangle of their hands. “I do enjoy a thorough undertaking of the scientific method.”

. . .

They were both wrong (the gossiping, angelic and demonic masses) because, in an infuriatingly on point God move, they were both partially right, weren’t they? Yes, of course, angels were always capable of love, but God was rather busy wasn’t She? She’s a deity just like any other━lots to do. Being in charge while also doing Her best to refrain from micromanaging, which She’d been told employees didn’t actually like, so can you really blame her for being a bit aloof sometimes? An honest mistake, really. Nothing quite so sinister as the demons might like to believe, nor so benevolent as the angels would like to think. And besides, She’d given them humanity, and She did love a good game of risk.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #@hencethewriter #y'all it has been #about 5 months #working on this garbage #also i wish tumblr #would fix it's fucking formatting #but we know that'll never happen so

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thesportssoundoff · 5 years ago

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“Conor McGregor is back! Excitement may vary. Excitement in this card may vary! Excitement is really yours to have and hold, folks” The UFC 246 Fight Preview

Joey

January 13th, 2020

The UFC kicks off its 2019 schedule after a few long weeks off with a card that will, with very little sarcasm in play, play a hefty part in defining the way 2020 rolls out deep into the year. UFC 246 from Las Vegas, Nevada is a weird card on paper but it's also very significant and significance can sometimes create card quality/card quantity. Conor McGregor vs Donald Cerrone is a significant fight, one that figures to ask and answer a lot of questions for both men. For better or worse, the future of two divisions could be mapped out in one night depending on the results of one which fight which again parlays to its perceived significance. The PPV main card is "fine" although it clearly lacks a significant co-main event and the televised prelims are actually respectably spiffy as they're essentially four well put together "prospect of note vs proven veteran" fights with some good early ESPN+ prelim action too. Again I don't know if this card is good or bad---just that it's a significant card of fights and by the time Friday comes along, that long term delay in high level MMA is going to be eating at us SO we'll be all in on this one.

2020 Stat-O-Matic:

Debuting Fighters (): Ode Osbourne, Aleksa Camur Main Event Exemption:

Short Notice Fighters (): Main Event Exemption:

Second Fight (): Askar Askarov Main Event Exemption: Vs Debutantes:

Cage Corrosion (Fighters who have not fought within a year of the date of the fight) (): Conor McGregor, Brian Kelleher Main Event Exemption: Conor McGregor

Undefeated Fighters (): Aleksa Camur, Maycee Barber Main Event Exemption:

Fighters with at least four fights in the UFC with 0 wins over competition still in the organization (): Alexey Oleinik, Justin Ledet Main Event Exemption:

Weight Class Jumpers (Fighters competing outside of the weight class of their last fight even if they’re returning BACK to their “normal weight class”) (): Donald Cerrone, Conor McGregor Main Event Exemption: Conor McGregor, Donald Cerrone

Twelve Precarious Ponderings

1- So what necessarily is the end game here for Conor McGregor? As has been the case since he broke out onto the scene and KO'd Jose Aldo, much of Conor's "plans" feel less like plans and more like thoughts he forces into existence. The good stuff like being a double champ and finagling a big money Floyd fight and the bad stuff like the Khabib lead up or believing he could just beat Nate Diaz up 15 lbs because it seemed like fun all feel like the decisions of a guy who sort of just decides he's going to do something and then does it regardless of the long term impact. Conor had the chance to fight Justin Gaethje and instead pushed for Frankie Edgar fight, ultimately leading us to the here and now where he'll draw Donald Cerrone up a weight class after a year plus layoff. In the time between Conor's LAST fight and this one, he's been arrested, accused of sexual assault, accused of fathering a child out of his marriage and feel free to fill me in on anything I may have missed. What sort of made Conor McGregor a superstar was that he flirted with the concept of being a character completely in control of everything he did and 2019 at the very exposed him as somebody lacking any semblance of control within his life. Either way, it's hard to say what the future holds for McGregor with a win. We know a loss means it's over as four losses in his last five pro fights (I'm counting Floyd here for completionist sake) would probably kill whatever credibility he had and whatever legitimacy he garnered over the course of three years running through the UFC ranks. A win? It's hard to say with a guy who when he's right has the ability to dictate what he opts to do next. A win? Conor McGregor would fight Jorge Masvidal in a big money fight, a third Diaz fight, a GSP fight where both fighters can cash out or go and chase down Khabib. If one truly wishes to get stupid, I suppose fights with Pacquaio, Floyd or Paulie Malignaggi exist out there as well. The first step isn't so much winning this fight but winning this fight and getting back to what made this whole act work to begin with.

2- This is historically the sort of fight Cerrone doesn't show up for and gets forced out of his element but there's some things here I think that do tilt the scales slightly in his favor. For starters, I DO believe in ring rust and Conor hasn't fought in over a year and has fought just twice since the end of 2016. You can argue that wear and tear means Cerrone is shop worn but I feel as though he fights better the MORE he fights and the more active he is. For a fighter like Conor who lives or dies based upon how sharp his timing is, I think it's fair to wonder if the long layoff is going to shake him. We saw him struggle with his timing vs Khabib and while Khabib is on a whole different galaxy than Cerrone, I'd argue it's worse to be slightly off vs a dude like Cerrone who does have the starch in his strikes to do more than flash KD you. Also Cerrone is probably the first guy since Jose Aldo that Conor's had to be mindful of walking into smoke with the legs. Also Cerrone's been campaigning at 170 lbs on and off since 2016 and so you have to assume if this is about being comfortable at the weight class, he's got the nod over Conor.

3- Under normal circumstances, I'd say "I think Conor's defensive wrestling is somewhat understated and the idea that anybody can take him down and sub him is a fallacy" but I also have ZERO idea if he's actually done any serious grappling training or if he's just hoping Cerrone's going to play nice and strike with him for a bit.

4- Which fight is more undesirable for Amanda Nunes; a Holly Holm rematch where she can't realistically top what she did in the first fight or a Rocky Pennington rematch where she'll be tasked with trying to sell/expand upon one of her most boring fights ever?

5- I wonder who is more broken in theory between Holm and Pennington. Rocky looked to be on the verge of going from solid WMMA fighter to a damn good top 5-ish woman at 135 lbs after dominating Meisha Tate but she broke her leg, took a lot of time off, followed that up with a dud vs Amanda Nunes and then got stalled out by Germaine de Randamie. She rebounded with a win over Irene Aldana which almost felt more about Aldana being a putz and less about any sort of sign of a rebound for Rocky. It's worth remembering that the fight vs Holm was the one that got sort of signified that Rocky was better than people realized but it required her to pressure for fifteen minutes and that's sort of gone away for her recently. As for Holm? She's fought Rousey, Cyborg, Tate, Shevchenko and Nunes. She's pushing 40. She had an extensive boxing history that suggests she's taken plenty of damage. She just got KO'd for the first time in her UFC run the last time out and at this point it's fair to ask if Holm's durability is going to be shot. This fight is why Aspen Ladd figuring shit out is really important for this division.

6- Maurice Green and Alexey Olenik being on this main card is curious until you realize that this main card has two WMMA fights and a fight at lightweight on it. Sometimes beef gets called in to "bulk" up the main card.

7- Anthony Pettis sure picked a fine week to announce a UFC lawsuit, am I right?

8- Let's talk about how great these prelims are for a second. Sodiq Yusuff vs Andre Fili is a battle of exciting prospect and proven veteran with a multitude of ways to win. Nasrat Haqparast vs Drew Dober is a battle of exciting prospect vs proven veteran with a multitude of ways to win. Maycee Barber vs Roxanne Modafferi almost feels like the potential crowning of Maycee as a 125 lb contender by taking on a former title contender who STYLISTICALLY will at least give us a reason to double check her ability to do things such as defend takedowns and deal with pressure. Lastly I REALLY do love this fight between Chas Skelly and Grant Dawson as Dawson has slowly gone from somewhat awkward wrestling savant to a more well rounded pressure fighter while Chas Skelly is one of those ultimate gatekeeper types for young fighters. These are all great fights worthy of going out of your way to see on ESPN.

9- We're four years now into the Alexa Grasso project and I still don't know if she has the fight smarts to ever take the next step in her career. A good test vs a declining Claudia Gadelha who still has something to offer.

10- How much ya wanna bet Maurice Green allows Olenik to pull him down on top of him?

11- Justin Ledet's run at 205 lbs has been weird as his lack of athleticism for the weight class plus what feels like an odd lack of strength (How he was burly enough to fight at HW but gets chucked around at 205 lbs is a mystery to me) has made him go 0-2 in the division. After a lengthy lay off, he's back at 205 lbs against Aleksa Camur. Camus is a training partner of Stipe Miocic and he got in here off the Contenders Series where he had a crazy fight that exposed him to be a) wacky as all hell and b) a bit too raw for my liking in the UFC. This feels pretty winnable for Spirit of Truth lookalike Ledet.

12- Ode Osbourne vs Brian Kelleher is an early FOTY candidate to me.

#MMA #UFC #McGregor #Cerrone #Pettis #CDF #Holm #Pennington #Prospects

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ghostofviperwrites · 5 years ago

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Switch

Pairing: Fenix/FC/Pentagon Jr.

Thanks to @monstersmaid for the concept. I hope it came out alright

Category: Smut

Word Count: 2392

Warnings: Threesome, rough sex, spanking, whipping, language

You giggled as Pentagon wrapped his arms around your waist on the outskirts of the crowded dance floor, his warm skin searing the bare flesh of your back as he pressed against you. You had been dancing well into your cups and feeling no pain. You sighed, hands raising over your head to grasp the back of Pentagon’s as his lips attached to your neck. When he bit into the soft skin you felt it all the way to your core, grinding your ass into his groin.

“Tonight we’re going to have some fun amante.” Pentagon whispered into your ear as he pulled away from your neck. “You want to have some fun?”

You nodded against his chest your eyes starting to drift closed as you tried to imagine what he could have in mind. You had only been seeing each other for a couple of months, the time you had together seriously impacted by his insane travel schedule. Instead you found your attention focused at the bar just a few feet away, your movements slowing as you saw another masked man leaning against it, his eyes firmly on you. It wasn’t so much the mask that caught your attention, but his face which was painted identical to Penta’s. In the dark night club you could almost mistake him for Pentagon were it not for the different style masks the two wore. You squinted trying to get a better look, something about the man drawing you in.

“Something catch your eye over there Cariña?” Pentagon growled noticing your lack of attention.

“No Penta,” You denied quickly wincing as the hold around your waist tightened.

“Are you sure about that? Cause you’re looking at my brother as if you want to fuck him.” Penta asked, his movements slowing until you were at a standstill on the dance floor.

“That’s your brother?” You gasped unable to stop yourself from looking at him again trying to note similarities between the two men but finding it difficult due to the combination of the amount of alcohol you had consumed and the dark lighting in the club.

“Sí Cariña that is my brother Fenix you are lusting after.” Pentagon affirmed.

“I’m not lusting after him.” You protested weakly knowing full well that you had been. “He just caught my attention, that’s all.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Penta murmured. “As has he.” He shifted you in his arms turning you around to face him his hands resting on your hips. You stared up into his cold countenance feeling a chill as you felt trapped in his cold blue eyes. You stiffened as another pair of hands appeared on your hips, resting in the curve of your waist just above Penta’s. Based on Penta’s lack of reaction you guessed it was Fenix touching you.

“What’s…what’s going on Penta?” You asked, voice shaking with nerves as Fenix’s fingers teased over your stomach.

“I told you we were going to have fun tonight.” Penta said. “At least Fenix and I are.” The two men chuckled and Fenix pressed himself against your back trapping you between the two brothers on the dance floor.

“How well you perform will determine how much fun you get to have.” Fenix whispered into your ear, his tongue flicking out over your lobe. You were torn between excitement and apprehension as Penta and Fenix simultaneously stepped back from you, Penta grabbing your hand and leading you off the dance floor as Fenix followed along behind.

No words were spoken as the three of you crossed the street to your hotel and into the elevator. As soon as the doors slid closed Penta abruptly released your hand, pushing you into Fenix’s arms. You found yourself staring wide-eyed into his face, dark eyes flashing with a familiar fire that reminded you of Pentagon. You couldn’t help but wonder just how similar the two were.

His hands were on your hips, stroking you with his thumbs as the elevator lurched slowly towards your destination. Fenix lowered his mouth to yours and you gladly surrendered, hands moving to his thick shoulders and parting your lips as his tongue entered your mouth. You melted into the kiss, Fenix’s talented tongue making your knees week and core throb. You whimpered when he pulled away as the elevator stopped at your floor.

This time Fenix lead as Penta followed along. As you entered the room you reached to flick on the lights but found your hand caught by Fenix.

“No lights.” Penta said moving towards the bathroom to switch on that light, leaving the door open a crack. “This is all we need.” You didn’t have time to ponder what they were up to as Fenix pulled your back flush with his body, brushing your hair to the side and bringing his lips to your neck. Penta approached his hands reaching for the neckline of your low cut dress and ripping it right down the middle.

“Penta!” You yelled. “You can’t just rip my dress. I just bought that.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Pentagon with a challenging grin that had you backing down. Challenging Penta never ended well. Seeing your submission Penta pushed the tattered dress down your shoulders to fall on the floor followed by your panties, leaving you nude before them.

Fenix’s hands roamed up your body cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples sharply eliciting a cry of pain from you before he shoved you away from his body making you land on your knees in front of the now nude Pentagon. Immediately his fist wrapped around your hair pulling your face to his cock and pushing it past your lips.

Penta’s hips bucked into your mouth, lodging in your throat repeatedly and making you gag around him, your nails digging into his muscular thighs as spit pooled in your mouth and dripped out of your lips. Fenix knelt behind you on the floor left hand resting on your hip as he moved his right between your thighs. He said something to Penta in their native tongue both men laughing and making you flush. You had no clue what was said but Fenix’s tone and the derisive laughter told you it wasn’t something flattering.

Fenix’s fingers strummed along your slit, easily gliding through your juices before two fingers were pushed into your waiting heat. You moaned around Penta’s cock as Fenix curled his fingers inside you, twisting and thrusting his hand rapidly into your moist cunt.

Your hips thrust back in time with Fenix’s movements while you struggled to breathe through your nose as Penta’s hips battered your face. Your lips stung from the force of his movements and you cast pleading eyes up at him begging for relief from his barrage. Your pleas fell on deaf ears, instead bringing more snap to his hips as he stared down at you with a smirk as he watched your struggles.

Fenix’s fingers curled inside you once again and his thumb rubbed rough circles over your clit making you groan around Penta’s cock. Penta’s thrusts stilled with your nose to his groin, holding you in place by the hair watching you with his dark eyes as unshed tears glittered in your eyes. Finally he pulled free of your throat and rammed his cock quickly in and out of your mouth, grunting with a final thrust as his seed coated your tongue.

You gasped in deep breaths as your head hung while you tried to recover from Penta’s rough use. Penta stretched out on the bed, intense eyes focused on you and Fenix.

“Eyes on me,” Penta commanded as Fenix resumed his movements, long thick fingers twisting and curling inside your heat making you whimper as pleasure built up inside you. A third finger was added, stretching your hole as Fenix moved his fingers inside you with harsh thrusts. You rocked to meet his hand, soft whines leaving your lips as he pushed hard on your clit and fucked you with his fingers. Your head dropped to the floor, wordless cries echoing through the room as you chased after your orgasm until you were yanked back onto all fours by Fenix’s fist in your hair.

“I believe my brother said eyes on him.” Fenix growled forcing you to look back at Penta who was idly stroking his cock as he watched you fall apart for his brother. Feeling yourself about to come undone you looked desperately at Penta.

“Can I cum?” You ground out on a gasp as Fenix pushed deep inside you. “Please?”

“No.” Penta said sharply. “You don’t get to cum tonight.”

“Why not?” You whined, disappointment making you foolish enough to question Penta’s directive. Your response was a solid slap to the ass as he released your hair and pulled his fingers free. Pentagon climbed off the bed and grabbed a hold of your hair, arching your neck back at an awkward angle as Fenix pressed his glistening fingers into your mouth and leaned down to your ear.

“Because sluts who can’t tell one brother from the other don’t get to cum.” Fenix said biting your ear hard making you whimper. Your head darted up confusion marring your features as you looked from one man to the other.

“Whose cock did you suck?” Pentagon asked kneeling down by your other ear.

“Yours.” You stuttered.

“And who am I?” He inquired. “I’d choose carefully if I were you.” Your eyes darted back and forth between the men not able to get a clear look due to the angle Penta had your head held at.

Your mind raced trying to figure out what game they were playing. He was Penta. You were sure of it. But what if he wasn’t? Why would he be asking if he was Penta? You chewed on your bottom lip trying to outthink the brothers. Maybe he was trying to get you to say he was Fenix so he could punish you.

“You’re Penta.” You said with more confidence than you felt.

“Wrong.” Fenix growled in your ear. “Yo soy Pentagon. And you my dear are in for a world of hurt.” Your heart sunk in your chest at his response, knowing any chance of a good for you was now long gone. Reluctantly you allowed the real Pentagon to pull you to your feet and bend you over the bed, ass high in the air before he walked over to his back and pulled out his leather belt.

“I think I should be the one to punish her.” Fenix said flashing you a naughty grin and giving you a slap on the ass. “I am the one who played you so perfectly your own woman didn’t know it wasn’t you.”

Penta looked from the belt in his hands to his brother before shrugging and handing it over.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Penta said moving to the bed and crawling to kneel in front of your face. He rubbed the tip of his hard cock along your swollen lips then sliding his length into your mouth.

“I’m gonna make her cry more than you ever have.” Fenix taunted stepping behind you and giving a soft slap to your ass with the belt.

“Please.” Penta scoffed as he pushed your head down further on his cock. “You don’t have what it takes cabron.”

The blow was so fast and unexpected, ripping into your flesh and making you scream around Penta’s cock. Fenix gave Penta a cocky grin making his brother roll his eyes as he tried not to look impressed as Fenix landed four more blows that had tears streaming down your face. Baby bro had picked up a few tricks since the last time they had played together.

Pulling his cock out of your mouth Penta encircled it with his hand and rubbed the tip over your cheeks collecting your tears before shoving it back into your mouth. You grimaced at the salty taste of your tears as Penta shoved into your throat, struggling to muffle your cries as Fenix continued battering your bottom.

You cried in relief when Fenix threw the belt on the floor until his hands landed on your ass with another firm slap before he guided his cock into your pussy. You whimpered around Penta’s cock as Fenix thrust deep inside you raking his nails over your tender flesh, his every stroke forcing Penta deeper into your throat once again making drool fall from your lips.

“Good, but not quite good enough brother. She does not sing for you as she does for me.” Penta taunted giving a sharp thrust of his hips that had you gagging on his thickness once again. As Penta pulled himself from your mouth Fenix took the opportunity to rake his nails from your shoulders to your hips leaving angry red welts on your flesh and making you scream so loudly Penta had to slap a hand over your mouth. He glared at Fenix who shrugged unrepentantly and slammed himself deep inside you once again.

“You mean like that?” Fenix asked with a laugh as Penta flipped him the middle finger and focused on you rather than his pain in the ass brother.

For the next several hours you were used like a ragdoll between the tumultuous men, each trying to outdo the other as they fucked you from both ends leaving you a worn out mess when they finally deemed themselves satisfied. You lay panting on the bed as Fenix dressed the two brothers talking in rapid fire Spanish you had no hopes of understanding before Penta clapped him on the back with a smile and walked him to the door. Once Fenix was gone Penta turned to you his cold glare sending chills down your spine. How you could have ever mistaken him for Fenix, even wearing the Bird of War’s mask, you didn’t know. Just looking in his eyes you knew exactly who he was and just how angry he was at you.

“You sang so pretty for mi hermano.” Penta said walking towards the bed, leaning down to pick up the belt discarded by Fenix. “I guess I have to teach you a new song.”

#pentagon jr fanfic #pentagon jr imagine #Fenix imagine #Fenix fanfic #aew fanfic #wrestling fanfic #mywriting #ghostofviperwrites

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