#right after my scheduled lobotomy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tiressian · 1 year ago

Note

Debate? Heated argument?

What about a quarrel because someone is... jealous. 😌🤭

But honestly, I've been waiting for you to write a jealous fic/sex trope. 🥺👉👈

You're in luck 😂 I have a scrapped jealousy scene from Hello Nurse that has kissing, on the house:

content warning for Naoya lmao, rated high T, sensuality, cussing

I’m getting laid, Shoko decides.

Ideally, she’d prefer a targeted lobotomy: erase everything about Satoru that makes her stomach tie up in knots, but anyone who’s manifested such a Cursed Technique has yet to step foot through the school gates. The thing about Satoru is he’s insufferable but also oddly considerate in unexpected ways, and these two facets of him are in constant harmony, which is frustrating, because he also has the nerve to be consistent about it.

Satoru’s stopped munching on her party-sized bag of potato chips and is staring at her.

“Oh,” Shoko says, realising after a pause. “Said that out loud, didn’t I?” Satoru nods slowly. Sorry. What were you talking about?”

“My annual ‘End of Summer; Zero Deaths!’ party,” he says. He goes back to munching. Shoko got the salt and vinegar flavour out of spite, but that doesn’t stop him from stuffing it down by the handful. “Ish gonna be ‘allow-een-feem.”

“Halloween-themed?”

Satoru nods, swallowing. “Yeah, costumes. You’re coming right? Who knows; you might even get lucky.”

“Who are you going as?”

“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” Satoru says, puffing out his chest briefly. Probably another character from all those movies he watches, Shoko assumes. “Wanna go matchy matchy? I think red suits ya.”

“Ha-ha.” Stupid Morgue joke, she thinks. Stupid Satoru, making the same one every year, as if it’ll magically land if he does it enough times.

“Worth a shot.” Satoru shrugs. He tips his head back to empty the rest of the potato chips down the hatch.

“Satoru,” Shoko says, suddenly remembering.

“Yo!”

“What kind of woman do you like?”

Satoru is briefly serious, thinking about it. The moment he smiles, Shoko knows she’s in for mischief. “Hmm, well. I really like women who like me.”

Shoko groans.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“Such a copout.”

“How’s it a copout?” Satoru scoffs, and as convincing as it sounds, Shoko’s ears are highly attuned to filtering out the bullshit.

“Plenty of women like you.”

“Still doesn’t mean my answer’s a copout.”

“Yes it is.” Satoru gives her a blank look. “You’ve noticed all those women liking you; you’ve at least figured out your preference if you haven’t acted on the fact by now.”

Satoru smiles coyly at her. “What an intriguing diagnosis. What makes you so sure I haven’t?”

There’s a fine line between teasing and flirting. Satoru is a deft hand at blurring that line no matter who he talks to. Five years ago, it made her heart race—until she realised he did that with everyone. Now it just triggers an involuntary eye roll.

“I’m not,” she says while Satoru chuckles. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“It’s Six Eyes, not Six Hundred Eyes. Shoko, come on; I look like the kinda guy with that kind of time on my hands? You know my schedule.”

Another cop out. “I do know your schedule. I also know you have a knack for making space when it’s convenient.”

“Heaven forbid a guy practices time management!” Satoru throws his hands in the air.

“Favourite body part then,” Shoko says. Satoru tilts his head. “Are you a tits man or are you an ass man?”

Satoru snorts, then busts out laughing. He catches the marker pen Shoko flings at his head and sets it down calmly on her desk.

“I’m definitely an uncomfortable man,” he says.

“You’re lying.”

“Am not Shoko, I really am uncomfy.”

“Look, I’ll get the ball rolling: I like guys with nice bodies. That’s why I asked Suguru out,” she says. “See? Nothing you need to think too hard about.”

“Clearly.” Satoru says, catching her in a stare down. Eventually Shoko relents, unnerved. She looks away, digging into her labcoat pocket for the comfort of a cigarette. Stupid man, stupid consistency. “That strung out, huh…”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Shoko sighs. She balances her cigarette between her lips while she feels around her pant pockets for the lighter. It takes a couple of flicks before she finally gets a flame going. Satoru is quiet as he watches.

“Come to my party,” he says eventually, all teasing gone. “You never come.”

“I don’t like the noise.”

“Plenty of quiet corners. And beer.”

“What if I don’t want to wear a costume?”

“Then you’re drinking water.”

“Alright, compromise: I’ll come and I’ll wear a costume if you answer the stupid—”

“Hands,” Satoru says, heading off her rant at the pass with a smile.

Shoko closes her eyes and takes a drag. There’s never any comfortable middle ground when it comes to attention from Satoru. Always the extremes of barely enough, to have her noticing the days between his last visits and his current one, and too much all at once, filling her space with his presence until she feels suffocated by it.

“It’s stupid though,” he says.

“Liking hands isn’t stupid,” she says on an exhale.

“I mean liking only one part of a person. People aren’t made to be experienced in parts. You take them whole: good, bad…kinky.”

Shoko opens her eyes and finds him grinning at her, clearly having added that last part just to get a reaction out of her.

Shoko gives him nothing. She’s had enough years training herself out of knee-jerk reactions. She closes her eyes again and brushes the delusion aside.

“You’re weird,” she declares.

“I’m marking you down as Attending,” Satoru says. “Wear a costume—an actual costume—or you get no beer.”

He goes, leaving her office door open behind him so it can ventilate. “Smoking kills,” he says over his shoulder.

…

The party is in full swing when Shoko finally steps out of the elevator onto the penthouse floor. Sanji (Nanami) is there to let her in before he excuses himself to the bathroom. He doesn’t bat an eyelash at Shoko’s outfit, but then Nanami tends not to bat his eyelashes at most things.

“Utahime’s already drunk,” he explains. “I have to go hold her hair. There’s a walk-in closet where you can leave your coat.”

Satoru, or ‘The Dread Pirate Roberts’ is in the kitchen, finding entertainment in watching a zombie (Itadori) and a witch (Kugisaki) race to see who can shotgun their cokes the fastest while a mummy (Maki) boredly stands off to the side, eating from a skewer.

There’s a large icebox filled with beers set up by the couches. Shoko passes the kitchen as she weaves her way through the throng toward it, pretending as if she isn’t unnerved by the stares following her until she hears glass shattering. When she turns her head to the commotion, she finds Satoru standing there, staring at her like a deer in headlights, with the same blush she’d seen weeks earlier creeping across his face.

Yuki’s about to have a field day.

She gives the downright flabbergasted pirate a polite wave in greeting, careful to hide her glee. Then she continues on, retrieving a beer from the ice box and making herself at home on the empty space of couch that Two-Face (Naoya Zen’in) of all people has just cleared out for her. As she crosses one leg over the other, he leers without an ounce of shame, which seems to be a common denominator for these clan types. Then he shifts closer, draping an arm casually behind her head on the couch’s backrest, bringing her into his domain. He smells nice, Shoko will give him that much.

“Well hello nurse,” he greets, in the pompous tone of a man very used to getting his way. “You’re a long way from the Infirmary.”

The current leader of the Hei is a walking red flag, a veritable patron saint of Rotten to the Core. The name Zen’in is a warning label all its own already, but by god does this man work to make sure it stays that way. Shoko knows this, every woman in the jujutsu world knows this.

But Naoya is also hot and she came here to get laid. She’s already accomplished her primary goal of wiping Satoru’s perennial smirk off his face, and that’s worth celebrating. Shoko considers both truths as she pops open her beer. She decides just for tonight she doesn’t care if Naoya doesn’t respect her. He’s never needed her like everyone else in Tokyo Jujutsu High’s needed her, come crying when there’s something to be fixed.

Feeling wanted, even if it’s by Naoya Zen’in of all people, is way too nice of a thing to not smile about.

“Yes, I walked all this way just to sit here with you,” Shoko tells Naoya.

...

Naoya gets a phone call from the clan head and excuses himself to the balcony to answer, which is good timing for her, because she needs another beer. Most of the drinks have sunk lower in the icebox on account of the ice melting, so she has to bend a bit to reach. She feels a few of the eyes in her immediate vicinity fixate on her ass as she does, but it can’t be helped. She’s just straightening up, two cans in hand when her back brushes up against a wall that wasn’t there before and smirks as she turns. She didn’t expect Naoya to be done with his clan business so quickly, but she’s far from bothered; it just means she can get to her business too.

“Aww did you miss m—oh,” Shoko realises, chuckling. Satoru has taped fake anime girl eyes into his blindfolds which are a hilarious contrast to the tension radiating off of him. He crosses his arms any tighter his head’s going to pop off like a cork, she thinks. “The Dread Pirate Roberts. What an honour.”

“Nice costume,” Satoru says. His smile is so fake, Barbie’s probably ringing him off the hook to sue about it.

“Thank you. I think I might actually be getting lucky tonight, so I appreciate the suggestion.”

The fake smile on Satoru’s face splinters. “Naoya? Really? You couldn’t find anyone else to talk to?”

“It’s so fascinating Satoru; I don’t think he recognises me. Do you think he remembers what you and Geto did to him during Goodwill?”

“What you and me and Geto did to him, you mean.”

“Bygones. We’re adults now, Satoru.”

“He isn’t.”

Shoko smiles, poking him in the chest. “Oh? I don’t think you have any authority to say how an adult’s supposed to act.”

Satoru bats her hand away and holds up a gloved finger, which he probably assumes is supposed to lend him some kind of gravitas but in Shoko’s eyes he just comes across as petulant. “I got enough authority in this finger, nay, my pinky—” he says, wagging it in her face, “to say that that guy’s a hundred percent garbage dressed up in a fancy suit.”

“Well, no one else is interested in talking to me, garbage or no garbage.”

Satoru gestures between them. “I’m talking to ya aren’t I?”

“Doesn’t count; you’re the host. My point stands. No one’s rushing to talk to me.”

“Because they saw Naoya talking to you.”

“Why’d you invite him then?”

“Because he did me a solid.”

“Ahh so he’s only ninety-nine percent garbage then,” Shoko says, and Satoru twitches, one corner of his mouth fighting a smile.

“You’re smarter than this Shoko.”

“It’s sex, Gojo. Nothing to be smart about.”

“Well the sex you’re after is political.”

As if she needed the reminder. Satoru looks at her expectantly. Shoko purses her lips, considering.

“What if I asked him really nicely to let you off the hook?”

“Snowball’s chance in hell that’s happening. Look at him, Shoko: throwing his weight around, already enacting his terrorism over there.”

Proclaiming Naoya as a terrorist is a step dramatic even for Satoru, Shoko thinks, as she follows where he’s pointing. “What, like he’s marked his territory? That is so ridic—” she cuts off with a snort at the scene on the balcony.

Naoya is still on his phone, leaning on the railing, his back to the entire world while he nurses a beer. The other party guests who were on the balcony before him have all instinctively crowded to one side to give him a wide berth.

Yes. Marking his territory does sound like something in the realm of what a man who only viewed women as playthings would do.

“It’s fine,” Shoko decides, turning back to Satoru. He’s staring at the ceiling for no discernible reason, a blush high on his cheeks. “What’s with you?”

Satoru mumbles something.

“Pardon?”

“I said Naoya sucks.”

“That’s what I thought you said. Now quit being a bad host and go save those poor balcony guests if you care so much. I’ll tell you about the sex tomorrow if I’m still alive.”

She squeezes his arm and leaves him staring at her back, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out.

...

On the spectrum of funny, Naoya is decidedly a lot less funnier than Satoru, which Shoko didn’t think possible until tonight. If there’s anything ‘funny’ about Naoya, it’s the way his gaze occasionally drifts to Maki from time to time. But Shoko also wants to get laid, and clan dynamics incestuous or otherwise are far down her list of things to be judgemental about, so.

It’s an excruciating twenty minute conversation, to say the least.

Shoko can only imagine what she looks like, smiling politely, and occasionally giggling, initiating contact by slapping Naoya lightly on the arm as though scandalised. She’s fervently relieved Utahime’s too drunk to see her subject herself to this, but Naoya’s staked his claim and it’s not as if anyone else is stepping up to the plate. That said, by virtue of his family name, rancid as his personality is, Naoya has to have no shortage of people lining up to throw themselves at his feet for the favours or protection being a Zen’in guarantees. He should be adept at seeing through bullshit pandering, especially since it’s not as if she’s going for the Oscar here. There’s a moment during their conversation where she thinks she sees intuition flash across Naoya’s face, but it seems to be unfounded when he inevitably cracks another unfunny joke and finally rests a hand on her knee. Shoko smiles as she takes a drink of her beer, dimly aware of the sound of glass shattering, amused by a different punchline:

Naoya is just like every other man.

...

And so is Satoru, apparently.

Naoya gets another phone call and Shoko won’t lie: it’s amusing to watch the people on the balcony part like the Red Sea the moment he steps out. She makes her way to the kitchen while Satoru herds everyone into the living room for some party games and starts assigning them up into teams.

The first game is charades. Shoko clears an entire tray of beef skewers while she watches, perched on one of the stools behind the kitchen counter. The only thing more entertaining than watching charades is watching drunk people argue technicalities for points.

The stool beside Shoko scrapes against the floor. Satoru steals the last beef skewer before she can get to it and cleans it off in one bite, chewing with more gusto than seems necessary since every piece has been cooked until tender.

“You n’ Naoya gettin’ real cozy,” he remarks.

“As cozy as one can get, sidling up to a viper’s nest?” Shoko guesses, smiling.

“Well at least you don’t need me to tell ya.”

Shoko watches him pull a tray of dumplings over and steals the one he was about to pick up as revenge, popping it into her mouth and smiling innocently back at him afterwards. Satoru mutters something under his breath and picks up a different dumpling.

“You know, Gojo,” Shoko says while they eat. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted Zen’in-kun for yourself.”

Satoru chokes mid-chew, beating a fist against his chest. Shoko claps him behind the back a few times to help dislodge it, admittedly with more force than required. This sudden burst of protectiveness is appreciated but unnecessary. Naoya and his ilk could stand to attend a gender studies class, but it’s not like she’s setting out to screw a scumbag curse user.

Satoru summons an unopened can of soda, and—after an expectant look from Shoko—a beer from the icebox with Blue. It’s as he’s sliding the beer over that Shoko notices the red smears on his wrists.

She jerks his hands towards her before he can drink so she can examine them closer. No wounds, just remnants of his reversed cursed energy kicking in, and fairly recently, too, judging by the strength of his residuals.

“What happened here? Fistfight with a knife?”

“Tch, no. Pyrex dish exploded.”

“What? How? Why? Those are supposed to be oven safe.”

“Dunno,” Satoru says. He clears his throat unnecessarily and tugs his hands back. Shoko sits back and watches him eat, a hundred percent certain he’s being evasive and trying to figure the angle.

“Never pictured you with a guy like Naoya,” he mutters, before he freezes, eyes wide, like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

Too late for him, Shoko pounces. She leans against him, smirking. Shoko doesn’t know what possesses her to do it, maybe it’s the costume giving her a boost of confidence, but she curls her fingers over his forearm, idly scraping her nails against the muscle she feels through the black silk of his shirt. Satoru stiffens at the contact, face pink, but he doesn’t move away.

“Oh? You were picturing me with guys? I didn’t know your schedule had space for ‘that kind of thing.’”

“Oh like you don’t have time picturing me with women. Miss ‘what’s your type?’”

Shoko drums her nails against Satoru’s forearm and sighs. “For your information, I only asked because Yuki wanted to know.”

“Yuki?” Satoru repeats, frowning at her. If Shoko didn’t know any better, she’d be tempted to say he looked disappointed. She presses on, tracing an ’S’ in his arm with a nail, amused at how every line in Satoru’s body seems to draw tighter the longer she does it. He’s never been the ticklish sort, so it’s fascinating.

“What kind of guys, Gojo? Go on, tell me. You’ve been so vocal tonight, don’t stop now.”

“Good guys.” Satoru’s tone is clipped.

“Look at Mr. Eloquent over here. What’s a ‘good guy’? Define it for me.”

“Ha, easy: anyone at this party who isn’t Naoya.”

“Anyone, huh…” Shoko lets go of his arm and glances to where the rest of the party guests have gathered, engaged in the most intense game of Pictionary she’s seen, gaze sweeping over the faces she knows.

Kiyotaka’s kind but too awkward. Mei Mei could be fun, but would probably lord it over me if she doesn’t try to swindle me first. Utahime’s already asleep. She tilts her head at Nanami whose lap Utahime has claimed dominion over for the foreseeable future.

“I guess that’s true,” Shoko admits. Satoru nods in that self-satisfied way of his that she’s used to and pops open his soda. “Do you know if Nanami’s seeing anyone?” Shoko asks and Satoru spits out his drink.

“Nanami?” He manages, recovering. Sheesh, from the look on his face you’d think she’d just declared that Suguru was right this whole time and that she’s going to buy a ticket on the genocide train.

“Why not? Isn’t he a good guy? Or would Haibara be a safer bet. He’s nice and I like his face.”

“Well, yeah, but.”

“But what? Is he taken?”

“No, he’s just.” Satoru glances to Nanami and then back to her, managing to look even more put out, which is dumbfounding, considering Naoya as her only other alternative. “Nanami? Seriously!”

The last part comes out so sharply that Shoko startles, and she sees from the way Satoru registers her reaction that the outburst is instantly regretted. She’s used to seeing him emotional, but always as a third party watching him rant at Ijichi. Being subject to that ire is as sobering as a shock of ice water to the face.

Shoko pops open her beer and skulls it, feeling her hands shake. She can’t deal with being sober right now, because then she’d have to contend with the knowledge of the ‘good guy’ sitting right in next to her never, ever, slowing down enough for her to reach him.

“Sorry,” Satoru mutters, massaging his temples. “Didn’t mean to snap. Hosting’s been a real pain. Think I’ll should just… I dunno, hire out an izakaya next time.”

“That’s the smartest, most adult thing you’ve said all day.”

“Tch. I should confiscate your beer.” Satoru continues to press his fingers to his temples, brows knitted together, eyes closed.

“Another migraine?”

“Yeah. From watching you slobber all over roadkill,” Satoru grumbles.

Shoko rolls her eyes and swivels his chair to face hers. Satoru cracks an eye open, looking at her quizzically.

“Here.” She pulls his hands down, replacing them with hers along the sides of his face. Satoru closes his eyes.

She’s done it so many times it’s muscle memory at this point. Locking in on the pressure built up behind his eyes takes her no time at all, and even less time to remove it completely. All in all the process takes no longer than five seconds, but Satoru’s expression remains pinched, so she lingers. She waits for him to move away, because he’s always the first to do so, always laughing awkwardly when he does. It’s a rejection she’s built an immunity to from sustained exposure.

Satoru finally moves, but not in the way she expects. Both his hands come up to cover hers while he turns his head in towards one of her palms. When she feels him press a kiss into her skin, slowly opening his eyes to meet hers to gauge her reaction, she feels her entire body still as the realisation sinks in.

Hands.

Satoru smiles as he tugs her in, his eyes flickering to her mouth. Shoko goes without any resistance, feeling heady from the rush of emotions flowing through her.

Maybe it’s the universe’s way of evening the playing field, that for all of Satoru’s ethereal beauty, the allure of it is always instantly dispelled by the first thing that comes out of his mouth. For years she’s considered herself immune—and to a greater extent, special—because it’s never happened to her. She’s heard every conceivable off colour thing this man’s said, always felt an innate certainty that with all the years she’s spent supporting him, there’s nothing he could ever say to make her want to turn and run.

Until tonight.

The validation of every thought, every feeling, the alleviation of every doubt she’s ever had about the possibility of him returning her feelings; uplifted to heaven in a single gesture only to be dragged straight back to hell in the next. Ruined by the first thing out of his mouth, just as their lips are about to touch:

“Don’t go with him.”

Shoko pulls her hands back, too shocked to even derive some satisfaction from the way Satoru’s face falls. Her body moves automatically, muscle memory kicking in as it registers the grief, discerning no difference to her losing someone on her operating table, or completing an autopsy on a former colleague. She hops out of her stool, calmly goes over to the sink and washes her hands, dries them methodically like she always does, pausing to take in a pile of cracked glass and ceramic swept haphazardly into a corner, red streaks lining some of the larger pieces. Shoko decides she doesn’t care. She strides out of the kitchen and continues to the balcony towards Naoya, past everyone having a blast at karaoke, too drunk to pay them any mind. Satoru follows, ashen faced and stricken.

“Shoko? What’s the matter? Why are you—”

Shoko reaches Naoya and snatches the phone out of his hand, ending the call. Naoya raises an eyebrow at her afterwards, a cruel smirk promising retribution on his face even after she hands back his phone. The few other people on the balcony scatter, heading for the safety of Satoru’s living room.

“The last woman who gave me attitude,” Naoya says, advancing, “I had her—”

“Don’t care,” Shoko says briskly. “You’re hot, I like your face and I want to sit on it. You can fuck me however way you want after. We doing this or not?”

Naoya’s smirk widens, gaze raking greedily over her. He takes another step forward. “Alright, feisty. Your place or mine?”

“Neither,” Satoru cuts coldly in before Shoko can answer, looming over Shoko’s frame like an overgrown shadow. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

“That’s my decision,” Shoko snaps, but Satoru’s attention remains fully focused on Naoya. She turns and prods him in the chest, which is the same thing as trying to poke steel. “Oi. Don’t talk like I’m not here.”

“Naoya-kun.” Satoru says, as politely as he can manage through clenched teeth. He tries to put a placating hand on Shoko’s shoulder but she immediately shrugs him off. “I think you should go. She’s only going to use you.”

“I don’t mind,” Naoya says, really more to Shoko’s cleavage than her face. Satoru’s eye twitches. Shoko inwardly rolls her eyes.

Men.

“Well if he’s leaving then I’m leaving too,” Shoko declares.

Satoru frowns at her, confused for all of two seconds before he clicks.

“Wait…what the hell, you’re mad at me? The hell did I do?”

Shoko pointedly ignores him, looking at Naoya. “Well?”

Naoya’s gaze shifts back and forth between her and Satoru, briefly perplexed before his smirk returns. “No idea what the hell’s going on here, but I’ve seen you—” he nods at Satoru— “watching me like a hawk, and you—” he nods at Shoko— “chatting me up all night. You both want a piece? Fine by me, but I get to top.”

Satoru doubles over laughing. Shoko pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling a migraine coming on. Naoya crosses his arms, watching the two of them, waiting for an answer.

Satoru finally recovers, dropping a hand on Naoya’s shoulder. He shakes his head. “Not even in your wettest, wildest dreams, Nao-chan.”

Shoko is already halfway to the hallway while Naoya shakes him off, digging into her pocket for her phone to call a cab. Satoru swears under his breath as he pursues, only a few steps behind her.

“Shoko! What did I do?”

“Ieiri?” Naoya spits out, aghast. “Fuck! I knew she looked familiar!”

...

Satoru’s hallway feels twenty times longer than it initially felt when she arrived, which is doubly annoying because he remembers he can teleport, and does so, cutting her off at the halfway point. Shoko barely manages to stop herself from walking into him. She tries to shoulder past but he catches her wrist.

“Why are you mad at me? What did I do? Back in the kitchen—look if you don’t want me that’s fine, but—”

“Don’t go with him,” Shoko deadpans. “Seriously.”

“Because he sucks! Why are you being so—”

“The second I start paying attention to someone else then suddenly I’m worth—”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Satoru says, looking hurt. “I didn’t even know you liked me like that until five seconds ago. Give a guy a chance to catch up will ya? I didn’t even know I had a cha—”

“What? Of course I like you like that, stupid dumb idiot! I’m still here, aren’t I? After everything, Satoru!” Shoko hisses, just in case karaoke isn’t loud enough to drown out their argument.

Satoru recoils from the outburst, startled.

I’ve fucked it up. I’ve fucked it. Whatever, I’ll live.

Shoko exhales and soldiers forward. Given time, none of this will matter in the grand scheme of things.

“I’m sorry. Look, it’s just. I put you first, I put everyone else first. I always have. I’m not complaining, I know my role in all of this. I just thought for once it was the other way round. And it felt nice…until you opened your big fat mouth.”

Satoru just stares, saying nothing.

She takes that as her cue to leave, brushing past him. She makes it about two steps before he catches her wrist.

“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything,” she says quietly, feeling too petty and small to look him in the eye even as he tugs her back, that same hand moving to cup her cheek. “I just need—”

She breaks off as Satoru kisses her.

...

Shoko will give Satoru this much, the man knows how to kiss. It’s just as well that he does, because it’s good enough to stop her from wondering about all the other people he’s kissed before he finally got to her. His free hand weaves around, supporting her back so he can tilt her, smiling against her mouth briefly before he pulls away and straightens, taking her weight as she sags against him, her hands resting on his chest.

It takes Shoko a few seconds to bring her brain back online, which would be mortifying, if Satoru didn’t also look like he was having just as hard a time catching his breath.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, possessing only enough braincells to grin goofily at her from ear to ear.

“Y-yeah,” Shoko says, just as intelligently, feeling a sudden hunger thrum throughout her body, sharp and hot until it’s all she can focus on. The equation’s simple enough: she wants him, he clearly wants her; the answer to said equation is even simpler: what the hell are they doing just standing around for?

Satoru clears his throat. “Sooo,” he starts, conversationally.

Shoko curls her fingers into his collar and drags him back to her mouth, a hand sliding up the nape of his neck to card through his hair.Satoru makes a noise as his back hits the wall, hands flailing uselessly in the air as he kisses her back. While he’s so distracted, Shoko goes for his belt, unfurling his shirt from the waistband of his pants. Satoru makes another noise and catches her wrists, holding them up and out towards her sides. Shoko adapts, slipping her tongue into his mouth, pressing the length of her body up against his and rubbing against him. It works like a dream: Satoru’s grip on her wrists starts to slacken, moaning into her mouth—

“Yo! Gojo-sensei!” Yuji calls from the living room, the equivalent of cold water dousing the fire between them. “Your turn on the mic! Anyone seen Gojo-sensei?”

Satoru breaks away from Shoko’s mouth immediately, panting hard as he puts distance between them. He straightens, hands shaking as he tucks his shirt back into his pants, attempting to work his hair into some semblance of the ‘stylishly’ dishevelled look it was before Shoko got her fingers in it. Irritating as it is, Shoko will concede this about the interruption: it’s a nice ego boost on top of the catharsis of having her feelings returned, being able to admire her handiwork and let her imagination run wild on what else she can inflict upon this man.

“Probably sucking face with Ieiri,” Naoya says drily, in a rare display of leaving his self-centred bubble long enough to concern himself with other people. Shoko always assumed that was only something he did in battle.

Satoru just shoots a dirty glare towards the living room, blushing profusely.

Haibara busts out laughing. There's a loud thud and Naoya coughs. “Hahaha! Good one Zen’in-kun!”

Shoko tries to approach Satoru again, but finds she can’t get within two steps of him, thanks to his Infinity. Satoru’s clearly realised that any attempt at restraining her requires their bodies to be touching, thereby opening himself up to further exploitation on her part. He’s probably also considered sitting on her or tying her up, but has wisely refrained because he doesn’t want her more annoyed than she currently is. Shoko huffs and plants her hands on her hips, pursing her lips.

Stupid idiot, Shoko thinks, peeved, moving to lean against the wall opposite Satoru as a peace offering. Always smart only in the nick of time.

“Don’t be crass,” Maki says, murmurs of agreement following. “Everyone knows Ieiri’s too good for that idiot.”

Shoko nods in agreement. Satoru looks as if he’s just taken enough mental damage for his own soul to vacate his body.

“And how much are you willing to bet on that?” Mei Mei chimes in, scenting blood like the dirty capitalist she is. Someone groans. “What? You think this manicure grows on trees? A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Thought you wanted me,” Shoko says quietly.

“You fucking kidding me?” To his credit, he does look both apologetic and similarly frustrated about the situation, raking a hand through his hair, gaze sweeping longingly, hungrily over her, triggering an almost automatic lust low in her belly. He gestures wildly at all of her. “You’re wearing a nurse costume and stockings, for fuck’s sake! I got half a mind to barrel you over my couch.”

“So why don’t you?”

Satoru chuckles. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, dunno if ya noticed, but half the jujutsu community are on that couch right now.”

Shoko fights a smile. Stupid man and his capacity to only be funny in the worst of times.

“I hate you,” she says, managing to keep an even tone about it.

Satoru still smiles, eyes twinkling. “Aww, don’t be like that.”

“No. I hate you.” Shoko enunciates crossly, turning her head away before he realises that charm can be weaponised against her. “I’ve liked you all this time and this is the thanks I get. I don’t even want to think about all the credibility I’ve lost wearing this stupid costume. I got half a mind to go running back to Naoya.”

Silence.

“I mean,” Satoru mumbles to his feet, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought you’d come as Buttercup not… I mean I’m totally not complaining but I didn’t think you’d actually—”

“What was that?” Shoko snaps, an eye twitching.

“Nothing!” Satoru says quickly. He must have lowered his Infinity, because in the next instant he’s in front of her, taking one of her hands into both of his and squeezing. Shoko scowls up at him, feeling her resolve falter at the utter earnestness in his eyes. Damn him. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Good things come to those who wait, right?”

Shoko finds herself smirking. “If you say so,” she says.

She snatches back her hand and turns on her heel, striding confidently back to the living room. If there’s anything she knows about Satoru, it’s that Paragon of Patience he is not.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Satoru mutters, trailing a few steps behind. “Shoko?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Shoko lies.

...

If it’s a battle of wills Satoru wants, Shoko’s happy to accommodate. Thirteen years of observing the man, be it fighting or teaching or goofing around has taught Shoko that he does not possess a single reserved bone in his body—ironic, considering the one she’d felt growing against her stomach five minutes earlier. He’s been spoiled by having Ijichi as a pressure valve to let off the steam before too much of it can accumulate, but Ijichi or no Ijichi, it’s not as if he’s ever had any trouble articulating his grievances.

Armed with tonight’s realisations, Shoko’s determined to become the most difficult grievance for Satoru to ever have the displeasure of trying to ignore, let alone protest about. She may have agreed to wait, but that doesn’t mean she’s rolling over and letting the time pass uneventfully for him. She’s spent enough of her twenties doing that, thank you very much, and fuck him for making her wait. Dark corners her foot.

At the very least, it will be an interesting stress test to see how many contrived, misinterpreted scenarios it’s going to take to crack him. Her money’s on Nanami as a heavy hitter, but Haibara could be a wild card, which is why he’s up first. It’s free amusement for her either way.

Haibara is cheerfully munching his way through a tray of pull-apart cheeseburger sliders and occasionally singing along with whoever’s got the microphone at karaoke. Shoko reclaims her seat at the kitchen island beside him while Satoru passes, taking the microphone from Yuji at the front of the living room by the TV. Satoru clearly isn’t concerned because Haibara’s the guy who takes everyone at face value, and wouldn’t know a flirtatious line if she sat beside him and had a name tag that read ‘Hi! I’m Flirting With You’ sticky-taped to her bosom.

“Ayy, park it there, Shoko-san!” Haibara greets, grinning at her through a mouthful of beef and cheese. He doesn’t even get distracted by her boobs which gives Shoko a newfound appreciation and respect for the guy. Haibara may not be special grade, but he is an anomaly amongst his peers, with that endless optimism.

“Hey Yu,” Shoko says, smiling and actually meaning it for once, “how’s life treating ya?”

“Better now that you’re here. So good to see ya out and about!” Sauce dribbles down the corners of Haibara’s mouth.

Shoko realises her cheeks hurt because her smile has turned into a full blown grin. In another life, she’d let that unpretentious charm of Haibara’s sweep her off her feet. Just her luck, falling for a serial schemer instead of someone so wholesome and uncomplicated.

“What?” Haibara says.

“You got a little…” Shoko can’t help but laugh when Haibara uses his tongue to try to mop up the sauce, only succeeding in spreading more of it around his mouth.

“How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Awesome!”

“No, you idiot, you got it everywhere,” Shoko laughs.

Haibara just shrugs like this is his life now, nothing to do except roll with it, which is just the most Haibara thing ever.

And seeing a mess and feeling a responsibility to clean it is unfortunately just the most her thing ever. Shoko grabs a napkin and leans forward, beckoning for Haibara to follow suit. “Come here then.”

“Okay!”

Shoko wets the napkin with water from an opened bottle and wipes away the sauce as best she can from Haibara’s face while he giggles.

“That tickles Shoko-san,” Haibara says, when she pokes his cheek.

A few more daubs here and there and, “Perfect,” Shoko declares at last, leaning back.

“Thanks!” Haibara says. He grabs another two sliders and stuffs them into his mouth and there’s more sauce dribbling out than before.

Shoko tosses the used napkin to an empty part of the table with a sigh. As Haibara goes back to eating, she tunes back into karaoke just in time to see Satoru’s head whip back to the lyrics rolling across the LED, his jaw slightly set.

#answered asks #and scene! lmao

10 notes · View notes

multyfandoms-imagines · 2 years ago

Note

Hello! This is the Traffic Light OT3 asker again. Thank you for the latest post you posted and made for Ayin, Carmen and Benjamin!

If you're okay with it and aren't tired of my requests, to continue with the OT3 ask before.

May I ask some fluff headcanons with Ayin, Carmen and Benjamin getting married then raising Enoch, Lisa and Angela as siblings in a no death, happy domestic life scenario?

The Traffic Light Trio gettig married and adopting Enoch and Lisa and building Angela would be very cute indeed.

Of course there gotta be an au where nothing bad happens

Spoilers btw

Happy little family

•that was Carmen's idea. Im just gonna say it right away. That idea got into her head as soon as Lisa and Enoch got saved from Sweepers

•Benjamin loved this idea but Ayin had second thoughts because of their job. Its not exactly easy to manage an entire facility with possibly-world-ending-danger-level monsters that can go wild should they not be satisfied AND raise a family

•Benjamin encouraged Ayin to stop working 24/7 and have some time dedicated to rest and family

•the dang idiot instead translated it into "make a robot to look after your facility when you cant" and boom. Angela was built

•okay it didnt go as goofy as i make it sound, but Ayin did create Angela. Carmen was an inspiration to her design, but naming was hard. He didnt feel like names he picked fit the robot

•other 2 found out about it and, while disappointed that Ayin cant just sit still and rest for once in his god damn life, decided to help him out. Ayin settled for "Angela"

•she was supposed to learn how to manage facility, but it turned out that Angela barely knew basic management skills. She was closer to a curious teen then a smart woman

•Enoch didnt mind having an older sister but Lisa got pouty. Because little kid wanted more attention (siblings will understand lol)

•Benjamin and Carmen encouraged Ayin to spend time with 3 kids, they can run a facility without him. Not to mention how there were some other close friends of theirs to help out: Elijah, Gabriel, Michelle, Giovanni, Kali and Daniel

•que Ayin awkwardly trying to be a normal dad montage. He is trying his best okay?

•Angela learns things quicker and thus asks her father (Ayin) to teach her more. Ayin is a good teacher when he puts his mind into it

•these 2 + Carmen and Benjamin will later have a serious talk regarding the future of Lobotomy Corporation, Ayin's unhealthy schedule and Angela's start of work

•Angela is at first scared of the responsibility, because it is alot. It scares her to be responsible if someone were to get into accident. But, well... That is what her father was doing alot. And uncle Benjamin with mother (Carmen) do worry about dad...

•she decides, even if with shaky beginning, to ask Ayin how to run the facility. Dad always looked tired after a particularly stressful day while she and her siblings played carelessly. Angela hopes to make Ayin's work more bearable

•somewhere Garion is looking amused with how things turn out in Lobotomy but decided to observe longer, sipping tea

•one time Lisa, Enoch and Angela did a group present for Ayin, Benjamin and Carmen. Ayin cried because he thought he didnt spend enough time with family to deserve it

•3 kids were just happy to be with each other. Angela steadily learnt how to manage facility even without Ayin to make sure he stays healthy

#lc #lobotomy corporation #headcanons #fluff #ayin #benjamin #carmen #angela #enoch #lisa #character+character #adoption #family #pre-LC #everything is fine au

16 notes · View notes

nimhmistsong · 1 year ago

Text

I HAVE FINALLY DEFEATED RUINA!!

After that, I tried lobotomy corporation and Limbus. Playing both a fair bit to get a good sense for them before making any judgments. These are my thoughts so I can come back, and any mutuals can ingest my thoughts. Because I do recommend all 3, but want to clarify why. With minimal spoilers other than names of characters met right off the bat.

Library of Ruina

Card/War Game - It's kinda hard to describe. You have an entire team and complete control of what's in their decks. Able to customize and use whatever play style you see fit. With each floor/team having unique unlockable abilities to further specific play styles. You face waves of enemies with your teams. Sometimes only one wave or one powerful boss. Many fights are battles of attrition, (Philip and your 7 stage fight you rat bastard) or if that's too hard you can always (just about anyways) unga-bunga your way through things. Some of my hardest fights became trivial when I gave up strategy and just HIT IT HARDER, REPEATEDLY!!

Stress - 6/10 Rising Stress. It starts out pretty manageable. Not an easy game, not a hard game. But difficulty spikes beware!! The final stretch of the game is a lot of really hard fights back to back. It is mentally exhausting. It took literal weeks for me to get through. Beating one maybe 2 bosses a day if I was lucky, and that is just the final stretch. This starts about the middle of the game and rises. So unless you like/can manage high tension and stressful game sessions. I don't recommend for relaxing. It is not a relaxing game. It is a 'clear your schedule because this will be all you have energy for' kinda game.

Style - Sprites are great! The horrors look horrifying and the cute things look cute! They have a fully animated anime opening. Each character design is unique and if you put a Ruina character in front of me. 7/10 times id be able to tell! Each one is charming in their own right! Does have an issue with text on cards being so tiny you can't fucking read them. So I often had to look up cards/bosses on the wiki just to read their effects. So beware my fellow shitty eyesight friends.

Lobotomy Corp

Management Gameplay - Lots of facets and things to handle. Very good game for this genre. Tutorial is good at explaining everything! Walking you through every important step. Disclaimer: I just suck at these types of games. Which does effect my opinion.

Stress - 8/10 Again, I suck at management games. I played to max out the first two teams. Then I got too shaky and stressed.

Style - Functional for the game it is! It does share the Library of Ruina problem of 'WHY THE FUCK IS ALL THIS IMPORTANT TEXT SO TINY MY SHITTY EYES CANNOT READ IT!!?!' Other than that it is cartoony and cute. While being able to express all the horrifying things that come with the setting. 10/10

Limbus Company

Gacha Game! - I love gacha games, but my luck is dog shit. So they don't love me that's for sure. The actual combat is simpler than RUINA and eaiser to read. Also way faster. While still being pretty complex allowing for strategy.

Stress - 4/10 Way less stressful than RUINA and Lobotomy Corp. Still enough I have to think about what I'm doing. It's a good pass your time game. Instead of a - 'I must have a clear schedule today so I can throw myself at this one obstacle over and over again without interruption' - kind of game.

Style - You can see the sprites are a big step up. The animation in combat is also way more fluid. Everyone is fitted and looking great as usual. (except Vergil who looks like the bus hit a bump and he fell out of bed after a hell of a bender then refused to bathe or change that morning) Personally, outside of Charon and Dante (MC), no character really stuck out to me though. Not to say the designs aren't appealing. They just hit you with a lot of characters at once instead of a slow introduction to each. Which makes it hard to focus on any one in particular.

Well, that's my thoughts for anyone who has nothing better to read! Thank you random person who convinced me to buy these games when they were on sale. Best $16 I've ever spent! Highly recommend even at full price if one of these games sound like your kind of game! Each were released within 2 years of each other. Showing vast improvement between each game despite that small amount of time! You can also play any game in any order, and still get the full story!

For anyone who has already played these games and read anyways. Hello!

#library of ruina #lobotomy corporation #limbus company #hmmmmm #game opinions #this is also a journal because I'm a forgetful fuck and will keep replaying the games if i forget what my thoughts were #note i played the early game for both #this has no bearing on the later levels and is based entirely on my own opinion

9 notes · View notes

affablyevilshowdown · 2 years ago

Text

Meanwhile (not in The Pit (tm))

"Why am I even here?" Artemis whispers to Holly flying next to him. Artemis isn't uncomfortable with the types of people they've met but Holly definitely is and she's been glaring at him for hours now even though she refuses to leave his side.

"Remember Jayjay" Holly says.

"The lemur." Artemis replies dryly.

"The lemur you sold to extinctionists"

"You may recall that afterwards I repented and went back in time to save him. It was a perilous ordeal."

"I know, I was there too."

Artemis flourishes a hand as if to say 'There you go'

"You also kidnapped me and held me for ransom" she accused.

"We all make mistakes Captain Short. One I could not have made successfully if someone hadn't broken protocol."

"Your crimes are not MY fault!"

"Excuse me for interrupting" a very polite voice came from a tablet displaying a glowing red circle, encased in a floating bubble. "If you are questioning whether you belong here it is recommended you seek out the wizard"

"The wizard," Artemis replies unamused, not a question but a clear bid for an explanation nonetheless.

"Yes, the wizard. If he judges that you are innocent he will grant a wish."

"What did you wish for?" Holly asks, she could feel 2 sources of magic emanating from the tablet, though neither felt like the magic she was used to.

"Oh no, no, the wizard chooses the wish he will grant. He provided me with a glamour. It should force the humans I interact with to confer upon me basic civil rights and bodily autonomy." There is amusement in the voice at the last phrase. "He believes this will prevent the Artificial Intelligence version of a lobotomy that is scheduled upon my return. I think he is giving my humans too much credit." And with that the bubble floats away.

"I guess we should look for a wizard" Holly says at the same time Artemis says "I'm not going on a wild goose chase for some wizard."

"Don't give me that look," Artemis continues "I'm not being difficult, I just don't see the point and it feels a bit too 'Wonderful wizard of Oz' I don't need a heart or a brain or to click my heels three times."

-------

“And you must be The Wizard.” Artemis says very collectedly considering he only just avoided tripping over The Wizard’s table. A table that just materialized in the middle of the convention space, along with a blond elf wearing a ridiculously oversized wizard hat and his crystal ball.

“Artemis Fowl the Second,” The elf replied ominously. “Would you like to know your fate?”

Artemis studies The Wizard’s set-up for a moment and states: “Your crystal ball is plugged into a computer. This entire aesthetic is a ploy and I doubt you control anymore magic than I have in my right eye.”

The Wizard’s serious façade crumbles as a grin breaks through. “Oooh they said you were smart. Dead wrong though kiddo. Name’s Taako.”

Behind Artemis, Holly coughs to stifle a startled laugh. Taako doesn’t even pause.

“I’m not sure what the ball is connected to, but convention staff gave it to me a while ago and it knows Everything!” He hikes the table skirt up to reveal a computer. Which. Y’know. Sufficiently advanced technology, magic yada yada. “It even knows that you used to have a fairy eye before you…” Taako takes a moment to put on reading glasses that had been hanging from a chain around his neck. “[REDACTED FOR MAJOR SPOILERS]. Huh. Odd”

“Also I so can do magic!” At a flick of his hands a cup of tea starts to float and a spoon stirs it rapidly.

Artemis takes a measured breath and turns to leave, but The Wizard keeps talking at him.

"I know all about your whole redemption arc thing too, but you have done things wrong unfortunately."

"And which of my dastardly deeds landed me here?" Artemis engages.

"Kidnapping your best friend for ransom."

"Hold up," Holly interrupts, suddenly unamused. "I was *not* his best friend when he kidnapped me, or for a long while after."

The wizard winces a fraction. "Yeah, Mags is struggling with the linear nature of time. She was quite literally born yesterday!"

"Mags?" Artemis asks.

"Convention staff, real sweetheart," The Wizard waves his hand dismissive. "The point is I can't grant you a wish. But! I am well within my rights to curse you!"

Artemis's eyes flash with something other than his careful disinterested act.

"I curse you with...." a dramatic pause, because Taako is nothing if not an overexcited theater kid.

"The power of friendship!"

Behind Artemis and Holly a young man and an orange cat land in a crumpled heap.

The boy looks up confusion melting into delight. "Artemis!"

"Prosperity," Artemis sighs and gives Prosper a hand up. "Firestar." He notices that The Wizard and his tables have vanished.

"Friends of yours?" Holly asks.

"More like ex-coworkers"

-----

(Artemis, Prosperity and Firestar as current co-workers over at @white-boy-bracket)

#Affably Evil Lore #Had to publish this before the next round for reasons

11 notes · View notes

jennyviviandee · 2 years ago

Text

Panel from manga-ka Kiyohiko Azuma's Azumanga Daioh (1999-2002).

Miss Yukari Tanizaki on the right represents how mentally I should view resting. Such as today. On a day off from work which became quite a pattern of energy-sapping awfulnesss during the holidays persisting on being so.

Because work has insufficient associates for grocery, no assistant manager in said department, and a new store manager that just arrived. Jinkies, that's a ton of transitions at once! Also, on top of everything else, I'm the only pure grocery stocker due to the other two playing dual roles (cashier, working in Vitamins). In short, work, at the moment, completely bites and destroys me: mentally, physically, emotionally, and socially.

However, my roommates have pointed out the store isn't hiring. If one checks. Perhaps it is hasn't updated yet though...?

*Fearfully, memories of seven months of unemployment come flooding back. That's what happened after my last job. ...That long of a drought was endured. I had to constantly fight for my unemployment money whilst I filled out so many applications (hundreds) resulting in few interviews until, finally, this specific interview for my current job I've obtained*

Conversely, Minamo "Nyamo" Kurosawa is accurately indicative of how my brain treats me concerning resting.

As in, I don't deserve it. In the slightest. Contribute to society daily, don't be home. Your lone value is your job: otherwise you are worthless garbage.

Don't get ill, we need you! You're part of this family! Wipe that visible tired drool from under your mask during a killer pandemic and keep on working!

I mean if I do legitimately become sick with something significant, we'd be severely financially crippled.

How many of us are one lost paycheck from such catastrophic ruin I wonder? Thanks to rent costs? Health or vehicle stuff? Too many I'd guess sadly.

Yes, I must get the forced capitalist system lobotomy, catch virtually no Z's, work until I'm sleep-standing or have an utter tear-inducing mental breakdown from too much stress versus genuinely resting.

...Even bloody now, all I can think about is how tomorrow is gonna completely suck. When I should be, without a doubt, slumbering by now (I'm so drained). Thanks to my scheduled commencement being later. When 8 hours was already killing us for truck days.

Still, remember, we all deserve rest. I deserve rest. Y'all deserve rest.

#azumanga daioh #yukari tanizaki #nyamo #personal #neurodivergent #absolutely exhausted #retail #journal #anxious as hell #kiyohiko azuma #captialism #minamo kurosawa #mental health #manga panel #resting #job loss #unemployment #covid 19

5 notes · View notes

marshmallow-bg3 · 8 months ago

Text

Past Life Dark Urge Asks - 3rd Edition

by @daemon-in-my-head

Name one specific song that fits the vibe for a vivisection partaken in by your Durge. What would it be? Answered (or rather unanswered) here

Speaking of vivisections; Sceleritas famously messed one up once. How did you Durge react go that? Did it have lasting consequences for the little imp? Not the first nor the last time he did that. No lasting consequences for Sceleritas, no. Roux was never particularly cruel to the butler. There was an occasional hot-blooded emotional murder here and there but it took more than a simple slip up to trigger that.

The Netherstone, how did they wear it? Did they even wear it? Answered here

Why the red Netherstone and not the purple one? After all, a proper bhaalist priest should wear purple robes, so they should have that colour and not Gortash, right? What was the reason behind the switch? Bestie Bracelets? Secret promises? Just plain defiance? Ketheric didn't care either way. Enver wanted the red one because it would look good in the gauntlet. Roux wanted the red one, because red is among Roux's favorite colors pre- and post-tadpole, because it would look good in the Bloodthirst and because Enver wanted it. He was never mature enough or big on respecting anyone's property claims, so... Roux got the red one.

What was their class, and what was their favourite way to use its perks? Did they maybe even dabble in multiple ones? Bard skills proved unexpectedly useful when he needed to infiltrate and blend in with any kind of group. A Bard's presence is as appropriate at a high society gathering as it is in a brothel or by a campfire. Bards are welcome. Or unwelcome but not for the reasons Roux should have been unwelcome. It's a good disguise above all. But talking people to death is a nice perk, too.

How did they actually learn their craft/class? Were they born with it, or did they study under someone? Did they have a natural talent? Answered here

The Slayer, Bhaals gift, how did they earn it? Was it before or after becoming his chosen? Did they even receive it? Roux did when Bhaal properly returned. Father needed someone to show off his reborn glory to the world. At the time Roux was the purest and the favorite. He didn't need to do anything on top of that.

Durge didn’t grow up in the temple, but Orin did. Did this fact ever have any consequences for either of them? Did it affect their relationship? It literally defined it. They were still teens when they met, too young, too immature to be able to separate their Father's will from that of their caregivers (Sarevok and Sceleritas) who actively pitted them against each other. The Temple was Orin's turf. Roux was an outsider and she never failed to remind him of that. Roux had always been the amicable sort but he had his pride and there's only so much bullying he could take before he started biting back. Orin secretly envied Roux being able to navigate topside with ease. She was a freak of nature and he made her feel more so. There was a lot of mutual envy and rivalry going on for all the wrong - by Bhaal's standards - reasons. Instead of competing to prove their worth to Father they wasted time proving their worth to each other.

Bhaalist’s are surprisingly skilled with a wide range of weapons. Which one was your Durges favourite? Did they use it often or did they use something else for their ‘regular’ schedule? Unoriginally, daggers. Although Gortash imparted a love for crossbows which stuck with him after the lobotomy.

Their name; did they ever have one? Who chose it for them, or did it maybe change sometime down the line? Did they perhaps even have multiple Alias? Answered here. Within the the cult he was mostly called Child of Bhaal, Child of Murder etc.. Blood kin by Orin. Bhaalspawn by Gortash.

After a successful sacrifice, all cult members are encouraged to take their victim’s possessions. What’s the one thing Durge claimed like that way that they’re most proud of? What did they leave behind on purpose? Money, because it's most practical. Sometime little trinkets he soon lost interest in. Nothing he took particular pride in, really. And no calling card either, that was Orin's thing and he didn't want to do anything like Orin.

Speaking of claiming the possessions of sacrifices, did they ever snatch any real estate in the upper city? Why or why not, and if they did, what did they do with it? No, but he did snatch Gortash's bedroom if that counts. More about it here.

Cazador’s little dungeon is located in close proximity to the temple. We’re they ever some sort of run ins or disputes between neighbours? Stealing this one from @ryttu3k answered here. Because it makes perfect sense to me and I don't have anything better. Except Roux didn't know shit. Sarevok and Orin probably did.

What did Durge think about living in the undercity ruins? Did they miss the surface sometimes, or did they enjoy the unique underdark-esque decor? Did the great chasms ever lead to some sort of 'accident’? Roux missed the surface terribly, but Sceleritas made a point of keeping him underground most of the time. Undercity made Roux depressed. Depressed Roux was good because he was more obedient and more violent. Surface brought back memories of life before Bhaal, gave him hopes and dreams. Those were bad for business.

They had an adoptive family once. What did it look like, though? What were their parents like? Did they have siblings? Was it a big, close-knit family or maybe just the mom that stepped up? It was wholesome. Utopic. It was too good to be true. Parents were kind and patient. Roux had three siblings: an older brother, an older sister and a little sister. He was happy with them, he was different but they never made him feel like he didn't belong. Now I want to make a separate post about them.

#baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #resist!durge #roux the murderbard #precious little bhaal-babe #ask game

1 note · View note

mytherapyjournel · 11 months ago

Text

entry 2

Chaos. I thrive in it, who would have thought. You would think growing up in a chaotic household I would choose a more relaxed career, but nope I had to choose a career to where I'm a workforce scheduler for nursing and palliative clients. A normal person would look at the health care industry and thing "why the fuck would someone want to be in charge of ensuring 500 clients get seen by an understaffed team on RN's" Me though? throw it at me and I treat it like a 1000 piece puzzle that's been beat up and I'll hand it back in 10 mins with all the fitting pieces in the correct form. A talent? Maybe, who knows, I might be good at scheduling but ask me what 6x7 is and I'll tell you 57.

So, I've established I thrive in chaos, but do I want it when I go home? FUCK NO. A typical afternoon is, after working 6am-2pm I sit on the couch staring at the wall for an hour and then get up and be functioning human being. This is testing my relationship at the moment, I go to work and be a support person and then I come home and be a support person for my partner who is going through therapy. When does someone become my support person? Im not sure if its because I've been my own support person since I was 5 years old and I don't require someone else to get me through the hard times, or maybe I simply just wouldn't let someone help me but either way I'm overwhelmed.

How am I meant to trust someone to do good by me when I'm still yet to meet someone who has good intentions? If I hear the words "I'm sorry, I'll change" one more time I think I will need to complete an at home lobotomy because there's no way that I'm taken for granted this fucking much by this many people. Maybe that dumb movie had it right and I do accept the love I think I deserve. Actually to be completely honest, if we didn't live together in a metro city that had a rental crisis I probably would already have left him.

I may be good at figuring out puzzles in my professional life but my personal is quite clearly still up for debate.. wish me luck, I think I might be missing a few pieces.

0 notes

bcdrawsandwrites · 4 years ago

Photo

Fandom: Psychonauts

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

Characters: Caligosto Loboto, Loboto’s parents

Warnings: Surgery, lobotomy, hallucinations, child abuse, EVERYTHING IS HORRIBLE AND NOTHING IS OKAY WITH THIS (but there’s nothing graphic)

Description: Just be still, and you'll be fine.

Beta Readers: @jaywings and Rocket (who I’m not sure is on Tumblr?)

Notes: who let me write Psychonauts fanfic. also some of the phrases in this fic were taken from this site.

---~~~---

“Scattering sparks of thought energy

Deliver me and carry me away”

“Here in my kingdom, I am your lord

I order you to cower and præy”

- The Mind Electric, by Tally Hall

---

Sometimes it was nice to just lay down in the park and watch the clouds float overhead.

He often had a lot of energy, both normal and... well... unnatural, but sometimes it was nice to relax, especially when he didn't feel like himself. His energy was ebbing, and there was something… something...

"Can you tell us another?"

He glanced up. Several of his usual playmates were standing around him, their faces lit up in interest. He grinned a wide, toothy grin.

"The boy babbled blatantly but was blessed with a brilliant brain!"

"Good!"

The compliment made his brow furrow. Normally they might cheer "cool!" or "awesome!" but he shrugged—he'd take it. It gave him a warm feeling inside, unlike the frequent chill of his own home. Plus, he couldn’t help but light up as he watched the smiles on his friends’ faces—some of them were still losing baby teeth, he noted, and the progression was fascinating. He knew what he could do to see more of those grins, too...

Without raising his head too much—it hurt a little, and he could see well enough from where he was—he glanced around to make sure his mother wasn't too close by. Luckily she was way off in the pavilion, talking to several other adults. Good; she wouldn't see, and neither would the other prying parents.

"How about this?" he asked, and with a tiny bit of concentration lifted a few rocks off the ground, spinning them in circles. Instead of cheering, however, the children backed away, their smiles fading.

"Look, he's trying to—!" one girl whispered frantically.

"Don't worry, he's fine for now."

He frowned, dropping the rocks. "O-oh, I'm sorry! I didn't think they would see..."

"That's okay. Can you tell us another?"

"Disappointed dogs don't do dangerous deeds." Wincing, he closed his eyes—there was a breeze that seemed to pass over his head only, running through his hair.

His scalp felt cold.

---

"Go on, Caligosto. Show the doctor how you can pick it up."

"Like this...?"

"No, the other way."

"But... mother doesn't like it when I do it that way."

"Do as you're told, Caligosto."

"...Okay..."

The fish swam all about the pond, but came closer to the surface when they realized he was watching from his usual spot on the shore. As they nearned him, he settled over the grass, staring down at his scaly friends. The fish seemed to like his company, and they wouldn't snitch to his parents if he did anything they wouldn't like.

On top of that, he felt a connection with them, almost like the sort of connection he could feel with people. They couldn't talk, and they didn't have facial expressions… but he could almost read them somehow, more and more as he continued visiting. Now he could sense what foods they wanted, or when they were scared of a nearby predator. It was nice to help them out.

It was also interesting to see the different kinds of teeth the fish had—some had sharp fangs, some had tiny flat teeth, and some had teeth in weird places, like their tongue or throat!

"Can you hear us?"

He would have jumped, but that would have scared the fish. As it was, he leaned forward, his eyes wide beneath their glasses. "Yes! I can hear you!" He could hardly contain his excitement. "I'd always thought I could hear you before, but never this clear! Do you think—"

"Good! Can you tell us another?"

He blinked. "Another what?"

"Another phrase."

Oh, right. In his excitement he'd nearly forgotten that he'd occasionally show off for the fish as well, though he'd never been sure if they could understand. "Friendly fish flip-flop fast when facing fearsome foes!"

"Very good!"

Giggling, he settled himself back down on the soft grass. "I'm glad you think so... my parents always tell me to be quiet."

Apparently, the fish had nothing to say to this, for they remained quiet, swimming just under the surface and watching him. So he kept watching them too, observing the light that reflected off their scales. But one creature caught his eye: a small turtle swimming in place. It was odd to see to begin with, but the paddling of its little feet seemed strangely frantic, its front legs moving in big sweeping arcs. It didn't speak, but he swore he could hear it—

Away, away—

---

"Is that... all he's capable of?"

"I'm afraid not."

"D—Father, are we done? I don't like it here..."

"Only speak when spoken to, Caligosto."

"Can we see anything else?"

"Yes."

"I-I don't want to—"

"Caligosto."

"Okay, okay! Let me—"

---

The seas were calm, and he had worked hard today as a navigator (or was he first mate? he couldn't quite remember, but that was okay), keeping a close eye on the compass and making sure they were staying on course. They were nearing the shore, but for now, he was taking a break, resting against a coil of rope with his eyes closed, enjoying the smell of the ocean air and the feeling of sunshine.

And also trying to forget his headache—he was pretty sure he bumped his head coming down from the crow's nest.

"You're doin' good today, mate! Squawk!"

He opened one eye, noting the parrot sitting just behind him. "Thanks, Crackers!"

Birds hadn’t been something that interested him too much at first; what kind of silly animal didn’t have teeth? That is, until he’d learned that birds have a weird organ that acted as their teeth. Fascinating!

The parrot cocked her head at him. "Do you know any more?"

Oh right, of course the parrot enjoyed those phrases. "The pretty parrot perched upon the putrid pirate's peacoat!"

Crackers gave a pleased chirp, ruffling her feathers.

Wincing, he found his headache was starting to get worse, like a bad toothache, and closed his eyes again. "Do you think we'll reach shore soon?"

We won't if you don't get out.

He opened his eyes. Crackers was gone.

---

"STOP! STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"

"What are you doing?!"

"I-I just did what you asked—"

"I didn't tell you to—!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Put him out, hurry—"

"We've seen enough, doctor. We'll schedule an appointment for your son next week."

"N-next week?!"

"Very well. He'll be there promptly."

---

The kids’ expressions had changed from bright smiles to tightly-drawn lips and wide eyes, and it made him shudder. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, it's fine. Tell us another."

"The store..." He paused, concentrating. Strange, he didn't usually have trouble remembering these things, but it must have just been his headache. "The store clerk stood and... stared at me in stupor."

"I would too after what I've seen," one kid muttered, only to be shushed by another.

His heart gave a pained jolt. "Wh-what?"

"Nothing!"

He didn't like the way they were talking—it reminded him of... something else. Someone else. Another child stepped closer to him, looking down at him with a furrowed brow and frightened eyes. He felt the sudden urge to scoot away.

You're in danger.

---

"Wh...where am I supposed to go?"

"Just in through these doors."

"Okay... Why do I have to come back here to the doctor, though? I feel fine."

"Nevermind that. Do you remember what your father told you to do?"

"Yeah! The fun phrases. I know a million of those!"

"Good."

"Would you like to hear... w-wait, who are all these people watching? Wh... what are those?"

---

The fish were swimming in circles and starting to make him dizzy. He rested his head down in the cool grass, but it did little to help. "Oh... sorry. I'm not feeling so good. I should be going home..."

"You can go home soon. Tell us another first."

"Ugh... My mom... m-my... mother makes a... marvelous... meat... mincemeat pie." Recalling these phrases was starting to feel like what he imagined pulling teeth felt like, but a lot less fun. Was his mother missing him now? How long had he been gone? "I... really need to go home now."

"No you don't."

His eyes shot open, and he shivered as he stared down at the fish. "Wh... what did you... say?"

"Don't try to move. You'll be all right."

All of the fish watched him eagerly... but the turtle was still waving its front feet even more frantically.

---

"Don't worry about that."

"N-no! I know what those tools are—I've read my dad's books. You're gonna hurt me!"

"Nonsense. Just lay on the bed and you'll be fine."

"No, I don't want to! You can't make me!"

---

The ship heaved up and down with the swell of the waves. His insides rolled with it, and he remained lying on the coil of rope, waiting for his stomach to stop lurching and his head to stop aching.

"You stopped. Keep going."

"Ugh... The newt... nuzzled in a... n-narrow... nook."

"Good."

"No, it's not, Crackers! I don't feel good..."

"You're fine, squawk! Try to distract yourself."

"Okay..." Opening one eye, he raised a shaky hand, lifting the end of the rope and making it snake through the air, though it shuddered all the while. It was a lot more difficult than usual... Normally he could lift several objects at once, and delighted the crew by juggling them. He felt like he should be able to do other things too, but what?

---

"Oh mercy! He's going to kill someone!"

"Caligosto, if you don't stop this at once, I will call your father!"

"So call him! I want him here! Why didn't he come with me?!"

"Oh no, he's trying to light the chair on fire—"

"Go get the earmuffs, now."

"MOM! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

"GET THEM NOW!"

---

The sun was covered in clouds, and the humid air brought a promise of rain. Why were the other kids still here? Surely their parents would have called them home by now. He wished they would. Surely his mom would have called him, too, wouldn't she?

"Tell us another," one girl asked urgently, taking a hesitant step forward.

His head was swimming. "I-I don't wanna..."

"Tell us now."

Focusing, he managed to force his mind to concentrate. "She sniffed... and s-smelled... the stirring storm."

"Good, tell us another," one fish bubbled from the water.

A sharp pain like a broken tooth filled his skull, his insides felt sick, and the rain was beginning to fall. "I... I can't..."

"Tell us, Caligosto."

"B... Bernie read a book... b-by the... ba—babbling brook." He wanted to wipe the rain from his face, but he felt too exhausted to move his arms. "C-can I go... home..."

"Squawk! We're not to shore yet. Give me another."

He stared up at the blurred vision of the bird. "Why...?"

"Do as you're told."

"Th-the... hummingbirds... hovered... a-and hummed in... heavenly..." His voice broke off into a choked sob. "I wanna... no... I wanna... go home..."

"Caligosto?"

---

"I WANT TO GO HOME!"

"Get it on him, get it on—"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

"Where did he go?!"

"The monster's turned invisible!"

"I WANNA GO HOME!"

"There! Put it on right—there!"

"STOP, I WANNA—"

---

"...go home!"

He blinked.

"You are home, Cali," his mother said, beaming down at him with a wide, pearly-white grin.

"I am?" Blinking again, he looked around. Indeed, he was in front of his house, with his parents both standing on the front porch, as they had been when he'd left. On top of that, his head didn't hurt and he didn't feel sick. "I... I am!"

"You're all done with the doctors now," his father said, smiling. "We're so proud of you!"

"You... you are?" He stared open-mouthed; his father had never told him that before. "I'm all done?"

"Yes you are, dear." His mother knelt down, but he didn't come closer—something was making his hair stand on end. "Almost."

His stomach twisted.

"Just tell us another, son."

"N... no..."

The smile on his father's face faded. "Do as you're told, Caligosto."

"N-no... no, no..." He tried to shake his head, but couldn't. "I... I want to go home..."

The pain was coming back, spiking through his head, and he cried out.

"We're going to lose him—"

"No, just a little more."

"No," he sobbed. "No, no! Mom! Dad!"

The park was flooding. The fish were swirling around his head. Waves crashed over the boat.

He had to do something. Anything.

Focusing with everything he had left, he tried to think, tried to move something, tried to make something burn, tried to call for help—

Did—did you hear that?

Cali?

The agony peaked, and his vision turned orange.

---

"Ooooh... ugh..."

"Is this safe?"

"It's safe for us. The psilirium will keep him under control during the procedure."

"But can he still hear us?"

"Son, can you tell us one of your funny phrases?"

"Sure... grass grows greener in the graveyard."

"You see? He'll be fine."

---

There was no park.

There was no pond.

There was no ocean.

There were several doctors staring down at him, a great many more people seated in the theater behind them, and an empty feeling within him.

Something was gone. Something important.

"How do you feel, Caligosto?"

His brain was slow to work, and he could not form the words, but if he could have, he would have answered:

Like... a cavity.

#dr loboto #loboto #caligosto loboto #psychonauts #my art #my writing #fanfic #who let me in this fandom

96 notes · View notes

adsosfraser · 4 years ago

Text

The Stone’s Toll - Chapter Four

Read on AO3

cw: medical trauma/abuse

They stripped her to the bone and prodded her towards the corner with the spigot about a metre above her head. Their eyes were focused intently on her every move, calculating each misstep. One of her guards called out into the hall and the water surged down in high pressured spurts. She had been naked with strangers before. Had been dressed by them. Bare and vulnerable. Mrs. Fitz came to mind. But this was not anything like that, it felt demeaning, dehumanising. It was intended to humble her.

The other guard threw a bar of soap which Claire fumbled with and fell to the floor. The grime on the floor had built up for years and mould dotted the edges of the shower. She scrunched her nose at the thought of picking the soap up from such an environment, but the stares of the guards burrowed deep into her skin.

“Two minutes.”

Claire carefully traced the spot above her heart. It stung less than before when she was weaned off of the pain medication. Claire was heavily sedated for those six days in hospital. She felt like she had when she returned through the stones, a crushing weight bearing down on her body. And she was all alone. Her injury was monitored until she could be properly transferred to Danvers State Hospital, or rather the Danvers Lunatic Asylum, where they placed her unceremoniously in her cage-like room. The pounding force of the shower left a dull pain, almost opening the wound on her breast again. She scrubbed the dirt, the pain off of her skin until she felt she had no skin left.

Claire was soon in the plain cotton uniform they provided everyone. Her hair flew wildly above her head because she was unable to comb through her curls. They at least deemed her safe enough to not need restraints on top of the guards that flanked her. How kind. Those were reserved for the more violent afflictions.

She watched as her tangled curls floated down to the tiled floor around her feet. Her hair was shorn to about her chin to conform with the other patients.

The institute had yet decided what to do about her condition, which they concluded was melancholia and the hysteria which accompanied it. All unnecessary consequences of her female persuasion.

“I assure you, sir, I am perfectly fine. Now if I could just speak to my husband.” She forced herself to put out the last word.

“He is still considering the terms of your release and treatment. You gave Mr. Randall quite a shock.” Doctor Lionel Brown quirked his eyebrows at his patient, placing the pairs of his pointer and middle finger against his lips in thought.

“I know. Now if you’d just-“

A knock sounded at the door.

“Mr. Anderson you may come in.”

“Mrs. Randall, this is Mr. Anderson, our specialist in mood disorders. He’s shed some insight with me earlier about what may be best in order for you to be released. If you don’t mind, Mr. Anderson.”

“I think our electroshock therapies would be very conducive for her recovery. When repeated twice a week, these treatments help ease pain and reduce memories that are hard to pass on their own.” Anderson glanced at Doctor Brown and continued. “Another option if the treatments are unable to hold and improve your condition is the transorbital lobotomy which is guaranteed to permanently improve it. I can assure you ma’am this avenue has been thoroughly researched and our patients report a calm demeanour within weeks of the operation.

“I highly doubt that’s necessary sir.” Claire scoffed.

Claire slumped in her chair and considered for a second. She could be free of the pain, of the man who haunted her every waking moment. She could stop mourning her husband, her family at Lallybroch, and her children. Maybe she would forget and finally be able to return to Frank as Jamie had intended. But she could never forget Jamie, no matter what happened to her. Her mind may forget but her soul would always keep him within her.

It was four doors later that she reluctantly followed one of the nurse’s in the ward down the dreary halls. No matter her reluctance to it, her treatments would begin according to the doctor’s schedule.

Claire was instructed to take off her shoes as she entered the room. She glanced around the room only to be met with unfamiliar faces. She had comforted the woman who went before her who was convulsing and writhing on the treatment table. Claire tried to soothe her and soon her breathing evened out and a dazed look took over her face. There was no fighting this. If Claire refused to comply, it would be much worse. The woman slouched to the floor and began her walk away from the machine.

The orderly wiped off the metal table from the woman’s sweat and perhaps even a small amount of urine: the reactions to the terror. He sighed and wrote on the chart, detailing exactly how the patient’s body handled the treatment. He pointed to the table, not even sparing a glance at Claire. One. Two. Three. She thought as she forced each step. Her back and limbs arched away from the shocking cold of the metal and her muscles tensed reflexively.

The nurse placed a flat wooden stick in her mouth and instructed her to bite down. Her arms and legs were strapped down before she could change her mind and start thrashing against her jailer. Two firm ovals suctioned to her temples and a strap ran around her head securing the device to her head.

Perhaps it was her indifference that led them to choose this method of torture. She would be sure to smile and have all the warmth of a womanly countenance when she next met with Doctor Brown. Her fate depended on her first husband, and the doctor that held her hostage within the suffocating walls of the institution. She had made her feelings quite clear to Frank, and perhaps he was enacting his vengeance this way.

As the first wave of electricity passed through her body straight to her heart and mind, her body convulsed under its strain. After the base time of thirty seconds for her treatment, her body slumped back down onto the cold surface that sent chills down her spine. She was left disoriented and stupid, waiting to gain back her senses.

“Who’s this, Smiley?” Claire’s mind could barely discern the shape of the figure hanging on the doorframe before her. The glum nurse who was addressed was the farthest thing from smiley.

“Mrs. Randall, your newest neighbour.”

“Oh, how exciting!” The girl who couldn’t be more than fourteen slipped something into the nurse’s pocket. “I think I’ll call you Miss Curly Wig.” She grinned and eyed the mess of curls fanned out around on the silver surface enviously.

The orderly nonchalantly slipped a lollipop into the girl’s waiting hands and a piece of gum, payment for whatever she had smuggled in for him.

“You’ll be just fine Miss Curly Wig.” The girl who was barely a teenager patted her shoulder in comfort. Claire couldn’t do more than stare blankly at the girl, no words appearing on her tongue. “Sure the first one is a bit of a shock. But you get over it. Your brain is like cotton the first few days, and you look as dumb as ever, but if you comply, they shorten it to every three weeks instead. I haven’t gotten the shock in four weeks now because I’ve been on my best behaviour. Haven’t had the urge to steal in months. Isn’t that right Smiley?”

Smiley grunted affirmatively in a way that reminded her of Murtagh while he put away the equipment from the day’s treatments. Her heart ached along with her head and tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

“Can I escort her back to her room Smiley? You are done here for the day, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Emily.” The nurse clearly was uncomfortable straying from protocol.

Claire walked back in silence to the plain white room, filled with only a white metal bed and mattress. Emily patted her hand on the sheets and Claire plopped down on them. The rambunctious child flitted out of the room, excited to find a new face in the dreary and tedious schedule of the ward.

Claire laid back against the stiff pillow of her twin bed. It was impossible to get comfortable here. Her brain was buzzing and her fingers felt tingly, like the static from the radio. In the night, when the other patient's cries filled her mind, she traced the fading scar on her palm where he cut her. The rings, sgian dubh, pearls and her old clothes were the only physical proof it had been real. Now she had none of them. No tangible proof in her grasp. The only reminder was the memory of the slight pain when he marked out the flesh into a J.

“Milady!” Fergus screamed into the empty air of the great room. His body curled up into one of the velvet chaises by the fire and his whimpers woke Jamie, who rested his eyes on the floor beside the inconsolable child. Jamie had almost drifted off to sleep himself, but his mind buzzed with thoughts of his wife. He rose and gathered Fergus in his arms, hushing the boy.

“Milady.” The tears renewed themselves and tumbled without end down his cheeks. Jamie stroked the hair from his son’s face and cursed when his hand felt the hot and sweaty skin.

Claire woke up shaking on the sweat-soaked sheets. “Fergus.” Her guilt of leaving him, her family was insurmountable. But she felt deep in her bones something terribly awful. A dread that squeezed at her heart. Just like any other person could feel the earth shift under their feet, before possessing the actual knowledge of what happened to their loved one. A fellow war nurse once told her of her premonitions, and the next day she was sent an impersonal letter declaring his death in battle.

She pressed the pillow against her ears, trying to block out the vivid visions of the young French boy.

Emily became an ally to Claire in the short amount of time she had been in the B ward. She followed her constantly like a lost puppy and accompanied her to the electroshock therapies every week. Claire supposed the girl had deemed her the sanest out of their fellow patients, so she must have felt more at ease in her presence. The girl had even taught Claire a neat trick, how to pretend to swallow her medicine and then spit it out later.

At night, the faces in the flecks of the popcorn ceiling above taunted her. Every move of the shadows was a demon reimagined in her mind. Of her family and those who wished her harm. They all played an equal role in the play stretched out before her. Two straight lines and a curve mixed together into one evil, Black Jack Randall and her husband. Her mind drifted to the sight of her son, curled up and shivering in his sickbed. She was stuck between the tormenting images in the ceiling or the all too real feel of Fergus’ small body pressed against her in a tight hug.

“Miss Curly Wig!” It took her a moment to recognise her young companion, the thoughts seeped slowly through her mind like molasses.

“Where on earth did you get these?”

“I filched them from Doc B when I was snooping through your files. I was going to trade them to Smiley, but I thought better. Hide them in your bra, they never look there.” The child winked at her.

“Thanks for the advice.” She slipped the silver down her shirt and was about to scatter the gold across the wooden boards of the floor when she thought better; it was a valuable chunk of money. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing yet. But those locks of yours sure are pretty.”

“You want a lock of my hair?”

She stared at the child dumbfounded. Hers easily rivalled Claire’s, the fiery red waving around her ears and growing slowly towards her shoulders. What harm was there in giving a child a piece of a muddied brown curl? She gripped a strand of her hair from the base of her head and held it taut. Claire ripped the piece just below the hold her hand had on it so it wouldn’t be plucked directly from her scalp. Her palms opened, gifting the rare thing to the adolescent. Her face visibly brightened and she snatched it immediately. She tucked in safely within her shirt like Claire had done with her rings and skipped down the hall towards the dark wood staircase.

Claire plastered a sickly sweet smile as she sat on the plastic chair. Dr. Brown shuffled some papers on his desk and ignored her. He licked his finger to card through the pages and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He cleared his throat before finally acknowledging her.

“Ah, Mrs. Randall. And what, might I ask, lead me to the pleasure of seeing you in my office today?”

“As you can see, Dr. Brown, the treatments have worked splendidly and I would very much like to return home now. I see no need to be kept here further.”

“I’m sorry ma’am it’s just not how- oh looky here! Your husband signed for your release when he visited me yesterday.”

“Great, so now this has all been sorted.”

“Just hold on Mrs. Randall.” He emphasised her proper name. “Yes, he’s clearly signed your release here, but we’ll need to keep you here for an observation period of at least three more days. Make sure you’ll do no more harm to yourself or others. But, you’ll be glad to know we have seen an improvement from your treatments, and your last one will be this Friday, a day before your release.”

She bit her tongue to hold back the avalanche of defiant words and insults she wanted to fling at the man who held her fate in his hands. Finally, she settled for a simple, “thank you,” and left back to the empty halls.

The bastards in the hospital had made zero progress in truly helping her. If she was asked, Claire knew she wouldn’t be able to recall any detail at all about the last few months of her life. If she could call it that, she was dead living. The therapies only added to her already failing memory. Emily was the only bright part of her day, and now she was leaving the poor girl in the hands of these people alone.

Her final night, when her brain sludged forward through its thoughts, a consequence of her treatments, she finally allowed herself to relax back into her bed fully. But that was a mistake. Fergus sat before the fire at Lallybroch, playing soldier with some chess pieces. The sight of the son of her heart pierced through her chest. He turned around and smiled at her softly.

“Come back, Milady, please. Milord needs you. I miss you maman.” He had never called her maman before, only Milady.

On closer inspection, his eyes were wide with fear at the apparition before him. He knew Milady would never harm him, but there was something otherworldly about her appearance now, much different than her usual strange demeanour. Sensing his trepidation, she kissed his forehead gently, taking the pain and fear into herself from that small point where her lips met his curl that dangled there. A tear dripped down the edge of her nose to his cheek. A flash of red and blue entered the dream, but by then she was already awake.

#outlander fanfiction #adsofraser writing #claire beauchamp #claire fraser #jamie x claire #frank randall #insane asylum #fergus fraser #canon divergence #jamie fraser #medical trauma #I am inflicting pain onto my characters because I can #outlander fanfic

29 notes · View notes

kelyon · 3 years ago

Text

Golden Rings 22: An Offer

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Lacey has a meeting with Mayor Mills

Read on AO3

Content warning for verbal abuse and sexual fear

The clacking of Lacey’s heels against the sidewalk was music to her ears. She felt right, dressed like a whore and parading herself down Main Street. After her conversation with Mayor Mills, the stupid voice in the back of her head was quiet. Finally, things were back to normal.

Now it didn’t matter that Mr. Gold had been acting like a stranger since October. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want her, that he was fucking somebody else. She didn’t need him. She didn’t have to be “Mrs. Gold” in order to get what she wanted out of life. All that bastard did was pay her. He didn’t own her. He’d given up that privilege months ago. She didn’t have to belong to him. There were lots of other people out there. Mayor Mills wanted to help her. Mayor Mills wanted her.

At least, she was pretty sure she did. It was hard to tell. Lacey had never had a woman look at her the way Mayor Mills did sometimes. It was a sharp, laser-focused look. A look that cut her to the bone and then began to saw into her marrow. Like everything Lacey was, everything she had ever been or had ever dreamed of being, was laid bare for Mayor Mills’ approval.

Mr. Gold used to look at her like that.

Lacey dug her nails into her palms. Or maybe she was an idiot. Maybe she had been imagining the little signs. Maybe the mayor of Storybrooke would try to help anybody she came across in town, offer them rides in her sporty black Mercedes-Benz. Maybe she would arrange an after-hours meeting with any married woman who called her up. Maybe it was a public service.

Or maybe not.

She remembered this feeling, this knowing-but-not-knowing. The anticipation. The unanswered questions. The tension gave her a thrill. A thrill she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to lie when she walked into the pawn shop.

Mr. Gold looked up from his inventory book when he heard her. His eyes were cautious. Afraid? Was this sad little coward really afraid of her? Maybe that was why it was so easy to grin at him, to reassure him with bright eyes and a lilting voice.

“I wasn’t sure what you were doing for lunch,” she chirped. “Want me to pick up something from Granny’s?”

The corners of his mouth lifted up. It was almost a smile. “No thank you, Mrs. Gold. I brought leftovers from home today.”

She nodded, and tapped her fingers against the counter in front of him. How many times had he fucked her against these display cases? How many times had she dropped to her knees behind the cash register while the shop was still open? He would challenge her to hurry, to suck him off before a customer walked in on them. He told her he would beat her black and blue if she failed.

What kind of things would Mayor Mills want her to do?

“Hey, I’m sorry about this morning,” Lacey lied. “I’ve just been really stupid and emotional lately.”

“You’re not stupid,” Mr. Gold said softly. “I know I haven’t made things easy for you. I’m sorry about that.”

A plastic smile was a wonderful talent. She was used to using it on other people, but now Mr. Gold was as easy to fool as everyone else.

“It’s not your fault,” she said sweetly, even though she was ready to spit acid in his face. “I just needed some time to myself this morning. But I feel better now. Later today I’m gonna get my hair done. I scheduled an appointment for around five.”

Easy as it was to lie, there was a specific delight in letting him get the wrong idea from entirely factual information. He had taught her how to do that. She would go to Janine’s and get her hair styled. And then she would have her appointment with Mayor Mills at five o’clock on the dot.

And he just nodded, just went along with it. Idiot. “The shop will be closed by the time you’re done. I can pick you up at the salon.”

She wrinkled her nose. Playful, casual. Not a care in the world. “No, I don’t know how long I’ll be, and the weather looks like nothing but blue skies. Besides, you’ll want to start supper. What are we having tonight?”

He began to ramble on about spring onions and fricasseeing, while Lacey counted the hours until her appointment at City Hall.

****

Officially, the city offices closed at 4 PM, but everybody knew that Mayor Mills stayed as late as she needed to keep the town running. Everyone admired her devotion, but pitied how often she had to leave her sweet little boy unsupervised. Rumor had it that was why Henry was so troubled, why he kept hanging around shady characters like Sheriff Swan, his birth mother. But his real mother was doing the best anyone could under such circumstances. Henry had appointments with Dr. Hopper several nights a week to keep his moods under control.

Why do you know so much about Regina’s life? Why is that woman the center of the universe in this town? Think about it!

Of course the voice was back. Lacey wasn’t sure if she wanted a stiff drink or a total lobotomy. Whatever would get it to shut up.

City Hall was quiet, that was part of the trouble. The empty hallway echoed so much she could hear her heart beating along with the sound of her footsteps. The voice always started jabbering at her during moments of stillness, moments when she should have been at peace.

She couldn’t tell if City Hall was serene or creepy. Like most buildings in the rich part of New Town, the design was sleek and modern. The interiors were stark white trimmed in black--plaster walls and gleaming tile floors. Right now, it had the terrible oddness of a place that was supposed to be filled with people, but wasn’t.

At this late hour, the fluorescent lights were dimmed. During the day the brightness was intimidating, but long evening shadows didn’t inspire confidence either. The doors lining the hall were a fake wood laminate, so dark they were almost black. The only other color came from the occasional piece of corporate art hanging up on the walls. Black and white photos of Storybrooke, all in frames as red as blood.

This is a bad place. You need to leave!

“Shut up,” she hissed. She would try not to tell Mayor Mills about the voice right away. No need to let the mayor think she was crazy. Besides, if all this went right, Lacey would feel a lot better very soon.

The door to the mayor’s office was ajar, but Lacey still knocked on the ebony frame.

“Come in,” Mayor Mills’ voice was brusque. For a split-second, fear clenched at Lacey’s stomach. She should listen to the voice in her head and run! Run away from this place that felt like a haunted house, run back home to Mr. Gold or to her father or to Sheriff Swan or anyone but Regina!

But she didn’t.

All Lacey did was adjust her purple bustier and walk in.

“Close the door behind you.” Mayor Mills didn’t look up from her paperwork.

Lacey did as she was asked--did as she was told. Her pulse quickened to be obeying orders again.

Like the rest of City Hall, the mayor’s office was nothing but black and white. The only difference was the clutter of prints and patterns. The wallpaper, the curtains, the upholstery on the conference table chairs--they were all a different print, but they were all monochrome. There was no illusion of serenity here. The room looked designed to disorient.

Even the stone floor was inlaid with black and white. An outline of a circle took up most of the space between the door and the desk. The circle was black, with tapered black flags coming out from the center. It looked like a pinwheel, or a clock, or something a bad guy would use to hypnotize someone in a cartoon.

Without any other instructions, Lacey decided to stand in the middle of the circle. She waited, at the point where black and white met and disappeared into each other.

Mayor Mills stayed at her desk. After a few more signatures, she set her pen down in a drawer and began to stack the papers neatly into a shiny black file folder. So she was meticulous. Lacey could appreciate that.

She kept waiting. The mayor didn’t look at her until the desk--a white slab of polished stone set on top of two carved stone pillars--was empty.

“You were seven minutes early,” she said at last.

Lacey swallowed and kept her hands at her sides. “Mr. Gold says that punctuality is the virtue of princes, Madame Mayor.”

One perfectly outlined, jet-black eyebrow raised on Mayor Mills’ forehead. “Mrs. Gold, if you’re looking for a prince, I don’t think I can be of any help to you.”

Would it be okay to laugh? Or would Mayor Mills think that was impertinent? Lacey just pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“Do you want to tell me what you are looking for, Mrs. Gold?”

Now she opened her mouth, but she didn’t have the words to answer.

Rumple. Rumple, help me! Rumple!

“R--r--really, I… I don’t know if I can put it into words, Madame Mayor.”

Mayor Mills gave her a considering look. She stayed at her desk, but leaned back in her black leather office chair. “Sit down.”

Two black and silver chairs sat in front of the desk. Lacey put her purse down in one and perched on the edge of the other.

“Would you like something to eat?” Standing up, Mayor Mills went to the conference table that took up most of the space on the right-hand side of the room. A large white bowl--ceramic, and shaped so that it looked like a collection of bleached, dead coral--was full of apples. All of them were as red as blood. The mayor took two and held one out to Lacey. “I often find that when I need to think, one of my prize-winning Honeycrisp apples always helps me focus on what’s most important.”

Lacey took the apple and held it in her hands. If she had seen this in a grocery store, she would have sworn that it was a Red Delicious. But of course the mayor would know her own apples. She had grown apples since she was a little girl. The tree that grew these ones was right outside the window behind the desk.

“Are you going to thank me?” The mayor was quiet, but it was the quiet of a viper about to strike.

“Yes,” Lacey said automatically. “Yes, I’m so sorry, Madame Mayor. Thank you for the apple. And for your time. I--I know you’re busy.”

“I am,” Mayor Mills agreed. Behind her desk, she pulled open a drawer and took out a silver knife. There was a design carved into the handle, Lacey couldn’t tell if it was an apple or a heart. After walking back to the front of the desk and leaning against the edge, the mayor began to cut into her apple. “There’s a lot of trouble brewing right now in Storybrooke. But I’ll make time for you, Mrs. Gold.”

“Why?” Lacey muttered. “I’m just a cheap, trashy slut.”

Grinning, the mayor took a slice of her apple. She chewed, swallowed, licked the juice off her red lips. “Is that what Mr. Gold told you to think of yourself?”

“Yes,” she whispered, looking down at the apple in her lap. She had said the words before to people, said them with a smile, like they were an honor. She had puffed up her own performance like a balloon. Only now she had popped, and there was nothing left of her but tattered shreds of rubber.

Lacey felt something cold on the bottom of her chin. Mayor Mills held the flat edge of the knife against her skin and lifted her gaze until they were eye to eye. Sitting down, she was looking up at the mayor. “Is Mr. Gold in charge of you, dear?”

She blinked. “I--He was. But I don’t want him to be anymore.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes.” Lacey wanted to look down again, but the mayor hadn’t released her yet. “He--he cheated on me. And he’s been keeping secrets from me. And--and he’s just different, I don’t know how to explain it, but I hate it. I hate it, Madame Mayor!”

Mayor Mills took the knife away, and cut herself another slice of apple. She smiled. “He’s not the man you married.” She seemed almost smug to say it. “So now you’re looking for someone who can take his place. Someone who can remind you of why you were put in this world.”

“Yes!” Absurdly, Lacey felt her eyes begin to well with tears. Those were the words she had been looking for! She had been so right to come here. Mayor Mills knew exactly how to make everything right again! “I--I hope you’re not offended or anything. That I thought of you first when I wanted to find someone who would--would treat me the way I like to be treated.”

“The way you deserve to be treated, you mean.” Her voice was so low, so dark and so dangerous. “You cheap, trashy slut.”

It was like her heart had been ripped out of her chest and she was just perverted enough to love it. Repeating the same words that had just caused her shame, rubbing them in her face. This was exactly the kind of pain she had been looking for. Mayor Mills was brilliant.

She wanted to kiss her boots.

Lacey looked up at the mayor, at the way her crimson dress clung to her curves. Her silhouette was an absolute hourglass, tapering down into legs wrapped in tasteful nylons. So much classier than Lacey’s whorish fishnet stockings.

Mayor Mills’ eyes were dark and intense. Black, where Mr. Gold’s were brown. Her makeup was dramatic but flawless. Her lips were as red as the apple she was eating, her teeth as white as its flesh.

Lacey had never felt so small before, not in front of another woman. Not in front of anyone but Mr. Gold. She looked down. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper, a breath. “What can I do? In order to deserve you?”

The mayor’s laugh was rich and throaty. It sounded like red wine at a midnight feast. She set down her apple and her silver knife and held Lacey firmly by the jaw with her own silky-smooth hands.

“Let’s make sure we understand one another, Mrs. Gold: You don’t deserve me. You can’t deserve me. Nothing you could ever do would be enough to get you even close to my level. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Lacey whispered. She couldn’t move. Fear and arousal were too overpowering. “Yes, Madame Mayor.”

“Good.” She took her hand away and went behind her desk. “You know, you’re actually a very lucky girl. Until quite recently, I was content with the submissive I had. But then he… disappointed me, and we had to part ways.”

You killed that poor man, you vile--

“So!” Lacey said, too loudly. “Are we agreed then? Will you take me on as a ‘submissive’?”

Mayor Mills looked at her from her office chair. Her gaze was steady and unblinking. “Do you think you can submit to me? Even though I’m not your husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “At least, I’d like to try.”

“Have you ever served a woman before, dear?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, of course you haven’t, not properly. Well, I’ll warn you, we’re not like men. We’re not easy. There’s no one-and-done climax while you lie back and think of England.”

Lacey opened her mouth. Her instinct was to defend Mr. Gold, to say that sex with him had never been like that. But that wasn’t anything Mayor Mills wanted to hear.

“I’m going to demand a lot more of you than a man would,” the mayor went on. “I’m not satisfied by anything but perfection. And the cocks I use never go soft.”

She shifted in her seat. Were these threats or promises? “I would like to satisfy you, Madame Mayor,” she said softly. “I would like to please you.”

The mayor smiled again. “Of course you would,” she purred. “I think everyone in this town understands the benefits of having a happy mayor.” Her eyes flickered over Lacey’s body. “Are you wearing anything underneath that ugly skirt?”

A flash of heat went through her body. Partially it was the shock and pleasure at the sudden shift in the conversation. But there was also a bit of embarrassment. Lacey liked this skirt--black vinyl with blue tulle ruffles underneath. Was it really ugly?

“Well?” Mayor Mills said patiently.

“Oh! I--yes. A thong. It’s purple, like my bustier.”

“Mmm.” The mayor smiled like a cat with a bluebird in its paw. “Well, that I simply must see.”

Lacey sprang to her feet. She moved to unzip the tight skirt, but then she got an idea. “May I take off my blouse as well?”

“Oh, if you insist.” Leaning back in her chair, the mayor picked up her knife and cut off another slice of apple. She ate it, while Lacey stripped down to her lingerie and folded her clothes neatly on the conference table.

Then she stood in the center of the circle again, in front of the mayor’s desk, wearing nothing but purple silk, black lace, high heels, and jewelry.

Looking at her, Mayor Mills crunched into the last bite of her apple, then threw the core into the trash.

“Turn around,” she ordered. “Slowly.”

Lacey obeyed. God, this was amazing. Under the mayor’s scrutiny, every inch of her felt alive. This was what she was made for. This was the reason she existed in this world.

“You're groomed, at least. And it looks like you have some marks,” the mayor said coolly. “Am I safe in assuming they’re not recent?”

“No--I mean yes. They are not recent. Mr. Gold hasn’t touched me since October.”

“I imagine that would be frustrating,” she smirked. “For both of you. Come closer.”

Lacey stood directly in front of the desk. It was like she was here on official business, like she was going to ask for funding to re-open the library or something.

“Bend over, with your elbows on the desk. Lean forward until that pert little ass of yours sticks up in the air like a bitch in heat. I’m sure you’re familiar with the position. Keep your head up, but your eyes lowered. Don’t look at me.”

She did the best she could, remembering that the mayor was only satisfied by perfection. Once she was settled into place, she kept her eyes downcast. Her head was spinning. For some reason, it was hard to breathe.

Then Lacey felt the mayor’s hands on her throat.

She gulped, but didn’t move. Do the brave thing. And it wasn’t that she was afraid of Mayor Mills. But the movement had been so sudden, so unexpected that it caught her off guard. And the mayor did have a very tight grip.

Her hands weren’t cold, but Lacey would have been hard-pressed to call the touch warm. A better word would have been to call the touch… proprietary. Appraising. She was inspecting the goods before she made a claim on them.

Obediently, Lacey kept her eyes down while the mayor touched her. She couldn’t see her face. She heard her chuckle as her fingers explored the skin of her neck.

“All these little scars here look like you lost a fight with a rose bush. How did you get them?”

You gave them to me, you bitch! You and your dragon! She made thorns grow into my skin while you made me fuck you!

“I don’t remember,” Lacey said. Honestly, she didn’t remember having scars on her throat. “I don’t think Mr. Gold gave them to me.”

“Hmm.” Despite Lacey’s ignorance, Mayor Mills sounded pleased. Her hand moved from Lacey’s neck down to the upper edge of her bustier. There was enough space between the cloth and Lacey’s skin that the mayor could have slid inside and copped a feel. But all she did was trace her fingers over the mounds of cleavage and pinch.

“Ow!” Lacey yelped, but stayed braced against the desk. It was a little shameful how quickly she reacted. But a sharp pinch could hurt more than a spanking and she was out of practice. Besides, Mr. Gold always liked her to be vocal. He liked to know exactly how much pain he was causing.

The mayor rubbed at the sore patch of skin and gradually expanded her touch so that she cupped the whole of Lacey’s breast.

“Oh poor thing,” she cooed. “I’m just surprised to see that they’re real. Of course, it would be a waste of Mr. Gold’s money if you paid for tits and these were the best you got.”

The mayor emphasized her words with a sharp twist, digging her long nails into the soft flesh.

Lacey gasped in pain. The heat of it started at the mayor’s hand, coursed through all the nerves in her body, and eventually settled between her legs. The gasp turned into a whine, and then a moan.

“Good girl,” Mayor Mills said quietly. “But remember, slut, this is a public building. I can’t have you defiling these hallowed halls with your grunts and groans. You disgusting animal.”

Pressing her lips together, Lacey tried to swallow her hungry noises.

“Ugh.” She could imagine the mayor rolling her eyes. She could imagine the disdain, the contempt on her face. Lacey was so worthless. And now she had finally found someone who understood that she was worthless, who would treat her like she was worthless.

God, she was so wet.

“Here.” The mayor took Lacey’s apple from where she had set it down earlier. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you refusing to eat this. That was exceptionally rude. Ungrateful, even. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s ingratitude.”

“I’m sor--” She began to apologize, but as soon as her mouth opened, Mayor Mills had shoved in the apple. Lacey’s teeth broke through the red skin and she tasted the sour-sweet juice on her tongue. After only a moment of having the apple in her mouth, she felt the juice dripping down onto her chin. It mingled with her saliva and made her a slobbery mess.

“Better.” Now Mayor Mills’ voice was gentle, sweet. She was happy. It was good to make her happy.

Lacey heard her footsteps move around the desk. She couldn’t see the mayor, and she couldn’t make any noise. Apple flooded her senses of taste and smell. All she could do was hear. And feel.

The mayor was behind her. Manicured nails scraped at the exposed flesh of Lacey’s ass. She would have made a noise, to show how much her body liked the attention, but the apple was an excellent gag.

“You know, I can smell how wet you are, you tramp.” Her hands rested on either one of Lacey’s hips. “You stink. You’re filthy. You’re a disgrace.”

Unable to moan, Lacey shivered. Her hips rocked against the desk for a minute, until Mayor Mills dug her nails in and she stopped.

“Why do you even wear panties?” She plucked at the straps of her thong. “You always soak right through them. Every time I walk by you, you reek of pussy. You needy, greedy little cunt.”

She couldn’t stop herself. She jerked up, pushed against the desk in a desperate search for any kind of friction.

“Wriggling like a worm,” the mayor sneered. “You’re not even really a person, are you? You’re just a sex machine, like a junkie looking for a fix. You’re nothing but your need. Just a trio of fuckholes, desperate to be filled.”

When had Lacey started crying? She was bent face down on the empty desk. The apple in her mouth was the only thing that kept her face from pressing against the cold stone. Her hands were balled into fists on either side of her. She didn’t dare move her arms.

Everything the mayor had said echoed in her mind until she felt the vibrations of the words in her body. Her flesh trembled and shook. Her cunt clenched and it didn’t matter that it had nothing to clench against. She just wanted. Her body wanted...

“Don’t you dare!” Mayor Mills roared. “I forbid you to come. Don’t you--”

But then there was silence.

Desperate to obey, Lacey tried to stop her orgasm. She had done that often for Mr. Gold. There was a trick to it--pretty much the same thing as stopping yourself from having hiccups. As her body calmed, she became aware that Mayor Mills hadn’t spoken.

Then she became aware of a breeze swishing back and forth over her nearly-bare ass. It was like when Mr. Gold would pretend to spank her, just to see her jump. He would laugh at that. But Mayor Mills didn’t seem to find it amusing at all.

“What the hell?”

Even without seeing her, Lacey could tell that Mayor Mills was clenching her jaw. Again and again, she felt the breeze of phantom spankings. Did the mayor not want to spank her? What was going on?

“Hands flat on the desk!” the mayor barked. “Let me see your fucking wrists!”

Her wrists? Why? But Lacey did as she was told. Gracelessly, the mayor pulled on her hands. She turned them around and examined them. While she was distracted, Lacey dared to look up at Mayor Mills.

She was livid. Her breath came out in huffs and her red lips snarled around bared teeth. Suddenly, she slapped her right hand beside Lacey’s left.

“This ring,” she hissed. “That’s your wedding ring, isn’t it?”

Lacey lifted her mouth off the apple and nodded.

Mayor Mills looked angry enough to burst into flames. “Take. It. Off!”

Hands shaking, Lacey tried to obey. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken off her wedding ring. Mr. Gold had wanted her to wear it day and night. But what the fuck did Mr. Gold matter now?

When the ring was off, she set it on the desk next to the gnawed apple. She stood at attention, with her eyes downcast.

The mayor took the ring and held it between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at it, and shook her head.

“Unbelievable.”

Yes, it was unbelievable that Lacey would go to a seduction still wearing her wedding ring. What a stupid whore she was. Thoughtless. Sloppy. Ungrateful.

Mayor Mills tossed the ring back down on the desk, like touching it made her sick. Then she stood up again.

“Let’s try something else.”

For a moment, her anger had abated. Her hips swayed softly as she walked over to Lacey. Gently, she put one hand on Lacey’s neck, and cupped her cheek with the other. She tilted her head back.

Lacey closed her eyes and parted her lips--but nothing happened. The mayor’s hands moved away. After another moment, Lacey opened her eyes.

Mayor Mills had one hand extended toward Lacey’s face. It was flat and open, like she was about to slap her. But she wasn’t. She hadn’t. Aside from some pinching, Regina hadn’t been able to do anything to her.

Rumple, you genius!

When Lacey caught the mayor’s eye, she started and looked away. Without a word, Mayor Mills walked over to the other side of the room. There was a cabinet by the fireplace, from which she pulled out a bottle and a glass.

Her back to Lacey the whole time, the mayor poured out a measure of clear alcohol and drank it in one gulp. Then she took a deep breath.

Then she turned around.

“Mrs. Gold, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to continue this relationship.” She gave a bittersweet smile. “You see, unlike some people in this town, I value marriage. I couldn’t possibly engage in an affair with a married woman.”

“What?” Lacey’s voice cracked. “No, you can’t mean that! I-- Mr. Gold isn’t taking care of me anymore. Our marriage is dead! I--I need you, Madame Mayor!”

“And you can never know how happy I am to hear you say those things, dear. But the facts are facts--as long as you’re married to your husband, I can’t touch you. Not in any way that matters, at least.”

“Fuck.” Lacey put her hand over her mouth. “Oh fuck, Madame Mayor. I--I really need this, you know?”

“I know,” she nodded. She went over to the conference table and picked up the stack of Lacey’s clothes. She held them out to her. “And I am truly sorry that I won’t get to punish you the way you deserve. But this is how it has to be.” She turned back to her desk.

“Wait!” Lacey clutched her clothes to her chest. “You--you’re just doing this because I’m married, right?”

The mayor nodded again. She had pulled out a paper towel from a desk drawer and was wiping up Lacey’s spit and apple juice.

“Well, what if--what if I left him? What if we got a divorce?”

Mayor Mills stopped cleaning mid-wipe. For the first time in a while, she looked Lacey in the eye. “Divorces can be messy. They can take a long time. I thought your issue was more pressing than that.”

“I--I don’t know what else to do, Madame Mayor.” Dumping her clothes on a chair, she got on her knees in front of the desk. “You’re right, I do need what you can give me. I need it now, and I’ll do anything to get it!”

She smiled. A light shone in her black eyes. “Anything?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Hmm.” The mayor stood. She began to walk around Lacey in a slow circle. “Well, my point still stands. I simply can’t do anything worthwhile to you while you’re married to Mr. Gold.”

Lacey opened her mouth to beg again, but Mayor Mills lifted a finger and she fell silent.

“And, as we’ve established, a divorce might take a while to finalize. Especially with your husband’s thorough approach to contracts. So I suppose I’m forced to meet you halfway. I’ll just need some proof that your marriage is dead.”

Lacey licked her lips. “Proof?”

“Yes.” When her circle was complete, Mayor Mills was in front of her desk again. The golden ring was still on the surface. She picked it up and handed it out to Lacey.

It was a bizarre reverse-proposal. Lacey was the one on her knees. The mayor was giving her her own ring back to her, in exchange for a promise to end a marriage.

“This is part of a matched set, isn’t it?” she asked. “It’s useless on its own. Your husband wears the other one?”

Lacey nodded.

“Alright,” Mayor Mills said. “So in order for me to have you, I’ll need both of them.”

“What?” Lacey felt her eyes going wide. “You want me to take Mr. Gold’s wedding ring?”

The mayor shrugged. “If your marriage is as dead as you say, he won’t miss it. If it isn’t, then, well, I have no power over you.”

“No.” Scrambling to her feet, Lacey took the ring from the mayor’s hand. “No, I want you to have power over me. I really do!”

A knowing, full-lipped smile. “There’s not much that would make me happier than having absolute power over you, dear. And it will happen, just as soon as I have both of your wedding rings.”

“It will,” Lacey nodded. “I’ll make it happen. I won’t disappoint you, Madame Mayor!”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic

7 notes · View notes

minghaocouture · 4 years ago

Text

Pairing: Templar!Kim Mingyu x Elf Mage!Reader Genre: Dragon Age AU, enemies (?) to lovers, angst, established universe WC: 5k+ Warning: magical lobotomy (through branding), language

A/N: So this is for @merakiiverse job au collab! I’ve been wanting to write a Dragon Age au for like...ever, and this just gave me the push I needed. So there are some terms from the game used in the fic but I did my best to explain them without taking away from the story. Also really glad i finished this before i got sick lol.

“Come on wake up!” You groaned, slapping away the hands of your best friend as he tried to shake you awake. You had gotten to sleep pretty late last night, having snuck into the circle library to do a bit more reading after hours so you were trying to bask in the last few minutes of sleep before your lessons today.

You heard a loud groan from the younger male before everything seemed to turn upside down and your frame was sent tumbling to the stone floor of the Apprentice Quarters with a loud thud and a shriek. Your eyes snapping open to glare at your dear friend Chan with his hands still gripping the mattress that he had just thrown you from.

Quickly you shoved your palms against the chilled stone flooring to push yourself up, as the male laughed hysterically and dropped the mattress back onto the simple wooden frame of your bottom bunk.

“Chan, I want you to remember that we are trapped in this tower together for the rest of our lives. So I will be getting you back for this.” You muttered angrily as you brushed off your scratchy white sleeping robes that the circle had provided for you. Fueled by frustration, you quickly fixed up your bed so that the senior enchanters wouldn’t be angry with you for making a mess.

“Hey come on, don’t be like that!” He quickly exclaimed, offering you some assistance with fixing your bed if only so he could get on your good side once again. It’s usually what he would do to try and get on your good side, things like taking your cleaning duties or distracting the templars so you can sneak into the libraries at night. “I woke you up for a reason!”

“And what would that be?”

“They brought in new templars, fresh new faces for us to make fun of!” He made a good point. During your extended stay in the circle Chan and you had taken to picking at the Templars that were assigned to ‘guard’ the tower, well the Templars that wouldn’t immediately attack or detain you for your teasings. You shuddered as you remembered being thrown into the cramped cell that was used for solitary confinement.

“How many this time?” You questioned, pulling your daily robes from the chest at the foot of the bunk beds that you and Chan shared. You swiftly stripped yourself of the uncomfortable white material of your night robes and slipped on the navy blue skirt, once again curious as to why the skirts had such delicate embroidery on the hem if they were simply to be given to mages. Maybe it was something to make your people think they were in a higher position than they were, either that or a small ‘oh here are some pretty robes, we definitely consider mages people!’ kind of thing. You weren’t too sure.

Chan took a seat on the bed as you tied the skirt to fit your waist, he wasn’t bothered by your disrobing at this point. After all, the two of you had been in this tower since you were children and it wasn’t like the tower offered much privacy for any of the apprentices. If you wanted that you would have to pass your harrowing, only then would you receive private quarters.

You struggled with your skirt for a moment, it being far too big for you, but it wasn’t like they made new robes for every apprentice; everything you owned was a hand me down from either a senior enchanter or...a tranquil.

“There were four of them, they all looked like they came right from training too. No old farts this time,” He explained, lounging on your too thin mattress as you slipped the top piece on, the long sleeves and thick fabric felt just as suffocating as it did every day, and it also continued to show your status as a lower being in the eyes of these people. The small gold trim wasn’t as nice as it was on the human’s robes, and you were sure that was the point. It was something that looked nice, but not as nice as the human mages robes that Chan wore. It wasn’t enough that your mage abilities make you a lesser being but your elven blood as well, you were certain that the Maker had a sense of humor when he made you.

With practiced ease you tied the laces of your sleeves around your wrists before working on the clasps of your belts. It was a constricting and suffocating outfit that made you feel quite claustrophobic at times. As if the robes were just as bad as the tower itself.

“Well, I guess let’s go check them out. Gotta let these newbies know that not all mages are just gonna let them walk over us.” You tried to seem optimistic but after being in this tower for almost 16 years, it was a little harder to force that smile sometimes. Which was why you were grateful you had Chan with you, the two of you looked out for each other no matter what happened.

He hopped off of your bed and took a firm grasp on your wrist before pulling you out of the shared apprentice chambers, ignoring the strange looks from the templars and other apprentices as the two of you dashed into the hallway on the first floor of your prison.

The two of you peered around the corner into the entrance hall as you watched the initiates be inducted by Knight Commander Greagoir, the head of your captors, he was telling them all about their duty to the citizens of Ferelden and the Chantry, all that nonsense. It was basically just propoganda to make these people feel like they had the right to place themselves above you.

The new initiates weren’t too impressive, once again all humans of course, because the precious Chantry couldn’t trust elves such as yourself to become Templars. Most likely because elves would be more likely to opposed the confining of people just for circumstances of their birth, at least the ones who weren’t already brain washed into believing the Chantry’s inane teachings. That thought always reminded you that even if you weren’t trapped in this tower, you would simply be in an alienage in one of the many towns around Ferelden, another prison. Elves simply weren’t welcomed or free anywhere, at least not in a human society. There were surprisingly three women and only one male this time, which was abnormal because women seemed to stray more towards becoming Chantry sisters than Templars. So that was interesting, you’d have to figure out their names. The only interesting thing about the male was his ridiculous height. He looked almost tall enough to be a member of the Qunari, all he was missing was the horns, or at least you assumed since you had never seen a Qunari in real life.

If only you knew what would follow this day.

***

“You know, you aren’t supposed to be in the library after lights out.”

You almost screamed in surprise at the unfamiliar voice. You knew the schedule for the Templars and usually you were able to skirt around and hide whenever it was time for their rounds to reach the libraries. Apparently tonight was determined to be different. Glancing up from your book you flashed the Templar a sheepish smile, instantly recognizing this man as one of the new initiates whose name you had yet to learn. It wasn’t exactly...forbidden but initiates were definitely encouraged to not give their name to the mages or learn the names of the mages either, it was probably so they didn’t connect that you were real living beings and develop a conscience.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I said I had an incurable illness that causes me to sleep walk around the tower, would you?” You were likely to be in deep shit because of this. Knowing how new recruits were, usually the super brown nosing type, they wanted to make superiors happy so that they could get promotions. Unfortunately for you, that usually meant getting mages into trouble.

Knowing this was probably why you were so shocked to hear the giant male snort, in an attempt to hold back a laugh. In all the years of living here, you hadn’t met a Templar who actually laughed at your jokes or smiled at you...like this male was doing right now. He glanced over his shoulder looking towards the opening in the shelves that hid the two of you from view. This library was almost perfect for hiding, the rows were like their own little hallways with bookshelves that almost reached the ceiling which was perfect for blocking the light of your candle when you were here at night. He must be checking to make sure that none of his co-workers had entered the library after him.

Soon his attention was back to you, a small boyish smirk on his faces as he spoke. “Well I suppose I’d ask you to tell me about this terrible illness, is it contagious? I’m not sure the other mages would like it if I was roaming the halls in my sleep.”

You were once again dumbfounded by this human. You wouldn’t expect him to think about what would and wouldn’t upset the mages, usually the Templars just did what they wished with no regard for those they were meant to be watching over.

“No, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t like that. Lucky for you, I was born with it just like my hideous magic.” You didn’t truly believe that your magic was horrible. If everything was done by the Maker for a reason, then so were mages! People were just taking Andraste’s “Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” thing a bit too far.

“I don’t think your magic is horrible. It’s a gift from the Maker! The Maker doesn’t give bad gifts,” He confessed, quite a controversial opinion for a Templar to have. With one more glance over his shoulder to make sure that the two of you were still alone, he pulled out the chair across from you and took a seat.

“I’m Mingyu. What’s your name?”

***

After that fateful night in the library, Mingyu and you kept in contact but only in the dead of night and only when he was scheduled to patrol the first floor library. Tonight was one such night.

“Chan is getting suspicious, ya know?” You mentioned, laughing softly from your seat at the table the two of you frequented. He raised a brow at you and tilted his head slightly, his lips jutting out in a small pout. He honestly looked pretty adorable like that, nothing like the fearsome Templar act he had to put on during the day.

“He thinks I’m shaking up with another apprentice and not telling him.”

“Imagine the look on his face if he knew you were just hanging out with me.” Mingyu retorted, going to rest his cheek on his palm only to remember that he was wearing his gaudy templar armor and deciding against it. This caused him to pout more and for you to laugh, making sure to keep your volume down so you weren’t caught by anyone else patrolling the area.

A silence fell over the two of you as your laughter subsided. It was here where the two of you were illuminated only by candlelight that you felt safe. That was something you weren’t used to feeling. In the Circle, there was a constant need to watch your back and be on your guard just in case some random Templar got pissy because you ‘looked at them funny’. It was a struggle for survival.

These nights were different though. You could almost imagine that you weren’t locked inside this tower you could dream about possibly being free and in the outside world that you vaguely remembered. Hell, how long had it been since you had seen the sun?

"How long have you been in the Tower?"

The question was innocent enough, but it definitely threw you off guard. It wasn't something you liked to think about often. It had been so many years ago and it wasn’t exactly a...pleasant memory.

"It's been...I think about 17 years almost? I developed my magic when I was around 6 years old and my mother was very devout. So she turned me into the chantry, saying that the Maker had frowned upon her and her family by giving them a Mage for a daughter." It hurt a lot thinking back on the day that your mother had abandoned you. Her pleas to the Chantry mothers, begging them to take you as she also begged for the Maker's forgiveness. Thinking she had obviously done something wrong if she had given birth to a mage.

You watched a frown set it self onto his face, obviously not having expected to hear such a thing. Most parents went so far as to hide their children from the Chantry, making them apostates, illegal mages, so that they wouldn't lose their precious bundles of joy. Just like Chan's parents. They had fought tooth and nail to keep him when the Templars came, it even cost them their lives. Chan didn't like talking about it but you knew that he still had frequent nightmares about that horrible day.

"What about you?" You questioned, diverting the attention from your situation and onto Mingyu. "Why did you become a Templar? I'm sure being a regular knight would have been just as nice, if not easier. At least knights aren’t also stuck inside the Circle tower." It may not have been a prison to the Templars, but they were still trapped inside these halls as well. Most weren’t really able to leave either unless they were going to visit their families, and even then that was rare.

He chuckled dryly at your words and shook his head.

"Something we have in common, I suppose. My family is also very devout, very deep into the teachings of the Chantry. All the men end up becoming Templars if they can. It's in our blood. So of course, as soon as I was old enough to hold a sword I was sent off to training to try and become the best Templar the Kim line had ever seen." The look on his face was one of melancholy, one that you recognized as a look that you had seen on other mages. The look of someone trapped in their own fate.

"Guess we're...kinda in the same boat, huh?" You gently nudged his arm that rested on the table with one of your fist. It was a small gesture, but one with meaning for both of you. Reaching out he gently, or as gently as he could while wearing full plate mail, took your extended hand in his own. The cold metal was a stark contrast against your heated skin, causing you to shiver lightly. He gave a small squeeze and a tiny smile made it’s way onto his face, as if he had been comforted by your words.

You felt your heart stutter for a moment, watching the features of his face in the candle light. It was still for a moment before he released you hand and stood from his chair.

"I should get back to my patrols before any other the others get suspicious. I'll leave a note in our spot when we can meet up again."

You were moments away from responding but stopped short as he leaned down and pressed his lips softly against your forehead. You were stunned still and silent as you watched him pull away, smiling at you once again, before slipping off into the night.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared after him in shock. Your face flushed with heat, and you knew that Kim Mingyu would be the death of you at this rate.

***

"I hope this doesn't offend you but...what is so bad about being made Tranquil?"

You winced slightly at his words, the thoughts of the Tranquil always frightened you. Of course, being a Chantry boy, he had been told from a young age that being made Tranquil was a mercy for mages. Because if you were Tranquil then at least you were alive. It was all a lode of rubbish. Instead of just answering his question, you decided to ask one of your own.

"Do you know Owain? The Tranquil who runs the Circle stock room?" He nodded slowly, unsure of where exactly you were going. "I arrived at the tower before he was turned. He was a kind man who took me under his wing and helped me adjust to life at the tower. I was very young and so very scared, but Owain had basically turned into a father figure for me. I cared for him so much." You felt tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill over as you recalled the man you once knew.

"One morning, a few years after Chan had been sent here. I had to have been around 11, well we woke to find Owain standing in front of the stock room just like he does now. Only he was no longer the kind, father figure I had grown to love. He was so cold, lifeless. Being made Tranquil isn't a mercy to mages, it's taking every part of them that makes them who they are and ripping it away." You tried to keep quiet, but the more you spoke the more anger and fear bubbled in your guts. You had barely even registered that you had begun crying.

"You become a lifeless husk that holds the shape of who you used to be."

You couldn't bring yourself to look up from the table, to watch the emotions that were surely playing out on his face as he watched you cry. You were surprised at how silently he had moved, because you were soon pulled to stand and held tightly against his armored chest. It wasn't too comfortable because of the plate mail he constantly wore, the metal poking into your skin and it reminded you that while this embrace was comforting...it was also dangerous. Against your better judgement, your arms quickly wrapped around him and pulled him closer as you tried your best to keep your cries quiet. As you sobbed you heard him whisper soft nothings to you, but one stood out from the rest.

A promise that he would never let you be made Tranquil.

***

It wasn't long before those soft forehead kisses from before became kisses of passion. Soon you didn't need the candle light as your guide as you followed the curves of his body under his armor. Things changed quickly, and before you knew it two years had passed and you were hopelessly in love with Kim Mingyu. Something that should have never come to pass.

You were certain that at least First Enchanter Irving knew, he somehow knew everything that happened in the Circle Tower, and while you weren't a very religious woman, you found yourself praying to the Maker that Knight Commander Greagoir was still clueless. Unfortunately the one person you wanted to talk to about this was the person you were most determined to keep in the dark.

Lee Chan, your best friend.

"You should tell him." Mingyu, gently caressed your cheek, his gloves had been taken off long ago as the two of you lounged in your usual spot in the library. Your meetings had gotten farther and fewer between as he rose in the ranks of the knights and you stayed a simple apprentice.

If you were being honest you were a bit worried about that as well, but Mingyu assured you that it was nothing to be concerned about.

“Oh sure, that’ll go well. I can picture it now. ‘Hey Chan, you know the Templars who watch our every move and are sometimes ordered to strip us of our entire sense of self, yeah I’m in love with one of them. The tall lanky one that has been trying to joke with you, yeah the one you complain about all the time that’s him’.” You chuckled to yourself as you thought about his reaction to that, and not really realizing what you had just admitted. Not until you glanced over at Mingyu and found him staring at you dumbfounded.

“You love me?”

You froze, like a A million thoughts raced through your head, all of the best and worst possible outcomes. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if this was just fooling around? What if he said he could never love an elf and he had just been using you? What if, what if?! Your heart thudded loudly inside your chest as you stared at him, unable to enunciate the way he made you feel.

Luckily for you all of those what ifs were cut off as his hand grasped the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss filled with such fire that you could almost feel yourself being burned. Everything he wanted to say was trapped inside this kiss, you weren’t alone with your feelings and this kiss told you all you needed to know and more.

After a string of long, intense kisses that you were almost certain would lead to another round of light touches and soft moans, he pulled away. His forehead pressed against your own and a large almost blinding smile was plastered on his face.

“I love you too.”

***

You stared at the small flame of your candle in silence, he was late. Usually he was exactly on time, never early and definitely never late. It was too dangerous otherwise. Your stomach was in knots at the thought of what could possibly be keeping him. That’s when you heard the sound of armor clanking against the stone flooring, almost like the person was running. Since you weren’t entirely sure it was him, you quickly blew out your candle and slid under the table to hide.

The footsteps got closer and your heartbeat seemed to be almost as loud as the steps themselves. You only relaxed at the small call of your name. The familiar voice had you out from under the table in record time.

“You scared the daylights out of me Mingyu, I was worried something had happened.” You confessed, using a small bit of your magic to light the candle’s flame once again. The light gave way to the terrified look on his face, streaks of tears stained his cheeks, and you found yourself running to his side to wipe away the fresh batch that was threatening to spill out.

“Mingyu, baby what’s wrong?” You whispered, doing your best to comfort him by taking his hand in your free one and using the other to gently caress his cheek.

“We need to go. The Phylactery chamber, we need to find yours. I need to get you out of here.” His deep voice cracked as he tried his best to control his tears. He looked so frightened and pale even, despite his tanned skin. Your heart sunk as you thought of your Phalactery, the vial of blood that had been taken from you when you arrived and was stored inside a chamber with all of the other apprentice’s. It was the templar’s way of tracking you if you had ever escaped, and was the biggest reason you had never attempted to escape the circle.

What he was suggesting was crazy though, there was no way the two of you would be able to storm the Phalactery chamber, there were two locks and it required a fully realized enchanter to unlock one of them and you...had yet to be called for your Harrowing. So you tried to console him.

“Baby, what are you talking about? You know we can’t do something that crazy. If we get caught you’ll be kicked out of the order or worse, sent somewhere like Aeonar. Why are you ev-”

“They want to make you tranquil.”

Your heart stopped at his confession, eyes going wide as your blood chilled within your veins. Subconsciously you took a step away from him in disbelief, you didn’t question the legitimacy of his words because you knew for certain that he wouldn’t lie to you like that. Not when he knew your fear of being made Tranquil. You watched as he stared helplessly at you and began speaking once more.

“Knight Commander Greagoir thinks that...he thinks that you might be a blood mage. Even suggesting that you- that what we have is because of a demon’s influence.” He took a step forward to close the distance between the two of you, taking your hand back into his own. He liked holding your hand, he had said in the past, it made him feel loved so very loved.

“I know it’s not. I tried to talk to him but he...he wants me to perform the rite. Which is why we have to get you out of here!”

Your mind seemed to be going a million miles per hour but also seemed to stop all at once. Your limbs had gone numb as you stared blankly at the floor in terror, you weren’t sure what to do. If you ran on your own then they would just send Templars to find you and with your phylactery, it would be quick work and both you and Mingyu would end up dead. If you followed Mingyu’s plan, you would most likely be caught and turned Tranquil anyway only with this route he would also be punished for his crimes. Lastly, If you stayed, you would be made tranquil at the hands of the man you loved. There was no winning in this situation, there was never a winning choice for a mage.

You pulled your hand from his grasp, causing a small pained sound to leave his lips, breaking your heart as it did so.

“You have to do it…”

“Y/N no! We talked about this I won-”

“We don’t have any other choice!” You cursed yourself after your outburst, though at this point you weren’t sure you could get into anymore trouble. “If you got caught you would never be able to see Minseo or your parents again!” You had spoken of his family in great detail before, and you couldn’t bear to know that he would never see them again just because of his attachment to you.

You didn’t want to be made Tranquil, but you also didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. This was the only option where at least one of you would be able to keep living freely.

Thinking about the fact that your days were now numbered scared you, the numb feeling from before seemed to linger but you couldn’t find it in yourself to cry. Not now, not when you had to seem like you were certain of your decision. He needed that from you.

So you swallowed your terror and gently cupped his cheeks in your hands.

“You have to do this Mingyu. There isn’t any way of getting out of this. Not that will actually work.” You muttered, voice soft as you kept eye contact with the male. You felt his hands reach up and rest over your own, and took solace in the fact that what the two of you felt was real. At least for a little while longer.

“If it’s you...it’s okay.”

You had never lied to Mingyu before, but...this seemed like a good time to start.

***

The grip on your forearms was sure to form bruises, but at least after this you wouldn’t feel them.

You stared before you as the branding rod held in Mingyu’s tight grip lingered over the open flame, making sure that the metal would be hot enough to etch itself into your skin.

You couldn’t stop the tears that fell from your eyes, and you had sure tried. You knew that seeing you cry could cause Mingyu to hesitate, falter or even flat out refuse the order which would make this all for naught. At that moment, you felt so hopeless. Everything you had worked for, everything you had lived for would be coming to an end. All because of that simple, unassuming brand that your lover held.

At the command of Greagoir, he moved the brand away from the flame and stepped towards you. Reciting the Chant of Light as he did so. It was supposed to bring comfort to the mages and remind them that this was the Maker’s will, you found the words mocking even coming from Mingyu’s lips.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.” His voice strained as he spoke the Chant of Light, it broke your heart to hear him in such pain. His grip on the haft was so tight that you were almost certain that the metal of the rod would break.

“Foul and corrupt are they who have taken his gift, and turned it against his children.” His armored footsteps echoed against the stone flooring. Tears threatening to spill as he stepped closer to you. You felt the grip on your arms tighten as his fellow templars held you in place.

“Remember, that...that this is a mercy.”

With those last broken words escaping him, he lifted the sunburst brand and held it above your forehead. You saw the heartbreak burning in his eyes, and he hesitated refusing to move the brand any closer to your forehead.

Your eyes met his and watched as he desperately tried to keep his composure. You forced a small pained smile onto your face, and that seemed to be the only thing he needed. Not a second later, the metal pressed against your forehead and sparks of blue lyrium seemed to burst forth as the sunburst brand stripped away every bit of emotion you had to replace you with a husk that could no longer connect to the fade, to magic. A husk with free will but a husk nonetheless.

“I’m sorry.”

#caratwritersclub #kdiarynet #kdiner #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagine #seventeen scenario #seventeen drabble #svt x reader #svt imagine #svt scenario #svt drabble #mingyu x reader #mingyu imagine #mingyu drabble #mingyu scenario

36 notes · View notes

lovelyirony · 5 years ago

Note

“But I remember you the way that we rehearsed” for winter13, please?

Fake dating. Bucky didn’t like that it had come to this. He glared at his agent, Natasha, who pays him no attention.

“And this is necessary exactly why?”

“Because you scare people,” Natasha says. “And it proves on some level that you have a heart somewhere in there.”

Bucky snorts. “Let them think I don’t have one. It’s how I get all my roles, right?”

He had had previous experience in the military. With squared shoulders, a deadset gaze, and good-enough looks to be noticed by a talent scout? He’d been shipped off to Hollywood and gotten typecast as a handsome military man in every single movie. He didn’t mind it. As long as it paid the bills, he’d do it.

Natasha didn’t like this. Apparently he had to be a “real person” and “interact with people.”

He did not like that. Why interact with people? He talked with Steve. He made fun of Sam. This was enough!

“At some point, people grow bored of the whole ‘I’m tough and distant, watch me gaze stoically’“ Natasha tells him. “And I know it goes quickly. With a dating life, it proves there’s more to you.”

“There’s really, really not.”

“Then it will boost Carter’s career,” Natasha says. “You don’t want to kick a fellow star down, do you?”

“I don’t particularly care.”

Sharon is dragging her heels in the dirt.

“Maria, what the hell? What’s all this about me dating Barnes?”

“It’ll be good for his image.”

"What, to prove he can date someone?”

“On the nose,” Maria says. “He needs someone that shows a...softer side of him.”

“Does he have a softer side?”

“You can make one.”

“And if I don’t?”

"Then you have a lower chance of breaking out.”

“Still a chance.”

“Do it and I’ll make sure that you get a wine cellar,” Maria says.

“...fine.”

They both look at each other carefully.

“I’m Bucky.”

“Sharon. Good to meet you.”

She sticks out a hand for a shake. It’s firm, to the point, and they’re both thinking this might not be the worst.

“So, how do you want to spin this?” Natasha asks Maria.

“They meet at a red carpet event,” Maria says. “Bucky asks after her, she gives him her number. They meet up for coffee. Become a thing. Short and sweet, exactly how it should be.”

They nod.

Sharon stares.

“So we don’t get input?”

“What would your idea have been?” Natasha asks.

“I meet her at the shooting range,” Bucky mutters.

“That’s literally the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Maria says flatly. “Nope. Red carpet. We’ll coordinate outfits a bit, leave the public saying ‘aw’ that it was ‘destined in the stars’ or whatever bullshit they’re going to put in the magazine. Any questions, concerns?”

“Can I pick the coffee shop?” Sharon asks.

“Yes.”

The red carpet event. One of Sam’s newest spy flicks, and Bucky can’t lie and say he isn’t excited. Sam makes a good spy with smooth looks, an easy smile, and a way with a suit and acting like he’s acting for espionage.

It also helps that he can make fun of him while they’re at the theater.

Sharon looks nice in a simple blue dress. He’s wearing a blue tie.

Coordinating. By chance. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.

She saunters over to him.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” she asks.

“You, uh, got it,” Bucky says.

“I’m Sharon. I liked your last movie. You pulled an impressive move with the motorcycle. Was that a stunt double?”

“Nah, although I did have a nice guy for the building leap,” Bucky answers. “You were in the last murder movie, right?”

“The detective, yeah,” Sharon says. “How’d you meet Sam?”

Conversation goes smoothly. Sharon fills in where Bucky breaks off. She doesn’t say anything about his short, blunt answers that so many others flounder over. She doesn’t even pause for any pity when he mentions the prosthetic.

“Is it a Stark model or something else?”

“Um. Stark.”

“Good choice,” Sharon says. “I was reading about the success rates.”

“What, because you knew I have one?” Bucky asks.

“No, my cousin’s Tony,” Sharon says. She puts on a teasing smile. “Not everything is about you, Mr. Barnes.”

“I wouldn’t presume, Ms. Carter,” he answers, a smile playing at his lips. “Mind if I escort you to your seat?”

Take notice. Pictures. He knows it’ll be on one of those late night “News” stations. (News. What a fucking joke.)

He gets her number at the end of the night. She slips him a notecard.

“Special occasion and all,” Sharon says. “I’ll send you the address for the coffee shop once you text back.”

That night he stays awake a bit longer. He tells himself it’s just because of the fancy, late event.

It is not because he thinks Sharon may just be one of the most interesting people he’s ever met, and not just because she’s his type.

Besides, coffee is nice. He can drink it and not answer anything while he’s sipping on it.

He’s early. By half an hour. She is five minutes late, orders some fancy concoction, and sits down. She looks very nice, put-together. Bucky can already see everyone staring and taking pictures.

“So, how was your night?” Bucky asks.

"Not anything happening besides sleep after the premiere, you?” she asks, stirring the foam around.

“Not really. Ate a hot pocket.”

He cringes.

He really made the choice to say that, didn’t he? Ugh.

To his surprise, Sharon laughs to herself.

“Glad I’m not the only one who still eats garbage food. The amount of people who say they eat a smoothie bowl...”

They launch into conversation about stupid foods that celebrities eat, and how much they both would kill for a grease-stained-paper burger that honestly tastes like your aorta is gonna fail. That’s how unhealthy it is.

Sharon finds out that he likes rock climbing, and she offers to host the next outing at the club she goes to.

They get photographed exiting. She admires the beat-up car that he refuses to get rid of.

“Still runs, don’t see why I would get rid of it,” Bucky mutters.

“Can I just say, for one, that I don’t know why anyone in Hollywood would deny having a car that’s fifteen years old and has a ‘My Son is an Eagle Scout!’ sticker on the back,” she says. “Oh my god, did you get this from your mom!”

Bucky laughs.

Dating is easy.

Feelings are hard.

Because Sharon can go on dates. They go on walks and answers questions and grin for pictures, and that’s all good. She can do that.

What she can’t do is at least attempt to stop trying to feel the way his fingers press into her waist, the way she smiles at him. She knows how she’s smiling at him.

She needs to stop sitting with him at an old diner at sunset, cheeks red with laughter and long-faded sun, and they bicker over who has the best shake.

She needs to stop taking his jackets and shirts and wearing them out and feeling a sense of pride that other people know that she knows him more than anyone else. The way that he only smiles at her.

They’ll have to talk to the Oscars board to get him nominated for Best Actor. Hell, maybe she can even convince them to have him win. He’s convincing like that.

Bucky hates that he has feelings as well as memories. Had lobotomies not been highly risky and (mostly) illegal, he probably would have signed up for one right about now.

Dating is...nice. He likes Sharon. He hopes that she likes him, at least. Tolerates maybe.

Natasha says their break-up is scheduled for a month from now. Mutual parting, careers in the way. Whatever excuse is cooked up, he’s sure it’ll make sense. Sharon probably has a life to get back to, and Bucky...he’s sure he’ll think of something to say in the interview when they invariably ask him about it.

It’s Sharon who comes to his house at ten-thirty at night in old cut-offs, a t-shirt that’s paint-splattered from when she helped him paint his kitchen table chairs one boring afternoon, and her eyes are rimmed with red.

“Feel free to tell me I’m stupid, but I don’t wanna break up,” Sharon says. “We have a good time, I think you’re probably the only actor in this whole scene that I’d ever date, and you’re the best guy I’ve ever met.”

Bucky blinks.

“Are you...me? The best guy you’ve ever met?”

Sharon giggles a bit.

“Yeah, you.”

“Sharon as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours,” Bucky confesses. “Can’t promise I’m the most interesting guy alive.”

“Says the guy who drives a beat-up town car with stickers on the back,” Sharon says with a snort. She pulls him into a hug. “But yes. I want you, Bucky. I really, really do.”

They inform Natasha and Maria, who already saw this coming from the moment they met.

“Another match in the books,” Maria says, pouring a glass of wine for herself. “Who’s next on your list?”

Natasha thinks, sliding her sunglasses down. “Well, I think Sif and Jane would do quite nicely together, don’t you think?”

“It’s gonna need more planning than Bucky and Sharon,” Maria says. “You sure you’re up for that?”

Natasha grins.

“When have I not been, dear?”

#winter13 #acting au #sharon carter #winter soldier #bucky barnes #agent thirteen #maria hill #natasha romanoff #lovelyirony writes

38 notes · View notes