#the mutual pining and pedestal placing of it all

[bits-and-babs]

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔

pairing: johnny soap mactavish x medic!reader (stitch)

summary: a night of drinking with 141 pushes you to the brink of your friendship with soap.

warnings: [ 1k words ] pathetic levels of mutual pining, yearning, alcohol and drinking, (f) masturbation, reader fantasising about sex with soap.

notes: i had so much fun writing this <33

Soap leans back dangerously on the stool at the bar as he laughs, a deep rumble that rattles his ribcage. The legs of the seat teeter precariously on the edge of a broken floor tile, threatening to slip into the grout grooves and knock him from his pedestal. He’s like sunshine, glowing with the grin plastered on his face as he guffaws at something Ghost had grumbled across the bar.

Even in your drunken stupor, you manage to place your palm on his lower back, curbing gravity’s inevitable pull by easing him back into an upright position. He chuckles weakly, still struggling over Simon’s ridiculous comment as he blinks back humorous tears.

“Cheers, Bonnie,” he grins, the ocean in his eyes swimming with the whiskey The Captain had been plying you both with all evening. It knocks you seasick, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, weathered by emotional storms. They creased for you, now, his wide grin carving out crevices that would last a lifetime simply because he offered you a smile. “Always lookin’ after us, aren’t ye?”

“Y-Yeah, don’t go expecting me to catch you in the field. My job’s to treat injuries, not prevent them,” you murmur, heart cracking against your chest as it flooded your cheeks with blood, heating the skin beneath his gaze.

“Mhm- it’d mean y’d have less work,” he pointed out with a pert raise of his brows, picking up his glass of whiskey and swirling it around so that the ice tnk’d against it. Johnny doesn’t break eye contact, basking you in the warmth of his gaze that could only be rivalled by the sunshine on the beaches his salt-water eyes reminded you of.

Did other people bathe in that everglow? Did the golden rays of his affection colour the cheeks of other girls, or was that look of adoration reserved only for you? You dread to think of the possibility that you were misreading Johnny’s tender gaze, that what you had hoped were exclusive expressions of enchantment had, in fact, been handed out as frequently as the insults that Soap consistently levelled at the members of task force 141. Or even worse, there was a single ‘lass’ back home, waiting in the cobbled streets of Glasgow to receive his embrace.

Genesis: the split on his forehead that went straight to the bone. No bullets were fired; instead, Soap’s skull connected with Ghost’s knee during a football game with the rest of 141. Inexplicably, he and Simon had been on the same team, yet Johnny still managed to end up hurt. He’d smiled at you, and the sight had wormed its way into your bones, the sound of his accented voice all hushed and husky ringing in your ears. ‘Bet yer not used to fixin’ daftys like me.’

You’d assured him he wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Swallowing thickly, your fingers trail up the ridges of his spine through the thin material of his t-shirt. His back is muscular, leaking the heat of far too many whiskeys for so early in the evening. You’re sure you can feel his vertebrae ripple beneath your touch, his eyes zeroed in on your lips like he was aiming his sniper rifle at a target.

“It’s not work if it’s you,” you whisper, feeling the rest of the bar, the team, wash away in those ocean-blue irises. Soap hums softly, the weight of his hand resting on the top of your thigh beneath the sticky countertop of the bar. He seems to calculate the distance between you; the logistics of the shot.

You can’t breathe.

Defibrillator, chest compressions, mouth to mouth.

“Yer too kind, Stitch,” he murmured softly, giving your thigh a squeeze before withdrawing his touch almost as quickly as he’d offered it. Instead, he wraps his fingers around the glass containing the rest of his amber whiskey, the condensation clinging to the sides of the glass dribbling down the length of his fingers to the knuckles.

Code blue.

☆ ☆ ☆

Breathless, your back arches from the cot’s mattress as you sink your fingers into the dripping head at the apex of your thighs. You can’t help the moan that spills over from your lips as you feel how wet Soap’s single touch had made you, the burn of his palm still simmering in the flesh of your thigh.

You’d barely made it back to the barracks. Stumbling over your own feet, you’d whimpered in frustration when tearing off your clothes, needing to rub your throbbing clit to ease the pulsing need Soap had instilled in you with his fucking smiles.

They’re a nuclear weapon, so bright it hurts your eyes.

Alcohol made it so much worse. Your mind runs away with itself, imagining Soap had tripped into your bed alongside you. He’d be rubbing at your swollen clit with his thumb, sinking his fingers deep inside you while praising you for how well you received him.

��Steamin’ Jesus, Bonnie,’ he would groan, kissing across your sternum while searching for that mind-numbing spot inside you that had your toes cramping as they curled, ‘so fuckin’ wet for me. Can ye take another? C’mon, that’s it-‘

You wail softly, rocking your hips up to meet the thrust of your fingers as you imagine the sensation of his lips on your neck, the scratch of his stubble against your pulse point.

“‘M gonna cum, Johnny,” you wheeze aloud, urging the ghost touch to keep going. Your fingers sink deeper, the ridges of your fingerprints scraping something cataclysmic when you curl them just right.

A long, anguished whine ricochets off the walls of your dorm as you drench your fingers with your cum, eyes squeezing so tight that you can almost see the ghost of Soap’s silhouette behind your eyelids, praising you for your devastating orgasm. It’s so slow, utterly debilitating as it obliterates every inch of your drunken limbs with a white-hot ecstasy.

Your lungs rattle with the force of your inhales, bleached knuckles gripping the bedsheets in a desperate attempt to brace against the explosive orgasm. Soap’s touch still simmers beneath your thigh muscles, buried into the sinews despite the trembles that wracked them.

Did he feel the same? Had your palm burned into his vertebrae, or did he imagine the touch of a girl from home, whispering her name when he came?

You dread to think. 

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[stupidlittlespirit]

I think other reason why most people find Ford more appealing than Stan is that, while there's more content for him, there's also a bit of his fatherly demeanor that fits the 'older relative' description more. After all, he's been around since the first episode and we've always known him as a great-uncle and the fact that most people were around the age of Dipper and Mabel when the show came out makes Stanley look that way. It's like that 'Grunkle Stan' is stuck to him.

Ford seems to be more of a separate person from the family and Alex doesn't include Ford when he talks about the Pines in most interviews, he refers to him more as the author. And that's completely normal, since Ford arrives in the middle of the second season, we don't see his relationship with his family as much as the others.

Also even in the Old!Stan x Young!Reader stuff, the writers sometimes make Stan call the reader "kid" and it drives me crazy. Well, it can be in the part where feelings are denied, I can't say anything about that but it seems absurd to me that it happens after the age problem is overcome

I agree with the concept that we spent more time with Stan as a familial figure and for some of the audience, it probably coloured our view of him. We do bond with him through the eyes of the kids because, like them, we also don't really know who he is, we've kind of also been shipped out to the cabin to spend time with him, and we learn the truth at the same time the kids do. The audience is driven to feel that level of love for Stan because our POV is via the children.

I disagree that most people were around the kid's ages when the show came out. A lot were, but just as many weren't. I was 19 and my life was going the exact same way Stan's was when he was my age.

For me, I saw Stan and my brain went 'oh my god, he's me'. My bonding at that time with Stan was done on a mutual level because we had so much in common (scarily so and still do). He wasn't my uncle so much as he was my own twin. I love Stan a lot, and although I can play around with the fantasy aspect with regard to him, he's always going to be a kindred spirit to me before he's anything else. But he's certainly viewed through a more familial lens.

On a surface level, Ford does benefit in that sense from not being so tied to the family-esque nature. He can be placed on a different pedestal and seen as someone less platonically-loved and patriarchal, so desire can be tied more closely to him.

(We don't want to get bogged down here with psychology stuff, so I know that I could go another route on both of them and mention the Electra Complex but I won't so keep your daddy-issues to yourself! /s)

But on a deeper note, I don't think it's good for Alex to make canon!Ford stay like that. While Ford is a separate character from the family to some extent, he's still part of the family. It's a hard thing to describe because you really have to hold multiple realities in one hand when you do it; Ford is as part of the family as Stan is, but he's also estranged/distanced from the family. Ford is to the kids what Stan was to him for a long time and vice versa. I mean, he's also that to Stan, of course, but you understand my meaning (I hope). Ford and Stan never stopped being brothers, not really, but they were separated. The love exists and it never stopped.

By keeping Ford apart from the family completely, even after he returns, it creates an even larger gap between him, and Dipper, Mabel and Stan. Obviously, we haven't really had much content since the series ended so it is kind of hard to talk about Ford's interactions with the rest of the family, but even in Lost Legends, Ford is still very separate from the others. He's The Adventurer, he's the Leader. He's not the Uncle. He shows concern for his family but he's always more action packed than heart driven, and I don't think that's fair for him. He is very full of love (we've seen it!) but he's never quite given the room to show that in the main content that we have of him, which I think is really sad and I think it drives this real dislike of him. I am admittedly concerned that if we get more content, like that Sea Grunkles story stuff Alex talked about, it won't show him in a balanced light, and if by some miracle it does, a lot of the fandom will refuse to engage with it charitably. Certain people have proved themselves very capable of that.

I have noticed this happens a lot, it isn't GF focused, but a significant number of people have lost the ability to empathise and are instead dedicated to making characters they don't understand suffer. They won't engage and they won't analyse with honesty; either because they don't want to or because they don't know how to. I think it's a healthy scoop of both. I hope I don't sound high and mighty saying all of this because I don't mean to, but I've talked with other people in the past about similar (though unrelated) stuff, and there's consensus that analytical skill seems to be dying out at large. I mean, take a look at the regular news. It's everywhere.

RE: the Stan 'kid' stuff. I think maybe post-relationship it is a little weirder, but I do also think he'd use it in a very tongue in cheek way. Stan is significantly older than most of us, I expect, so anyone under like 45 would be a kid to him. He's more inclined to be quite dry with his humour so I can see him using it as a jest as opposed to meaning it genuinely.

Sorry.... Again, I went on a lecture. You guys should start kicking the soapbox out from underneath my feet.

[nalgasde-hao]

Okay so my headcanon on Taang (and a little bit of Zutara on the side)

- So I would much rather prefer if the ending of the show hadn't made any of the ships (except for Sokka and Suki) Canon, but even with the Kataang final kiss I feel like Taang would have been canon

- Because they were both too young and there relationship would've been completely platonic (I've always felt like Katara saw Aang as a little brother that she needed to protect, but even if it wasn't for that, Katara put Aang in a pedestal for being the avatar and created a lot of expectations over him, which I think it can be proved by how later on their marriage on Korra, besides the way Katara did everything for him like a mother), and Katara's desire to go back to help rebuild the south pole while Aang wanted to recreat the air nomads again would made their relationship be very complicated

- And that's how I feel like they would outgrow each other and realize they would work much better as friends

- Without Katara's imagine in his mind Aang would be able to notice other girls - like Toph, who he hadn't seen in a long time due to his traveling

- I feel like Toph already felt something for him, but couldn't quite understand what it was, but she would take the opportunity to travel with him again

- and then, they would have a slow burn, friends to lovers relationship, with a lot of teasing and mutual pining

- as for Katara, I feel like Zuko would be a better match for her - they always had a great chemistry - but not only that, before Zuko joined the Gaang, Katara was the only one who did the chores and made sure that everyone was okay, which was a lot of responsibility for a 14-year-old, and after Zuko showed up and started to help her out, it gave her time to actually enjoy travelling

- I feel like after a time the other nations would pressure the Fire Nation, for something to make them feel safe - since they replaced the Fire Lord, with his FIRST BORN SON, and Katara would volunteer to be the South Pole ambassador

- There relationship would grow up from that, and I feel like there love language would be acts of service, always making sure the other one has rested and is feeling okay (and I can't stop obsessing about how Zuko choose Katara to help him find his mother)

- I also think that Maiko wouldn't work - although I really like the ship - because Mai hated everything that had to do with the aristocracy, because it bored her, and she didn't want to be what her mother wanted her to be, so becoming the Fire Lady wouldn't be very fulfilling for her - I kinda feel like she would have a thing for Ty Lee, but Idk

- Also, I like to think that Aang would always visit Toph between his travels to the point her parents (who didn't like him for making their baby girl run away) question themselves when was he going to propose for Toph's hand (I feel like her mother would make a comment during dinner or something and they would die out of embarrassment)

- And I'm 100% sure that Suki and Sokka had a bet going on who of the two couple would confess first (I have a feeling it's Zutara) and after that they would just try to hold their laughs at Taang mutual pining

BITCH THIS IS THE EXACTLY WAY I THINK THAT TAANG HAPPENED (if it was canon ngh-) and the way you explain the zutara relationship it makes all the sense to me.

Besides, talking about kataang, I always saw as a problem that katara couldn't show her agry with aang bcs he would cry or something like that, and that is not the way it should be when you are with your partner, on the contrary, it should be a safe place where you can express yourself freely, and I thought that with zuko, she can do it.

Also, bitch, toph and aang are soulmates and nothing can change my mind. THEY WORK SO PERFECT TOGETHER WHEN THEY ARE KID, IMAGINE WHEN THEY GROWN UP. Unstopplebe, on fights and love lmao.

[spicy-melon]

What Remains of the Night | Illinois x GN!Reader

Chapter 1 (SFW)

MASTERPOST

Warnings: possession (not reader), mind reading, mutual pining, implications of kidnapping reader, illi's life is threatened, Night is kinda an asshole in this

A/N: i've made a couple of small changes from when i first shared this in the server, but overall plot is the same <33

The underground temple air hung damp between the two of you as you traversed the rocky architecture.

A sudden noise earlier had led you to cling to Illinois. The clutching had transformed into just holding his hand, if not for anything but the stability it gave you trying to walk along the uneven floor.

It would be odd to any outsider that you had held onto him like your life depended on it. Like you were more than just friends, like he was the protection between you and whatever had made the sound. Brain wracked with emotions of your closest friend and how he made you feel.

Emotions that you had a funny feeling were one way, no matter how flirty and charming the man was towards you. Something told you that’s just the way he was with people.

You two eventually came to what seemed to be the main room of the temple, a dark red orb ceremoniously sitting on a pedestal in the center of the space. You had begged Illinois to let you handle the lead of this adventure, you had been with him for a bit and wanted to prove yourself to him, including getting the artifact itself.

Luckily, there were no traps on this particular expedition so far, letting you walk with relative ease up to the object and carefully lift it from its home, placing it in your bag. You look back to your partner with a proud expression.

“Look like I might have some new competition, one of these days you’ll be as good as me, Darlin’,” he winks with a smug expression on his face, but pure pride in his words ”Now let’s get outta here.”

You hear yet another odd noise off in the distance as you walk back to his side of the room. Illinois laughs it off (like he always does, does anything ever get to this man?) and you two start for the exit, treasure in hand. A mission successful and almost complete.

Something in the temple shivers from its very foundation, like you had just woken something ancient up, and it was not pleased. A louder, closer sound erupts and sends shivers up your spine.

Illinois stops suddenly in front of you, as his head whips to the side, almost like he heard you say something to him.

"Illy, are you ok? What--"

He slowly turns around, showing eyes glowing like the last embers keeping a fire alive. The laugh that comes out of Illinois's mouth is not one you recognize. It echoes through the chamber and rumbles in your very bones.

“Aren't you a pretty thing… Do you have any idea what the two of you have unleashed, playing around in my temple?”

You take a cautious and slow step back, and shakily let out, “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh no, little mortal, it’s not. I do not take trespassing and stealing lightly. There’s got to be some sort of punishment. The question is just what to do with —”

The face in front of you flickers, almost like it glitches in real life. One face is staring at you, an evil smirk tugging on its lips with glowing red eyes and the other one has the purest fear in its soft brown ones, mouth wide open in a silent scream.

If the being wasn’t filled with anger before, it was now. He lets out a low frustrated whisper, talking to himself. You only catch one word: “control”. Illinois’s body is puppeted to roll his neck, shaking out the feeling and looking annoyed. He stands there briefly not saying anything, eyes off to the side as if he’s thinking. That is, until that smirk grows into a grin, full of teeth you were sure they were sharper than usual.

“This mind of your... companion is truly entertaining. All those words unsaid. It’s a shame really, that you’ll never hear them once I’m done with him.”

You drop the flashlight you had forgotten you were holding, mind racing with ways to appease this… deity? Demon? Spirit? Everything in your head was screaming ‘Take me instead. Not him. Don’t hurt him.’ but your throat was blocked with fear, keeping you from voicing your pleas.

The being’s low voice rumbles out in a mockingly dreamy tone, “His heart soaring with every blush he makes appear on your cheeks, taking the chance to hold your hand any time he can, it's adorable…”

Your possessed companion's face twists with faux pity as he slowly stalks towards you, backing you up into a crevasse of the temple, trapping you in. Was he…taller?

The way he's crowding you in reminds you of a predator cornering an animal before they attack. He has to be making these things up, right? Just trying to stir anger out of you as punishment?

He continues to take you in, eyes trailing your body, “I can see the appeal. But still, something has to be done about you. Even gorgeous sinners need to repent. Perhaps I’ll keep you, you’d make a wonderful little human pet.”

His eyes blink for a moment, briefly losing the intense glow. Before the being in front of you growls.

“That wasn’t all me, ‘Darlin’.” The last word is spewed out of his mouth like it was an insult. It felt wrong, so very wrong, to hear that pet name Illinois always used for you in that tone.

He leans back and drops his hand to rest on the wall beside you and a laugh rumbles out of him.

“You mortals and your emotions. It’s almost adorable. Almost.”

He goes to say something, but a thought seems to interrupt him.

“Oh, and what’s this? This is unexpected: Fear.”

He continues to look right through you, spilling the thoughts and emotions of your closest friend, “Now why would he be afraid of a little thing like you? You’re not exactly intimidating.”

One part of you wants to scoff and yell in this asshole’s face, and another part of you is just as curious as he seems to be.

The being inhabiting your explorer eyes you with a look, somewhere between internally searching and analyzing you. He lets out a knowing and mischievous sound.

“Ah… I see,” Illinois’s face curls into an expression you’ve never seen from him, and it makes your skin crawl, “You can ask him yourself later, for a fun little chat. That is, if you ever talk to him again,” he ends the sentence with a sound you can only describe as a growl, a stark contrast to the seemingly tender motion he does to move a stray hair out of your trembling face. His hand travels down to your bag, the idol still securely inside.

“Now, be a good little thing and return your little treasure, leave, and I may let you and your little companion live.”

[starshipsofstarlord]

Omg thank you so much for writing my request for tom :) Can I ask for a part two where you try not to read the comments, but end up doing so, and most are good, so it's fine. Until you post a picture of you on your account, and tom's fans start calling you names, and tom's so tired of all that happening that he posts on his account a whole paragraph about how his personal life it's no one's business?

Posted

This is part two, find the first part here

Summary | previously Tom had accidentally posted a picture of the two of you, exposing your relationship. And so, you decide to purposely do the same on your Instagram, though the response is much different than what his post had received.

Warnings | hate comments, some angst, swear and demeaning words

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Tom was asleep beside you, his head tucked into the crook of your neck, you were able to feel his gentle, slumbering breathing against your skin, and it caused goose bumps to prickle upon the outer layer of your flesh.

The two of you had vastly fallen asleep upon the couch, and your phone was on the coffee table, and to say that you were itchy to reach for it was an understatement. There would be comments on the picture that Tom accidentally put online, and you were hungry to see them, whilst simultaneously nervous.

Tom was a big actor, known for his presence in the marvel cinematic universe upon many other projects, and some of his fans, whilst proven during Comic-Con panels, were borderline crazy. They’d snap if they even so much as saw something that they didn’t like, and this time, you would be on the receiving end of it.

Being motionlessly captured, with your face on show, was certain to bring much attention. You too were within the acting department, but there had been no correlation between the pair of you until now, most of the world weren’t even aware that you knew each other. And not to mention, your span of reaching an audience was smaller, although, certainly not non existent.

You had reprised fame during your appearance on Modern Family, as the friendly neighbour of Phil and Claire, and a classmate of their eldest daughter, and not to mention Luke was crushing hard on the character you played, though, with that said, your character laughed his efforts off due to the age difference, yet still found his pining weird and often uncomfortable.

Another role that you were becoming known for was your character in Netflix’s Irregulars, where you met Harrison Osterfield, Tom’s best friend. Through filming the show, you were introduced to the Spider-Man actor, and the pair of you had hit it off almost instantly, if you didn’t include Tom keeping his amorous distance, wary just in case there was something going on between you and your mutual friend. To his relief, there wasn’t.

And thus, when he received that confirmation, he was far more forward, yet respectful at the same time with his intentions. That was how you had ended up here, as he half used you as a pillow, his arms wrapped around his ribs, and his soft peaceful snores filling the void in the air.

Stretching your arm at its furthest length, your fingertips wrestled with the side of your phone, padding it closer to yourself, so that you could slide it across the small living room table, and closer to yourself. You were victorious in your efforts, and so on you unlocked your screen, going to your camera app, and leaning sideways so that you could snap a few pictures of your predicament with your loving and sweet boyfriend.

Looking at the images that you had captured, a smile arose upon your face; you truly did love this man, and you wanted the whole world to know how much you adored him. You wanted them to see that you cared about him, and that he was in good hands with you, to cool off any of his fans that were processing their hurt feelings for seeing Tom with another woman, show him that he was getting the love that he deserved.

Extreme courage coursed through your veins, focusing within your fingertips as you opened insta, gulping as you readied to post the image. There was no editing required, it was perfect just like him. And so, the caption was something to think about, you didn’t want to make it too obvious that you were dating as the online community already assumed, the priority was to show them that you cared about him.

‘He’s taking a nap, and crushing my hip a little, but I don’t mind 😌’ you typed, your finger hovering over the post button as you chewed your lip. It was easy to press your digit down, and so, taking a breath, you did just that, encouraged by the previous and kind comments on Tom’s earlier post.

Within a matter of minutes, your phone was blowing up, and you were too tempted not to glance at the growing comment section. There were various accounts, some supporting your confidence to show such a domestic version of yourself with Tom, you assumed that they were your followers, and the ones that weren’t so light hearted were those that intently watched anything on the media that involved Tom.

‘He’s too good looking for her, she should be dating someone within her league. Tom is clearly taking pity on this hoe.’

‘Aw look at him, and ew, look at the state of her. He could do sm better 😔’

‘Why doesn’t she look like his exes, they were hot af, and now he’s with some rando that is after his fame and money. Maybe she should just take better roles if she wants to get noticed so bad.’

Your eyes kept reeling through the intentionally hateful words that continued to come through beneath the image. Tears began to fall from your eyes as you tried to stifle the movements and the sound of your gentle sobbing, as to not wake Tom. Quickly, your fingers raced through the social media, and you, knowing that there would still be presence of the image somewhere online, you deleted it, muting notifications and shuffled back into Tom.

The man stirred, tugging you closer by your waist, pressing a kiss to your locks as he awoke. He noticed however the way that you refused to face him, and so he rolled you over with a gentle grip on your shoulder, frowning when he saw the recognisable redness beneath your eyes, and the sad expression floating within your eyes.

“Princess, what’s going on?” He wiped his thumb beneath your bottom lashes, collecting your tears as he worriedly looked down at you. His brown eyes searched every inch of your face for an idea, but found nothing but your broken hearted expression.

“It’s nothing Tommy.” You tried and failed to convince the man, wincing half heartedly as he sat back on his thighs, gripping your hips so that he could pull you up with him, giving him a clearer view of your face. It was clear that he did not believe you, and he hummed, trying to make you give in. Eventually, after much concerned staring, you gave in, slumping your shoulders as you tucked your arms around the back of his neck. “I posted a picture of us, the response wasn’t great.”

Instantly, Tom’s brows uplifted, surprised by your action, though he had a strong inkling of a feeling that the reaction that you had earned was not complimentary. These were not tears of joy, instead they were stricken rivers of anguish and insecurity running down the length of your face.

“Let me see.” He spoke, softly to you, but his intents towards defending you strong. You shook your head lightly, tracing circles upon his knees as you gulped, flickering your guilty gaze up to his watchful eyes.

“I deleted it. I just couldn’t deal with knowing that the longer that it was up, the more hate would be directed at me. I’m sorry.” Tom grasped your face by your tense jaw, his fingers stroking your chin as he sadly stared at you.

“Never be sorry. Now send me the picture you used so that I can give everyone a piece of my mind.” Reaching for your phone, you sent the image to him, and in a second his device pinged, revealing that it had successfully sent to him.

“Cute.” He described the picture, his hands furiously typing away on his phone, his constant unsettling of his rabidly moving fingers drawing anxiousness from you. “And some.” Tom finally breathed, closing his phone as you went to his account, checking what he had posted publicly.

‘This may concern some people, who keep sticking their noses in where it does not involve them. I appreciate you all, the support, the love, everything. But one thing that I do not stand for is people coming at my girlfriend just because they don’t approve of our relationship. If you check mate, I never asked for your opinion, I love y/n, and some online hate, that needs to stop otherwise you are not someone I want to be calling themselves a fan of me, needs to stop. It makes no one happy or feel healthy with spreading such toxicity around the internet, if you don’t like something, then keep your blood mouths shut, this has nothing to do with you, it is just me and my girlfriend. I’d think you’d want me to be happy, because I want the same for all of you, so can people please give my partner some respect, she’s done nothing wrong but bravely chose to reach out to you all, and she had that spat back in her face. It’s not on, and I want this to stop now.’

“Tom...” you were shocked by the paragraph, it came across as aggressive, and very over protective. His action, that could affect how he was cried by people that put him on a pedestal, and that made you feel guilty that he had reached out to them in such a way.

“It’s okay baby, I’d do anything for you, and you know that. No one messes with my girl.” He put his arm around your shoulders as he pulled you close placing a kiss upon your forehead. Not only was he your boyfriend, but he was your protector, your knight on a shining cell phone.

[cake-writes]

No Vacancy (3/5)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader 

Story Warnings: Both Bucky and Reader are gonna get kind of dark in this, so… Dark Fic (I guess?), Very Dubious Consent, Somnophilia (sex with a sleeping partner – and it’s gonna be more than once), Breeding Kink, Rough Sex, Angry Sex, Hair-Pulling, Visible Marks, Breathplay, Throatfucking, Restraints, Subspace, Choking, Spanking, Degradation, Masturbation, Angst, Anxiety, Feels, Mutual Pining, VERY OBVIOUSLY 18+

Summary: You and Bucky have been on so many missions together, you’ve lost count. How is it that you’ve never shared a bed until now?

A/N: NEW WARNINGS so have a look just in case there’s something you don’t want to read. i also made a moodboard. other than that... heh. enjoy, my fellow harlots. 🙈 

Part Two / Master List

The devil on your shoulder tries to frame it as a confession.

The angel tries to claim it’s a sign of a guilty conscience.

I pressured you into sleeping with me, didn’t I?

Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s both.

Pressure. You should have said force. You encouraged him – took advantage of him – spurred him on with pleasured gasps and desperate pleas and god, you feel so full. He’ll be dripping out of you for days after.

It’s wrong.

You should have stopped him. He couldn’t consent – but the memory turns you on.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Just knowing how easily he can overpower you even while he’s asleep leaves your body burning with a certain kind of heat you’ve never felt before. Not to this degree. You’ve always known that he’s enhanced, of course, but until last night, you’ve never seen his strength so up close and personal – never experienced it firsthand like that, and now, it’s all you can think about. He’s all you can think about, and he doesn’t even know what he’s done.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

His hand pressing your face into the pillow – you couldn’t breathe.

His cock stretching you out so perfectly – you couldn’t think.

His cum filling you to the brim – you couldn’t stop him. Or at least that’s what you try to tell yourself, but it’s a lie. You didn’t even try.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.  

But you do.

The morning is spent tiptoeing around him, like he’s a grenade ready to explode at any given moment. It’s evident that Bucky doesn’t remember a thing about the night before by the way he interacts with you: careful, guarded, like maybe you’re the grenade.

You know you should tell him, but you don’t. 

The secret you keep is the grenade, and when the pin is pulled, you don’t know what will remain. You’re scared that he’ll hate you, but you’re not ready to consider that he won’t.

So you confess in a bout of anxiety, instead, because your conscience is muddled and things are weird and you can’t even act right around him anymore.

You’re suffocating.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

He wanted to sleep with you. That’s what he said, but in that moment, it’s crystal clear that you’re not on the same page. The sleeping with you mean is vastly different to the sleeping with he means.

There’s tension. There’s never been tension before. It feels like you’re walking on eggshells, and you hate it. You hate the way he puts you on a pedestal half the time and treats you like a friend for the rest. You hate that the only time he’s serious with you is when you’re joking around. You hate it.

Why can’t he just be honest?

Why can’t you?

It’s overcast outside – downright miserable, really, with rain every ten minutes and you with no wet-weather gear. Washington State is dreary at the best of times, but now it’s even worse. It reflects your state of mind; the storm clouds are your inner conflict, and every clap of thunder signifies a punishment for yourself for wanting this, wanting him, wanting more.

You have to tell him.

As Bucky pulls the beater into the parking lot at the drugstore, the rain finally lifts for the umpteenth time. It feels like a blessing, or maybe it’s a sign.

You slide your hand into his as the two of you walk inside, something you’ve done too many times to count whilst undercover: a fact further proven when his fingers lace with yours so easily, so comfortably, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is.

When the bomb drops, it won’t be anymore.

“Cold meds are over here,” Bucky says as he leads you in that direction – but you don’t follow, and he stops to glance down at your hands like he’s only just realized what you’ve done. Then his eyes turn back up to your face, and in those pretty baby blues you watch as the confusion turns to suspicion, and your stomach turns to knots. “What are you doing?”

“I—I have to tell you something,” you stammer, hesitant, unsure. Your voice wavers and there’s a lump in your throat that makes it difficult to swallow.

You’re nervous. Of course you are. You’re not ready to pull the pin.

“We’re not together on this mission,” Bucky informs you, plainly, like you don’t already know that. You know what he means by together; you’re not a couple. You know that, too. It’s painfully obvious that you aren’t, now.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

“We could be,” you suggest, to which he sighs in annoyance and pulls his hand free.

“Get your meds,” he says, tone clipped. “You can tell me in the car.”

And then he’s gone, and you’re left feeling even more uneasy than before.

By the time you get back outside, it’s raining again. Thankfully, the car’s unlocked, and you jump inside to find that Bucky has his seat reclined and his hands are tucked behind his head like a makeshift pillow. The radio’s tuned to some station you don’t recognize, but you’re in the boonies, now, so that’s really no surprise. A bit of static distorts the song that’s trying to play – something classic rock, but you can’t really place it through the low volume.

As you pull the door shut, he greets you with a sharp, “Took you long enough.”

He’s pissed off, and the way he eases his seat back up is further testament to that – slow, but precise. Calculated. Vibranium fingers tap the steering wheel, like he’s waiting for an apology.

Great.

The pharmacist just had to grill you about your sexual history, because this really is the boonies and you’re a single, unmarried woman looking for contraception. It took a lot longer than it should have, so much that you’re in a mood now, too.

“Sorry,” you mutter, locking the seatbelt into place. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, or,” you gesture to Bucky’s general vicinity, “whatever the hell this is.”

You’re already so tired and it’s only eleven o’clock.

That’s when you finally meet his eyes – just long enough to see that sassing him was probably a bad idea, and predictably it pokes the bear.

“If anyone’s acting off,” he begins, voice sharp, turning the engine back on, “It’s you. Don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but figure your shit out. We’re on a mission.”

You and Bucky have argued before, but not like this. This is personal. The fact that he used your words from your earlier spell of anxiety is proof of that.

As if you need him to tell you what your priorities should be. You already know.

“Roger that, Sarge,” you bite out sarcastically, rummaging around in the plastic bag to rip open the pill package. “I’ll get right on that.”

Then you shove the pill into your mouth and take a swig of water from your water bottle, before you slam it back down into the cup holder a little harder than necessary. Bucky lets out a long, slow breath as he shifts the car into gear, and you don’t even have to look at him to know you’re trying his patience.

Good. He’s trying yours, too.

Crumpling up the bag and its contents, you toss it haphazardly into the back seat and pop your feet up onto the dash in a fit of irritation. That’s when Bucky turns up the radio, and you finally hear the lyrics over the static:

We are all just prisoners here of our own device—

Of course it’s Hotel California. As if you can feel any more trapped than you already do.

You’re suffocating.

It’s clear you won’t be having any more conversation until you arrive at your next destination.

It’s clear that Bucky doesn’t care what you wanted to say, or maybe he’s forgotten. Not that it matters.

Up until now, the confession burned hot on the tip of your tongue – a desperation to tell him about what happened last night, or maybe even an apology, but not anymore.

He was the one who woke you up.

He was the one who held you down.

As far as you’re concerned, you’re the victim here. Not him.

So you don’t say a thing. Instead you shut your eyes and hope to god he didn’t get you pregnant.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave—

The rest of the day unfolds with even less camaraderie between the two of you.

There’s friction, so much that you’re about ready to scream by the time you make it back to the motel. Maybe a little friendly fire would be sufficient, because you’ve had enough. 

Steve would understand. He knows what a pain in the ass his best friend can be. 

Bucky doesn’t get the door for you this time, not like he usually does; instead he walks right into your shared room and leaves you standing out in the rain. That pisses you off even more, and you slam the door shut behind you so hard that the window next to it clatters in its pane: old, decrepit fibreglass.

You’re lucky that the whole thing didn’t shatter. It’s only hanging on by a literal thread.

That observation sobers you up a little. You can’t keep on like this.

“What are you, a bratty teenager?” Bucky barks at you, and the way he rounds on you so suddenly sends a jolt of excitement straight to your core. “Do you want the rain getting in, princess?”

The last word is spat at you with such vitriol, it makes your jaw drop.

He’s angry. He’s pissed off. He’s had it with you, and it turns you on.

What the hell is wrong with you?

You’ve felt like this all day – just blamed it on your anger because it’s easier to focus your energy into that than on the fact that you want him. That you always have. That you always would, now that you know what he’s capable of.

It’s wrong.

“No,” is what you finally answer; timid, almost, and your shoulders slump in defeat. You can’t keep on like this. It’s only seven o’clock – less than half a day of fighting with him and you’re already over it. 

You’re exhausted. And so is he, by the looks of it.

He’s drenched from the rain. The carpet where he’s standing is damp with water, and his clothes haven’t fared much better. You’re sure you’re in a similar state – t-shirt and jacket soaked through, not to mention your jeans, and you’re dripping water into a matching puddle on the floor.

There’s a pause while Bucky runs a hand through his wet hair, before he mutters under his breath, “Christ.”

The rainwater only adds to the atmosphere, of course, and although that certain musty, damp smell isn’t quite as bad as the guest services office, it’s still very present. It tickles your nostrils, makes you sneeze, and then you can’t help but shiver because of the bitter cold.

Bucky’s hand on your shoulder is all the warning you get before he shoves you toward the bathroom – not gently, but not too roughly, either. Just enough to make you stumble.

You open your mouth to rip him a new one for it, because you’re feeling defensive over how much you like it, being pushed around so easily, being put in your place – but he beats you to the punch.

“Go have a hot shower.” The way he says it makes it sound like an order, and you shiver again when your thoughts go where they shouldn’t. “Your cold’s gonna get worse if you don’t warm up.”

That’s right. Your excuse from this morning.

“Fine,” you snap, “but I’m not going because you told me to. It makes sense.”

He sighs in frustration and picks up his towel from this morning off the back of a chair – uses it to dry his hair. “Fine. Just go. I don’t want you getting sick.”

He doesn’t have to say how much of a pain he thinks it’ll be if you do. The implication is enough.

So you shoot him another dirty look and stomp into the bathroom, feeling pissed off and turned on and fed up with this stupid fucking mission and awful fucking town and this shitty fucking motel. The old shower creaks and shudders when you turn the handle, and it takes a couple of minutes to heat up, but soon the hot water is a balm and you’re sighing in relief.

That feels much better.

When you take a little extra time to relieve yourself of the day’s frustrations, too, those happy sighs turn to breathy moans, and you can only assume they’re being drowned out by the water – but they’re not.

The walls are paper thin.

Not that it matters.

The shower leaves you feeling a lot more refreshed.

As you exit the bathroom, towelling dry your hair, you feel so much better. Clearer. Even if it’s wrong to use last night as a fantasy, it still takes the edge off – lets you concentrate more on the mission than Bucky, which is the entire reason the two of you are here.

Problem is, he’s staring at you like that.

Her mind is tiffany-twisted—

Hotel California immediately dies in your throat; you hadn’t even realized you were singing it to yourself until the look on his face made you stop.

“What?” you ask, feeling awkward all of a sudden. Bare. You’ve got a towel around yourself, but it’s not enough. There’s something about the look in his eyes that’s dark, hungry, and it makes your throat go dry. Makes you feel like you’re on display.

Bucky clears his throat and pulls himself to his feet; he’d been sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning more like, probably waiting for you to finish your shower so he can have one himself. “Nothing.”

And then he pushes past you into the bathroom – leaves you alone with your thoughts.

By the time he’s done, you’re already asleep. Or maybe that’s just what you want him to think.

It’s cold.

You must have fallen asleep at some point; you don’t know when, but the digital clock on your bedside table glows bright red in the darkness – 01:12 – and you stifle a yawn. You’re still exhausted, not to mention sore from being put through the ringer over the last day and a half. Your body’s still aching from last night, never mind the soreness between your legs.

The blankets shift beside you, just a little, and you freeze – but Bucky doesn’t do more than roll onto his back. Judging by the steady rise and fall of his chest, he’s fast asleep.

It’s like last night was a dream. Like it never even happened.

He’s a light sleeper, usually, but he doesn’t wake even when you go to get a drink of water, nor does he stir when you climb back into bed, half-scrambling to get back under the sheets and away from the autumn chill in the air.

It’s freezing, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of him even from your side of the bed.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

No response.

So you reach out hesitantly, nervously, like he’ll lash out at you for even trying – but of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know. Your hand splays across his shoulder in a gentle caress, and it’s only when you finally have his too-hot skin beneath your fingertips that you realize how cold you really are. Your fingers are like ice.

Or maybe it’s just an excuse for you to get closer.

Carefully, you lift his arm just enough to slide underneath. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt and your cheek rests just beside; he’s warm, so warm, and your eyelids instinctively flutter shut because god, he smells good. Sandalwood and musk and everything him, just like last night, only stronger, more concentrated, right from the source.

That’s when the fire between your legs starts to burn. You almost wish it didn’t. You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this, but you can’t escape it.

Last night did happen, and it’s something you’ll never, ever forget.

You shift to peer up at him in the darkness, but his breathing stays just as even – just as steady.

“Bucky.”

It’s not a whisper anymore, but it’s not so loud, either. Your voice is rough from sleep. That’s all.

His brows knit together, and for a moment you think you’ve woken him – but then his face relaxes again. He’s still asleep.

Your hand smooths along the planes of his chest, slowly, as if to savour the feel of his muscles under your fingertips; and then it slides lower, to his abdomen, and your heart starts to race.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He’s so strong, so ripped, so fucking attractive and you just can’t help yourself because you’ve never touched him like this. You shouldn’t be touching him like this.

It’s wrong.

Your hand dips lower still, to the waistband of his sweatpants, and you swallow thickly.

Another glance up at his face – he’s still asleep.

You should stop. You shouldn’t do this.

But you do.

Your palm brushes against him through the thick cotton and fleece of his sweats, and your heart skips a beat because he’s hard.  It spurs you on, gives you the courage to wrap your fingers around him, pump him once, twice—

And then you’re on your back, with him on top of you and cold vibranium fingers digging into the flesh of your neck.

You can’t breathe.

There it is again, that expression that makes your heart sink in realization and your core throb in muscle memory. He’s not here. Not really. Those pretty baby blues of his are blank, emotionless, and a cold sweat breaks out over your skin when you gather that he might actually hurt you this time.

“Buck—” You choke out, but you can’t breathe. “Bucky—”

He’s too strong, too powerful, too good at what he does. He has your arms pinned down with the way he’s straddling your upper body, and he’s far too heavy for you to push him off.

You’re trapped.

Only when your vision starts to go a little spotty does he finally let go, and you gasp and cough for air – at least until you feel the vibranium trail up your neck and along your cheek, and suddenly you’re staring up at him with baited breath as he drags his thumb against your lips. When he dips it inside to feel the wetness of your tongue, you shiver.

You like this.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He says something in Russian, then, but you don’t know what it means. Probably should have taken Natasha up on her offer to teach you way back when. Not that it matters.

At your lack of response, he grips your chin to the point that it’s almost painful. Almost.

It turns you on.

Then he repeats himself, a little more firmly this time.

“Da,” is all you can manage, a breathy whisper, because ‘yes’ is the only Russian you know. Problem is, you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.

You soon find out when he lets go of your chin in favour of burying his hand in your hair, to pull your head forward; and with his free one, he pulls down his sweats just enough to free himself, let you come face to face with his cock. All eight inches of him, thick and hard and leaking precum.

The breath leaves your lungs with a whoosh.

He says a single word, and you don’t have to understand the language to know what he means.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, first, and then you glance up at his face, like maybe this is the dream and he’ll snap right out of it. Then again, you’re not really sure that you want him to. The desire coursing through your veins feels like a bushfire, turning any rational thought in your mind to ash.

It’s not a dream. He’s not awake.

It’s wrong, and you don’t care.

You lean forward slightly to take the head into your mouth, and then you give it a tentative little suck. He’s thick, so much that you know your jaw will be aching by the end, but the salty taste of him is intoxicating, it’s addicting, and you can’t get enough. Your tongue swirls around the head, as if to collect every drop of precum he’s offered you – and then you take him further.

About halfway down is what triggers your gag reflex, and you quickly pull away to cough.

A mistake.

He uses his tight grip on your hair to shove your mouth right back onto him – and then he pushes past your tonsils, and your nose is buried in his curls.

Sandalwood. Sweat. Bucky.

You gag once, twice, feel your throat constrict around him, but he doesn’t let up – just makes you take every inch of him until you feel like you’re about to pass out for a second time. Survival instinct has struggling to push him away, has your fingernails digging into the backs of his thighs, has you drawing blood but you don’t even notice – the lack of oxygen’s already gone to your head.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

You like this. You like it so much that your panties are soaked through.

By the time he pulls away, you feel a little dizzy, but you have half a mind to beg for more.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Each gulp of air feels like a blessing, one that he’s given you, that he’s allowed you to have and you look up at him again through half-lidded eyes as if to say thank you.

Then his cock’s all the way down your throat again, and your vision blurs with tears: a physiological reaction from gagging and coughing, nothing more. You’re not scared, no – you’re turned on. So turned on that you can’t think straight anymore.

You’re losing it.

When he finally relents, you rasp, “Fuck me.”

It’s in English, but he seems to understand just fine.

He lets go of your hair and moves off of you so that you can catch your breath. Your cheeks are wet, and radiating heat – but you don’t notice the latter until cold metal fingertips come back up to brush away your tears.

You feel dazed. High. Floating, and you never want to come down.

Clarity slowly comes as your breathing returns to normal, but everything still feels like a fever dream.

“Clothes.”

Another one-word order, in English this time, and you comply like you’re on autopilot because he’s him and your body’s buzzing with endorphins. Your t-shirt hits the ground first, followed by your pajama bottoms – but when you reach for your underwear, you notice that your hands are trembling. That’s how excited you are.

It’s wrong.

Not that it matters, because you discard your panties quickly, too.

“Spread your legs.”

After leaning back on your elbows, you do so – and when he finally touches you there, your head lulls back. Two warm fingers spread you open like he’s checking to make sure you can handle what he’s going to give you. You’re not sure that you can, now, but hell if you don’t want to try.

When he removes them, a glistening string of wetness follows – and then it breaks. Some part of you does, too.

His arms hook around your thighs before he pulls you forward, just enough to line you up where he wants you. You yelp in surprise at the suddenness of the action, but it doesn’t faze him; he just sluices the head of his cock through your folds, and then he pushes in.

No warning. No preparation.

You don’t need it anyway.

The first thing you notice is that you’re sore, an observation soon forgotten the further he slides inside. The stretch of him feels different, now – better, because you’re already so soaked and the saliva only adds to the slickness. The position he takes you in bears a resemblance to missionary, with him on his knees, and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning because it’s so good.

That doesn’t last long. The last couple of inches sink into you all at once with a snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” you whine, holding onto the pillow above your head like it’ll ground you, maybe keep you from losing yourself.

It won’t.

With his fingers digging into your hips, you’re not sure how long you’ll last. It’s a grip that ensures full control of your body, something only further proven when he uses it to pull you off of his cock. Then he shoves you right back down onto him, forces you to take every inch of him inside of you, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

It feels too good. He feels too good.

You’re losing it.

The pace he sets isn’t gentle, but you don’t want that anyway. Not now. Not anymore.

Skin audibly slaps against skin as he fucks you – and that’s exactly what it is. He’s fucking you. He’s fucking the life out of you, rough, brutal, and there’s nothing admirable about it. It’s not the kind of sex that they show in the movies; it’s the kind that warps your mind, distorts your senses, makes you feel like you have only one purpose: this.

It’s carnal. It’s instinct.

You need to feel him blow.

It’s addicting, watching the sweat roll down his muscular chest. It’s exhilarating, seeing the furrow of his brow as he concentrates. It’s shameless, the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust, and you know he notices when his fingertips tweak a nipple.

Every part of you is exposed to him like this. Raw. Debased.

His.

It only sends you higher when you see the bruises on your hips.

You’re losing it.

And then he leans forward onto his forearms, caging you in – and it’s intimate. His forehead touches yours, his nose brushes yours, and you shudder because it’s not real.

Every part of you is exposed to him except for that.

So you pull him closer, giving him no choice but to bury his face in your neck, and it’s there he sucks a bruise; he leaves a mark, a claim, a scarlet letter on your skin.

It’s wrong, but it almost feels right. Almost – but it’s off.

The suddenness of him slamming into your g-spot draws you out of your head and back into the present. Even if it’s not real, he still knows how to play your body like an instrument, and he soon has you dangling over the edge, whimpering, begging, ready to implode. His fingers are in your mouth to stifle your moans, and he’s saying things – things in Russian – things you can’t understand, but it doesn’t matter.

None of it matters. 

None of it is real.

When the pace changes, your ankles lock around his waist. He’s close.

“Come inside me,” you gasp, or maybe it’s a plea.

His hips stutter, then, and when he shoves it in as far as he can go, you fall.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

His cock throbs, and that’s when you can feel it, the warmth, the heat – you feel each pulse as he spills inside of you, every hot rope of cum as he fills you to the brim. You’re clenching down so tightly around him, it’s impossible not to feel it. It’s impossible not to lose yourself. It’s impossible not to break.

When he bites into the tender junction of your neck and shoulder, you see stars. It’s a mark, a bruise, a delicate mixture of pleasure and pain, and his teeth leave your skin a reminder for the morning—

You’re his, inside and out.

If only.

Part Four

[shini--chan]

Hiii, How would the 2p FACE family react to a stuck up reader? One that is about as stubborn as a mule and will snap at them for getting too close?

I would imagine it like this:

Yandere 2p! Hetalia America

Allen looked at you, completely forlorn in his affections for you. Just why did you have to be so stubborn, batting away his affections at every opportunity and give him the cold shoulder? He guessed that it simply added to your appeal.  The unobtainable simply made the vying more intense.

Filled with yearning he approached you, where you were sitting on the coach. It was so unfair how you acted, playing all coy as is you were some nymph, the mere movements of you turning the pages being to elegant for him to look away. You had him completely enticed, so it was an injustice that you acted as if there were worlds between the two of you.

“Hey, sugar”, he greeted you, hoping for his desperation to leak through and simultaneously loathing betraying such weakness to you, “How are ya doing?”

It was a simple question, one with all the good intentions of the world, yet you only deigned to give him your usual response. A huff and you turned away from him, nose in the air. “I was fine until you showed up”, you sneered. Why did your words always have to hurt to damn much?

To Allen, this would be a nightmare, the sort of hell that would make him curse his own foolish heart. On a part, he wouldn’t completely understand how he’d become obsessed with you in the first place. The two of you would be opposites, and not in the good way because it would result in a lot of rage, fear, and undiscussed feelings. Allen would be expressive while you would cage all your feelings, at least, in front of him. In fights, he would get hot-headed and rage while you would be the standoffish ice queen. He would just want to unwind around you while you would have a stick up your rear and always have a few verbal taunts at hand.

 On the flip side, having his obsession in no way requitted would pour oil into his fire – it would just serve to amplify his determination to make you submit to your own hidden feelings for him, something that he would tell you on more than one occasion. May the powers that be save this man, for he has watched far too many Hollywood romances.

Canada

“How about you let me in? I won’t hurt you?”, he tried to reason with you. Tried was a good word for it, considering his poor social skills and the tendency to stick his foot in his mouth the few times he did venture amongst ordinary mortals. You have the stubbornness of a scrawny old ass was no antidote to it.

“How about no?”

Cursing under his breath, he leaned against the door frame and pinched the bridge of his nose. Just why did you have to act like conceding to doing the smallest of favours, especially when he was appealing to reason, was like giving him victory.

“Just let me see the cut! Do you really want it ta get infected?”, he growled.

“Go away! I’m doing this on my own”, you yelled back, each word a whip of sand grating at his patience. It was nearly at an end as well. “(Y/n), don’t make me kick down the door.

Canada would be rather frustrated to deal with a person like you. Sure, he himself is a reserved man, that likes to keep his cards close to his chest and sit back and observe before he makes his move. But being in obsession, he would want to be open around you, expose the vulnerable and hidden parts of his personality. You being bull-headed and refusing to head in that direction with him would hinder him on that.

His frustration would then echo in his treatment of you – he would become completely stingy, acting out his emotions in violent outbursts as he would struggle to gain control over himself and the situation at hand. That would cause your cold demeanour to  remain and your loathing for him to intensify which lead to a spiral.

England

Oliver was being insistent again and you didn’t like it one bit.

“Come on, love. Just one kiss. It won’t hurt; that is if you comply”, he sniggered as he wrapped his arms around your waist, lithe fingers digging into your side and trapping your arms to your sides. When he leaned up to plant a firm kiss on your lips, you turned away and sneered icily:

“It will hurt you more if you tried to.”

He growled into your shoulder, his nerves raw from distanced behaviour that had already lasted for over a month. In the beginning, he had told himself that after going a few weeks without any human contact aside from him that you would finally cave and accept his affection. Your defiance kept proving him wrong.

“You aren’t in the position to make threats”, he chastised you, and quick as a praying mantis he launched himself forward and smacked his lips against your cheek, to which your face twisted in disgust.

Out of all on this list, England would have the most extreme reaction. Oliver needs a lot of touch from the person he is fixated on, bodily contact grounds him. When he doesn’t get that, he would start to become aggressive. He is actually like a cat in that regard – he wants affection, just affection without all the constraints a mutual relationship with compromises carries.

He try to coerce you into giving affection to him, him rationalizing that if you get used to giving affection to him, then you’d one day grant him that willingly and even like it. For that, he would lock you up in a cupboard for days without any light and just minimal food and water. Else, if you would want something from him, then you would have to give him something in return – a kiss, a hug, or a cuddle session. Nothing sexual, not yet.  

France

In truth, François would find your distant attitude very romantic and put you up on a pedestal for it. For him, he would either have a lover that would act as his anti-depressant or as some unachievable person that he could pine after. The distance would be an important factor for him, it would make you angelic in his eyes.

He would almost act like he is a knight in medieval times and you his courtly love – not somebody to marry, rather somebody to dedicate his life to, to fight battles in your honour and move mountains just for the smallest symbol of your favour.

That doesn’t mean that kidnapping if off the charts – he would do that if he thought that you were just endangered without him, unable to defend yourself from all the dangers of the outside world. Your continuous rejection would be a bitter pill for him to swallow, yet he would find comfort himself with the fact that he would have committed crimes with your best interest at heart.

[cinanamon]

body & blood — pjm (m)

pairing | jimin x reader

genre | angst, smut, vampire!au, high society!au, mutual pining!au

word count | 5.5K

synopsis | Jimin has been in love with you for the past century, but ever since you’ve been betrothed, he can’t help but feel guilty.

warning | biting, blood, gore. smut: body worship, penetration, unsafe sex

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“What do you mean? It’s literally been decided for a couple decades now.”

Jimin groaned and dropped his head in his hands. Taehyung glanced around the dark walls of the stone gazebo for any prying eyes before clearing his throat.

“Jimin, look,” Taehyung paused as he caught sight of a few guests greeting each other by the decorative iron gate, cloaks hiding their figures from the waning dusk. He coaxed Jimin more into the shadows before continuing. “You guys don’t have to get along at first; it’s normal. You’re going to be stuck together for the next millennium so no one is going to expect you guys to love each other.”

“But that’s what I want, Taehyung!” Jimin lamented as he raised his head, “I’ve had a crush on her for the last century, and now that we’ve been arranged it’s like—I don’t want her to be stuck with me.”

Taehyung sighed but patted Jimin’s arm empathetically. “Well you have time on your side. She’ll have to get used to you at some point.”

Jimin wailed again as Taehyung heard sharp footfalls down the stone steps to their left before he saw Jungkook appear, his eyes glowing red as he leaned against a column.

“Are you guys ready? Your dad’s getting impatient, Jimin.” Jimin felt his cold blood freeze in his veins as he looked between his two lifelong friends.

“Why? The sun hasn’t even fully set yet!”

“Most of the guests are here already; who would miss the union of the two highest-standing vampires’ offspring?”

Jimin cried in his head that he wished everyone would have missed it, but he kept his mouth shut; instead, Jimin pressed his lips together anxiously. “How does she look?”

Jungkook chuckled, his fanged teeth shining in the pale light emitting from the lantern above. “She looks beautiful, as always; when you stop being a baby bat then you can catch a glimpse of her for yourself.”

Jimin scowled lightly but still didn’t move, simply crossing his arms and looking up at the large cathedral to their right. Taehyung looked down and sighed again. “Jimin, why do you think she hates you? You’re not a burden. Maybe you’ve been too shy to talk to her for the past decade because of your betrothal, but we still talk to her; she doesn’t hate you.”

“Well she will. We’re being married against our will. She’s probably disgusted at me and my family name.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes and guffawed. “When has it ever seemed like she hated the idea?” Jimin opened his mouth to list times where you seemed even slightly irritated by him, but Jungkook interrupted him. “She never argued with her parents about the betrothal, and for Chris—“ he choked on the holy word and coughed, rephrasing, “for Dracula’s sake, she’s standing up there with your family waiting for you.”

Jimin warily eyed the peaks of the cross at the top of the church before meeting Jungkook’s eye, “she’s been ignoring me since.”

“Correction,” Taehyung butted in, his gaze pointed and brows raised, “you’ve been ignoring her since.”

Jimin’s eyes widened, “I have not been—“

“You’ve been staring at her love struck for the past hundred years, Jimin! You’re so afraid of rejection that you’ve been limiting contact with her; all she wants is to talk to you, and you refuse to open up!” Jungkook exasperatedly cried.

Jimin finally turned around in a flurry of motion, an expression of anguish and fear upon his face. “She doesn’t want to be with me! And even if she does now, she won’t after we’re married because she’ll see that I don’t live up to my family name or our pure blood—“

“Jimin, I have been hearing this for the past fifty years so if you don’t get up there now, I will make you.” Taehyung cut him off, but his voice was not affectionate and understanding like before; this one was curt and low like a growl, fitting to the warning he gave. Even Jungkook had stiffened; when Taehyung made a threat, he promised to keep it.

Jimin dropped his hands to his side and looked at his best friend helplessly. He had been friends with the boy since the bubonic plague. Their bond strengthened into the age of colonization until they finally reached the modern times of the 21st century—Jimin always thought the Victorian age had suited Taehyung best—but Jimin had learned one thing about Taehyung through all the growing pains; Taehyung always meant well.

Jimin sucked in his breath. If Taehyung thought this was good for him—that he was overthinking it all—then maybe he was, and maybe things would work out.

Jimin met Taehyung’s focused red eyes before drifting to Jungkook’s curious, waiting ones. Finally, he exhaled. “Okay. I’m ready.” Taehyung closed his eyes and sighed as he relaxed before he ushered Jimin down the gazebo steps.

Jungkook took the lead at Taehyung’s nod, who began to adjust Jimin’s suit and fix his black hair into a neat position as they ascended the steps. Jimin thought his undead heart might just start beating.

Since they were cursed by God, they couldn’t truly enter the church and hold a marriage service, so instead they had set up in the gardens just outside, so that the cathedral’s magnificence could act as a backdrop to the night’s ceremony.

“We’re behind schedule,” Jungkook warned over his shoulder as they reached the top of the steps. Instantly, all of the guests turned on their benches to focus on them with their haunting scarlet gazes. Jimin froze, but Jungkook and Taehyung patted his back roughly as they ducked to the side to take their spot by the pedestal.

Jimin forced himself to move his legs and advance towards the altar before his father could become angrier by his impunctuality and fear. He kept his gaze away from the front—away from you—and he held his breath as he took in each bench he passed.

Well, there were Taehyung’s parents; they owned a prosperous tobacco farm from when Jamestown had been established, and their family business was still going strong. And to his right were the Jungs, who had been gifted metalworkers who, during the medieval age, used to make armor and weaponry but now carved delicate and beautiful jewelry. He ticked off each powerful family in his head as he passed each row, and when he made it to the pedestal, he forced himself to step up.

Now, Jimin had to look up, and he was terrified. He swallowed harshly and lifted his gaze; first to his best men, but at Taehyung’s pointed glare, he switched his gaze to what was before him and his breath hitched in his throat.

You were waiting before the altar—or, moreso his father’s supposed resting place, but since his father was undead it was better suited as an altar—with the closest they had to a priest beside you. And the only thing coming to Jimin’s blank mind was that you were beautiful. You were wearing something akin to a wedding dress—white, even though no vampire was pure—but it appeared from the past century, old and lacy with long billowing sleeves and a long train. You peered at him with red eyes and a red lip behind a thin veil, your hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of your neck. With how many compliments Jimin received about his appearance, he still felt like he could never compare his beauty to your own.

Jimin nearly stumbled as he came to stand across from you, and although his limbs moved slowly, his mind raced a mile a minute.

You looked up at Jimin under your lashes and though your face was cold, you offered a soft simper that Jimin questioned was even real. The priestly man before the both of you cleared his throat; he could not hold a bible in his hands without being burned, so he seemed to speak from memory or from his own variation.

“We gather here today to witness the union of two children of the night; the two purest of our breed. They have been betrothed in order to strengthen the blood of our creation; it is this union that will mark the beginning of a new age.”

Jimin found it hard to swallow as he listened to the man’s words, but his eyes never strayed from you. He knew this marriage was not upon love—marriage between vampires, for how long they lasted, never did—but he couldn’t help but wish that maybe you saw this as more than a kind of business deal.

“Jimin, son of the Parks, one of the first of the pureblooded vampires: do you accept this woman to be your wife?”

You dropped your gaze from the preacher to meet his, and Jimin found your piercing gaze to be like knives that struck him to where he stood, rendering him useless; your gaze was not hostile, but they were deep, and that almost scared Jimin more. “I do.”

“And do you, matron of the night, accept this man to be your husband?”

And the vibrancy of your gaze sent chills down his spine. “I do.”

The preacher made a quick motion of his hand and Taehyung stepped up from the side to present a set of gold rings to the man. Jimin instantly recognized them as the family heirlooms of his family, the rings that had been passed down to each couple as they married for the last six eras. Jimin had little time to ponder what his parents wore now instead as the man handed the fuller band to you.

You gingerly lifted the ring so that the arriving moonlight could gaze upon it and reflect its beauty and shine before you lowered a hand to grasp Jimin’s. He jerked slightly in surprise, but you tightened your hold to raise his hand so it was between both of your chests. As you slipped the ring upon his third left finger, you fluttered your gaze to his, and Jimin felt as if he could die right then, if he weren’t undead, of course.

You kept a tight hold upon your conjoined hands, as the preacher handed Jimin the other gold ring with a beautiful diamond built into it. Jimin stared at it in a daze for a minute before he stretched out to find your free hand. You brought it up with ease, but within his palm it shook. You steadied it gently and Jimin’s eyes darted to yours. Again, they gave nothing away; you just looked upon him with a cool gaze of intrigue. Jimin took a deep breath before he let the ring glide around your own finger. Now, both of your hands were clasped between where your unbeating hearts lied.

The preacher made no cue, but now Jungkook stepped forward. From his belt he produced a thin, silver knife engraved in old Latin, with gemstones lining the hilt. Jimin knew this part.

The man accepted it and without a word, both you and Jimin opened your left hands so your palms faced upwards.

He did not hesitate and promptly sliced open the skin of both of your palms. Blood came to the surface instantly, and neither of you wasted time in clasping each other’s hands tightly, so that your blood mixed.

“Now their blood has been joined; in body and soul, these children have been wed. May they spend the rest of eternity together, till death do they part.” As if to mark the end of the ceremony, your bonded blood pooled within your hands and trailed along your skin before splattering upon the cobblestone in large, red specks.

Jimin let his eyes trace up your arm to the curve of your jaw till he let himself meet your eyes once more. They were entrancing; you already had your eyes set upon him, and he let his gaze linger as the guests began to mingle and leave the garden to retire back to his parents’ home for the banquet.

Jimin knew in regular human weddings, the ceremony was sealed with a kiss. Jimin wondered now what it would be like to kiss you, to feel your soft, red lips meld against his, to feel you whisper against his own. And even though you were now married, he felt like he didn’t have the right to do so.

He tore his hazy gaze away from your own and peeled his hand away as well; by now, the blood had begun to dry and was oddly sticky, as if unwilling to let you separate and end the wedding. Jimin winced as he looked upon his palm; the wound had already begun to heal, leaving behind a raised line where the blade had cut. Jimin closed his fist and offered you a tight smile.

You blinked at him, as if you yourself were also starting to realize the reality of your relationship and that his blood was now flowing within you. You delicately extended your hand outwards, and Jimin instinctively accepted it with his unmarked hand. He helped you step down from the pedestal, and the ground seemed to be unsteady beneath you now as you leaned into his side.

Jimin uneasily remembered his prior fears, so he subtly stepped away once you found your footing. He missed the way you looked at him wistfully as he guided you out of the garden and walked you to his family home, your new home. Would he never return the affection you held for him? Would he forever keep his distance, like he did for the past decade? You had never before desired so terribly the touch of another being.

The walk to his family’s home was silent, and not necessarily pleasant. You both snuck each other glances, but neither spoke a word of it; neither of you seemed to be so sure what they meant. Once you arrived, there were cheers of congratulations that greeted you and enveloped you in its pride. You sent back smiles of thanks, but once sat at the head table, both of your expressions were blank.

There was no true joy for either of you. The congratulations was mainly for both of your parents, for their tactful union of the purest blood. It wasn’t happiness based on love and emotion, simply strategy.

And so you sat in polite silence. You both drank the wine from your glasses and drank the blood from the lamb presented on your plates. Satisfied, you then carefully threw the meat to the bloodhounds that sat amongst your feet; the beasts greedily accepted the lamb and began to tear through the muscle, snapping the bones within with ease.

You took another sip of your wine and looked upon your new husband; Jimin refused to meet your gaze, instead studying the group of noble vampires who mingled before you. You placed down your glass with resolve; you could not live for eternity beside this man if it would be like this.

You stood and softly brushed your hand upon Jimin’s shoulder so he was forced to gaze upon you, but you only met his gaze mysteriously before ducking out of the banquet hall. No one seemed to notice the newlyweds’ absence as Jimin followed you in a hurried sense of curiosity.

You had begun to explore his family’s gothic home, and you chose not to respond to Jimin’s hushed call for you. With no response, Jimin was left to reluctantly follow and fall into step beside you. He must have realized that he would have to wait for when you were ready, and so he fell silent as he watched you study the paintings of his ancestors and the antiques.

It wasn’t until you were thoroughly lost and deeply satisfied with your search that you spoke, your voice soft, mellow.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Jimin’s eyes widened and he snapped his neck to look at you directly, but you had still not taken your gaze off of the wall. Your face began to glow a warm yellow as you approached another wall light at a leisurely pace, but Jimin felt as if you were glowing from within. After all, this was the first time you had directly talked to him for the last ten years. Whether that was his or your fault, he didn’t want to claim.

When he failed to respond to you, you finally turned your head so your eyes could meet his. Instantly, the closer half of your face fell into a blue shadow, and Jimin’s breath hitched at your narrowing gaze. “Did you not hear me or do you not reciprocate?”

“I—“ Jimin fumbled over his words; he couldn’t think straight around you. What were you thinking? What was appropriate? “I heard.”

Finally, you halted in the center of the hall. He couldn’t help but think that you seemed to replicate a picture of his great grandmother in her own wedding dress on the wall behind you, her expression stern and bouquet limp in her hands. Or maybe you were more akin to a ghost as your figure swayed in the luminosity of the moonlight, shining on your pale skin as if it were a pearl and rendering the lace of your gown transparent.

Jimin didn’t seem to have enough time to ponder as you frowned and your firm voice filtered through his ears again. “Did you not wish to be wed to me?”

He choked. Where did you get that idea? “Not at all!” He eyed you incredulously before he took in your appearance; you looked so bitter as you wrung your hands, as if you were sure he didn’t want to be with you. He couldn’t bear to see you as such, so anguished, and so he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. You didn’t interrupt him as he gathered his thoughts; you simply watched him with a guarded sense of hope.

Jimin, for once, let go of all his fears and doubts; if he had guessed wrong, then you could spend the rest of your marriage hating him. As long as he came clean, he could live with it.

He finally opened his eyes and let out a long, drawn out sigh. His eyes trailed to you and you seemed to accept the tired yet emotional intensity in their depths, as if he was too tired to keep anything from you anymore. Again he sighed; a soft, lovesick sigh as he let himself openly admire you as he admitted, “Truly, I’ve wished to be wed to you for as long as I’ve lived.”

You stiffened. Your hands clenched each other at the base of your torso and your lips were taut, but your eyes never left his own, searching for some kind of clue that he was being untrue. “You have not so much as dared look at me for the past ten years.”

“I have,” Jimin countered without missing a beat. Where was this confidence coming from? He took a cautious step closer to you and he bit his lip. “I’ve fancied you from afar for a century; it was the engagement that terrified me enough to pull away.”

“Why?” You breathed, and your voice cracked as you felt his hand slip into yours. “What would terrify you about our betrothal? Wouldn’t that make you happy?” Tears began to prick at your eyes.

“It would,” he carefully said, his eyes peeking up at yours as he drew closer. You could feel his breath fan across your face as he whispered, “but this betrothal wasn’t made between us. It wasn’t for us.”

You felt Jimin’s other hand gingerly wipe a stray tear from your cheek, but you never looked away from his red eyes as you understood, your lips parting. “Do you wish it was a marriage sealed with a kiss instead of blood?”

And Jimin inhaled sharply as he rested his hand upon your cheek to caress it. He tilted his head so your lips lingered an inch away from his. “Yes,” your hand tightened around his, “I do.” And then he pressed his lips to yours.

It was not hasty or rushed at your sudden confessions, but rather slow and gentle, simply relishing in the feeling of each other’s lips against your own. After all, you did have all the time in the world.

It was a strange change, for as long as you’ve lived, you have never indulged in such feelings with another vampire. It was common for vampires to fool around with humans as they came of age, but moreso because it was an easy way to get humans to let their guard down enough to drink their blood. But to kiss without ulterior motives, to kiss based on emotion, was foreign to your race. But it was a pleasant change, you now knew for certain as you felt Jimin’s plush lips slip against your own, his fangs gently nipping at your lower lip.

You raised your arms from your sides so you could glide them along his shoulders, where they then settled on either side of his neck to hold him close to you with gentle caresses. Jimin was still slow in his movements as he mimicked your sentiments to drape his own arms over your waist, his hands firmly planting themselves on the small of your back.

Though your tears had dried, you still felt the pricking sensation at the corners of your eyes as you separated. You both kept your eyes closed as you breathed together, your noses brushing against each other. When your eyes did flutter open, you felt swallowed by the adoration in Jimin’s gaze. You mindlessly let your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and his own grip tightened upon you as a cloud passed before the moon, casting you both in shadow and the minimal yellow glow of the wall lights.

In the darkness, Jimin’s red eyes seemed to shine even more radiantly, pulling you to him like a lighthouse pulled in ships at sea. And it was unspoken as you disentangled yourselves enough for him to grab your hand and guide you behind him, farther into the maze of the gothic home.

He escorted you into his bedroom, and the moon seemed to know what your plan was as it beamed upon the bed, the white sheets gleaming under its scrutiny. Jimin’s touch was gentle as he pulled you towards him so your fronts were flush against each other, and he caught both your wrists within his hold as he chased your lips.

This time, the kiss was a little firmer, proving that you were there and he was true. His hands seared their way down your forearms and under the billowing sleeves of your dress. It seemed to prove as another hindrance as Jimin dragged his lips below your jaw, but could not venture farther behind the turtleneck collar.

Jimin exhaled audibly through his nose, but he carefully turned you around. You complied and waited with bated breath as you heard the tight buttons down your spine begin to pop open, one by one. The prickling sensation of each was quickly replaced by his pillow-y lips, and he must have felt the shiver that traveled down your spine in the same direction his butterfly kisses were headed. His hands crawled up your shoulder blades as his lips explored, and they began to peel the dress off your shoulders. And as his lips met the curve at the base of your spine, the rest of your dress followed suit as it bunched you around your hips. You heard Jimin’s quiet chuckle but you were too focused for blood to rush to your cheeks. Jimin smoothly drew the dress the rest of the way down the expanse of your legs, and he knelt so it was easier for you to step out of it.

The second you were fully free of the gown, you found yourself gracefully sat upon the edge of the bed. Jimin’s eyes glimmered as he took you in, as if he still couldn’t believe that he was the one you chose to accept as not only your husband, but as your lover. To the both of you, that made all the difference.

Something seemed to burn within him suddenly, and he tore off his overcoat and hastily unbuttoned his dress shirt. You greedily took in the sight of his exposed and toned skin, and you couldn’t wait to let your hands explore it much the same as your eyes did. His chest rose up and down rapidly, as if gulping for air as he met your gaze heatedly again.

Though, you took note, he had not risen from his knelt position yet; instead, he moved closer to you and gently cupped your heel within his palm. Just like at the wedding, you simply studied him with a calm gaze of curiosity; you and Jimin were too sure of each other now to be ashamed.

Jimin kept his gaze trained upon yours as he lowered his lips to caress your ankle. He lowered his eyes as he brushed his lips upwards, under your calf and briefly mouthing at your knee before traveling along your inner thigh. Your hands found their place in his hair now, gently tugging his attention from your leg back to your face. His pupils were dilated and you were sure yours were blown just as wide, from lust and devotion. Your hand skimmed down over his cheek until you reached the lips he had just worshiped you with. You thumbed at the slowly reddening skin, softly pulling his bottom lip down until it slipped back into place.

Jimin let out a shaky breath before he began to stand up, pushing you down into the bed in the process till he loomed over you and between your legs. Again, it felt as if the wind had been knocked out of your lungs as you admired Jimin’s flushed cheeks and his undoing. You went to cup his cheeks in your hands, but Jimin’s will was stronger than your own as he grasped the hand over his mouth and pulled it outwards.

You were left to watch as his attention fell upon your conjoined hands, your palm upwards. His eyes studied the matching scar from the blade in silence with a sort of reverence as he stroked it softly. He then lowered his head and—just as he did to your leg—he pressed a light kiss upon it. He took the gentle, meaningful pecks down the extent of your arm, the hollow of your elbow, and up to your shoulder till his dark hair tickled your jaw.

You let him continue his ministrations in silence, for you trusted Jimin; Jimin had never been one to be dishonest or disreputable, for the hundreds of years you had known him. And now, he was your husband, even closer than so; Jimin was to be your other half, whether your kind realized that or not.

You closed your eyes as Jimin traveled from your collarbone to the curvature of your throat, where he had wanted to be before when your dress was in the way. He planted another loving kiss upon your neck before you felt his fangs prick your skin. Your eyes snapped open and widened as he bit you and began to drink a small amount of your blood.

You couldn’t recall a time when a vampire had bit another; there was no need. Blood was a food source, and was only substantial when taken from a living being. You were not alarmed for it was only Jimin, and the bite ended nearly as soon as he began, but it still left you perplexed.

As Jimin pulled away and dislodged his fangs, he let out a low groan in the quiet of the room, his hands subconsciously tightening around your forearms.

You kept your gaze trained on the ceiling instead of straining yourself to see him below your jaw, and you stretched your neck subtly, the muscles within flexing. “How was it?”

Jimin chuckled lightly, and it tickled your throat. “Your blood is delectable.”

You raised a brow and let out a quiet, airy laugh. “Truly? Better than the lamb’s at dinner? Better than a young mundane woman’s?”

Jimin lifted himself now, and the humor within you died at the seriousness and intimacy of his gaze as he leveled his face with yours. “Truly,” his bangs skimmed along your forehead as his eyes bore into yours, causing your throat to go dry. His eyes lidded as he lowered himself, his lips moving against yours as he whispered, “It is sweet.” And once more, the heavens graced you by having his lips against yours.

It was one thing to give your blood in union with a vampire, but it was another to give your body. Your own moved against his without either of you needing to consciously think about it, your bodies naturally in sync to reach an end goal of ecstasy. Jimin’s hands loosened around your arms to push your legs farther aside, and you took the chance to trace along his ribs, to caress where his abdomen and chest met.

Jimin separated from you with a gasp, and he hastily began to kiss down the length of your sternum and between the thin, lacey band of your bra. He pecked the top of your stomach before he pulled away fully, his chest heaving and skin just as sweaty as yours. He pulled your panties down the expanse of your legs before he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down to his knees to discard of them off the side of the bed.

Once there were no more barriers, Jimin lunged back over you with a new vigor to connect your lips harshly. The air of intimacy had shifted from soft and unbelieving to passionate and desperate; you didn’t have a true preference between either as he settled his elbows on either side of your head and entered you.

Your back arched and hands flew to his shoulder blades as you tried to stifle a low moan. Jimin hungrily accepted your sounds with his unforgiving kiss, and they seemed to act as encouragement for him to pick up a quick pace. Though it seemed merciless in action, you knew Jimin was ardent and tender; your pleasure was his goal in his bruising pace.

You kept your lips pressed together firmly for the duration of your race to finish, and your hands were frantic on each other, taking hold of whatever heated skin you could touch.

Your finally gasped and your legs tightened around Jimin’s middle, keeping him tight against your core. Your hands nearly choked Jimin by their strength around the back of his neck, and he managed to open his bleary eyes enough to witness your pleasure. He moaned at the sight and feeling of you pulling him in, and his own sounds grew higher in pitch and in frequency before he himself let go, his hands coming to seize your hair in his grasp as he scrunched his eyes tight.

You both stayed in place for a few moments to catch your breath, your eyes staring into each other’s depths as your chests pressed together with every heave. With a soft groan, Jimin separated himself from you enough to give you room. He searched around the vicinity of the bed for anything to clean you off with, but when it turned up futile, he reluctantly pulled up the sheets and dragged it across your inner thighs to wipe off any of his release mixed with your own; you were both too hot for the sheet anyways.

He settled back down beside you with a sighed huff, and you instantly curled into his side so your head was upon his chest; instinctively, his own arm found its way around you to keep you close.

You both stared out the window at the moon who, since you were married earlier that evening, regarded you with its silent approval. Neither of you spoke, and Jimin lowered his head enough to place a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Your shoulders stiffened slightly as you turned over them to meet his gaze again. It was easy to get lost in his glowing eyes, for they told of an overflowing amount of emotion for you that would scare any other vampire.

You chose not to reply with words, instead lidding your gaze and gently pressing your lips to his like you did in the hallway; soft, plush, slow—the simple feeling of each other together.

To the rest of your vampire clan, your wedding was only another successful union of blood.

But to you, you and Jimin knew that your wedding was only sealed by a kiss.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

@minsprings​ said “vampires” and I lost it

[justgottafinishthischapter]

Writing Romance: Pining

We’ve all had crushes. We catch feelings for that cute somebody. Some people watch helplessly from afar, but others walk right up to the one they’re crushing on and ask them out. Again. And Again. And Again. No matter how many times they get rejected. So, I want to break down this romantic trope and highlight why it works in some instances and not in others.

If you looked at Fry and Leela’s relationship in Futurama and Elfo and Bean’s relationship in Disenchantment, you would assume they’d hold the same weight. Both were created by the same person, and Fry and Elfo are both losers hopelessly pining after a strong confident girl who could kick their asses. So why then do I cringe every time Elfo makes a move on Bean, but Fry’s pursuit of Leela is charming? It’s all about the execution.

In Futurama, Fry and Leela are completely separate characters. Although Fry shows an attraction to Leela in episode 1, the first time there’s a genuine display of romance between them wasn’t until season 2 when the crew went aboard the Titanic. Fry has interests and hobbies that don’t involve Leela at all. There are episodes that focus on his relationship with Bender, dealing with his feelings about being so far from his own time, and getting into wacky hijinks on alien planets. For the first few seasons, Fry’s pining took a backseat to his everyday escapades. Leela is just as fleshed-out as Fry. She is a totally independent character with her own goals, backstory, issues, and character traits. Her desire to find her planet of origins and find her place in the universe, her love of animals, her short temper, and her responsible nagginess is in no way dependent on Fry’s character even needing to be in the show to work. But more importantly, Fry didn’t just endlessly pursuit Leela on a baseless feeling of entitlement to her. It was always clear that Leela felt at least a little something for Fry, as there were many quiet moments with her showing her warming up to Fry. Whether it was bonding over their nebula on the titanic, Burning a hole in the picture of Chazz and symbolically seeing Fry as an option for the first time, deciding to forget the coin toss and just go out with Fry of her own will, Realizing that he gave up his oxygen to keep her safe, becoming enamoured with the perfect Fry created by the super worms, and wanting to hear how Fry’s opera ends, even when he lost the ability to play the music as beautifully, there is a clear and steady build-up to Leela coming around to Fry. Fry likes Leela, and he does pursuit her, but dating Fry isn’t just Leela getting fed up with turning him down, there’s a genuine development of reciprocated feelings that genuinely feels earned.

The same is not true for Elfo. Elfo serves no real purpose in Disenchantment. If Bean was not in the show, he would have no real goals or purpose. He states in episode 1 that he wants to experience things other than constant happiness, but then he shows no interest in pursuing this goal upon meeting Bean. All of his character is either pining after Bean or being Bean’s nagging conscience. The show goes out of its way to beat us over the head that Bean has no interest in Elfo. From blatantly calling the spot at her feet “The Friend Zone” and telling Elfo to sleep there, to eating what the audience is supposed to think is Elfo’s leg and saying she likes it, but only as a friend, this pairing completely misses the point of Fry and Leela that made it so charming. And while Fry could get jealous of other guys Leela had an interest in, Elfo is downright possessive, sabotaging her relationships with guys she shows interest in. Where as Fry is generally a nice guy who doesn’t act entitled to ownership of Leela, Elfo deliberately hurts and lies to Bean to manipulate her. As a result, they have no chemistry, and I wasn’t at all saddened by Elfo dying toward the end of season 1. Frankly if they left him dead or forced him to live far away from Bean for a season or two, it might help give him a personality outside of obsessive stalker.

Althought I was an avid Klance shipper, had Allurance at least been well-written I could have unenthusiastically lived with it. But Allurance was straight up toxic from every angle. First and most importantly, Allura never showed any interest in Lance. Unlike Leela who slowly warmed up to Fry and came to like him on her own gradually, Allura always looked annoyed and frustrated whenever Lance hit on her. It wasn’t until after Lotor broke Allura’s heart that she suddenly and randomly gained feelings for Lance literally out of nowhere. It wasn’t earned, there was no build up to the payoff, and Lance didn’t act any differently to change her opinion of him. The only reason Allura finally settled for Lance was because she felt betrayed, she knew Lance wouldn’t do that to her, and she used his feelings for her to validate her self-worth. The entire time they spent as a couple, she completely disregarded his feelings, his opinions, his concerns, his needs, and his help. At no point during their relationship did she put Lance first. He always had to put her needs above his own. And who did Lance turn to when he needed someone to lean on? Oh right, Keith. Someone he has actual romantic chemistry with who doesn’t use him as an emotional bandage. And Lance has Allura on this pedestal, worshiping her like some kind of goddess, to the point that he can’t see the way she’s using him. And if he can see it, he’s choosing to ignore it because he spent so long and fought so hard to win her over, he’s afraid to say anything that would risk losing someone he perceives as being too good for him, when in reality, he’s way too good for her. This entire pairing is just toxic. They’re both terrible for each other.

But a hopeless pining idiot isn’t always excruciatingly painful. In the first three volumes of RWBY, Jaune Arc is hopelessly pining after Weiss Schnee. Every time he does, she turns him down. However, while he is still on the cringy side of “can’t take a hint”, he is able to put Weiss first. When he finds out she likes someone else, he actually gives the guy a pep talk and encourages the guy to go out with her. But with Weiss and Jaune being reuinted in season 5, and team RWBY being officially back together in season 6, we saw a glimmer of this ship rear its ugly little head and frankly, it hasn’t really earned the right to sail yet. While Jaune and Weiss have both matured, nothing has really changed between them. Neither of them has really done anything to shift their dynamic from what it was when Weiss so bluntly turned Jaune down before. If this relationship is ever going to have to work, they both need to adjust their attitudes and the way they see each other. Right now, the most Jaune has is an infatuation. They don’t yet have the kind of bond where they seek one another out or turn to each other for comfort or advice. There are no seeds of trust or mature understandings of who each other are. They simply aren’t in a good place to start dating unless they can learn to be vulnerable with one another.

Of course, not all good pining ships have to end in a relationship. Pearl’s love and admiration for Rose Quartz is beautifully complex, tying into her own feelings of worthlessness and how Rose made her feel like she was more than what society told her she was. Yes, Pearl had elements of toxicity herself, being possessive, jealous toward Greg, and putting Rose on a pedestal above herself. However, a big part of her character is learning to recognize and move past these feelings of entitlement toward Rose. Learning to accept, let go, and move on from this deeply rooted pining. The show fully admits that Pearl never had a chance with Rose. She never saw Pearl that way, and while Pearl’s feelings are not inherently invalid, and there’s a good reason for her to love Rose as much as she does, it doesn’t distract from the fact that Rose never returns Pearl’s feelings and Pearl simply needs to move on with her life.

While pining is not an inherently bad trope, it’s one that’s very easy to mess up. Too often it comes in the form of a “nice guy” who can’t take a hint, making the girl he likes angry, frustrated, or uncomfortable in the process only to be rewarded by being an unrelenting stalker. It’s important that with pining, it needs to be mutual, and it usually works best as a slow burn. A girl turning a guy down and him not stopping isn’t romantic, it’s creepy and annoying. A relationship isn’t built on one person idolizing the other and having the other person settle. It’s about understanding another person better than anyone else. Having someone you can be truly vulnerable and yourself with, who understand the way you think, and cares about you enough to be able to put themselves aside to give you what you need without taking it to the extreme of neglecting themselves in the process. Pining isn’t inherently funny, the loser getting the girl isn’t automatically romantic, and a just because it takes a girl seven seasons to give in to his relentless pursuit is not guaranteed to be endearing to your audience. If you do not build it properly, it will fall apart on itself. This trope needs to be used strategically and handled well to tug on an audience’s heartstrings, but when done right can have a very satisfying payoff.

[my-life-is-an-open-book]

To all the boys I’ve loved before (and currently): #6

TW: SA

Dear J,

You graduated a year before I did. We had a lot of mutual friends in our small private collage. I knew of you when we were still in school together but I never really talked to you because we were both in committed relationships around the same time. By the time it was my turn to graduate, we were both single. The first time we started flirting was when you were at the pool party thrown by my roommates and I, to celebrate our upcoming graduation. We flirted heavily during this time, and my roommate liked the idea of us possibly dating. The following day, there was another huge house party to celebrate the upcoming graduating class, and this would be the day that would change my life forever.

I had been to a lot of parties before, but never to one this crazy. There was way too many people, a lot of drinking, a lot of stripping and a whole lot of drama. I spent majority of my time around you at this party. It was four in the morning, I was tired, and I was graduating that same day. I just wanted to go home at this point, but I was waiting for one of my roommates to finish socializing so we could all go home together. You then offered to give me, a ride home and I was still pretty hammered, and the next thing I knew, we were in your apartment’s parking garage hooking up. I wake up the next day still in your car, half naked with you nowhere to be found. I went up to your apartment to wake you up, and you begrudgingly dropped me back to my place. When my roommates greeted me back home, I just told them that I spent the night in your apartment, rather than in the the backseat of your tinted car. I got ready to go to my graduation ceremony, and it was also the final day for me to move out of student housing, and Mother’s Day. Needless to day, I didn’t have enough time to collect my thoughts and reflect on all the events that had happened to me that night.

The following day, you explicitly told me that you weren’t looking for anything serious, and I agreed to those terms. We were friends with benefits for 5 months, but with every passing day, I was quickly falling for you. We had deep talks about our failed previous relationships, childhood traumas, our fears and hopes for the future. We related when it came to work, physical fitness, hobbies and similar sense of humor. We had a lot of fun adventures together. We grabbed dinner often where we would take turns paying, went to conventions and fairs, bars and clubs, and hung out with each others friends. You took care of me when I was sick, and you’d give me the biggest hugs when I was feeling down. We had a lot of playful banter, and I was very comfortable being myself around you. 

Our relationship was very detrimental for my mental and physical health but I didn’t know it at the time. I spent the night at your place almost every night for three months, and we had sex two to three times a night. You’d wake me up in the middle of the night for sex, and even when I was half asleep, you’d still force yourself onto me. Sometimes, I’d fall asleep in the middle of sex, because I was so tired from my 12 hour work days. I was always hesitant but I blame myself for never saying no. I’d let you have your way with me to avoid having the conversation about consent. After you’d finish, you’d turn your back to me and go straight back to sleep, and 2 hours later when my alarm for work would sound off, you’d pursue sex, yet again. Occasionally, I would come over with the mentality of just hanging out as friends, and just to get to know you as a friend without the pressures of sex but end up leaving your apartment in shame because I’d let you use me because sex was your main destresser. In my mind, I was thinking that maybe the more I spent time with you, and the more I let you inside of me, you’d eventually feel the same way as I felt for you.

Throughout our relationship, I really got to know your friends. Some pulled me aside and said they’ve never seen you this happy, and they liked me for you. You never saw that. Our entire relationship was push and pull. As soon as I knew I had feelings for you, I asked you if you wanted to date for real. You were hesitant and said you set a deadline for yourself to come to a decision about us, but ultimately you shot me down and I was distraught. I still kept being your friend which in hindsight was a really stupid idea. 

My birthday came around, and I invited you to go clubbing with me and my friends. At the end of the night, you got belligerently drunk and almost started a fight at the club. You left angrily and that’s when I realized I had left all of my personal belongings with you, so I had no choice but to go on a wild goose chase to track you down to retrieve my items. Eventually, you went back home and that is where I met you to grab my wallet and keys. We talked and you asked me to date you, but this time I was the one that shot you down. We were both still drunk, and the next thing I know, you're kissing my neck and taking off my dress. I shouldn’t have sent my friend back home. I should have gotten my things and left instead of listen to you regret the fact the you shot me down first. Maybe then, I would have less shame in myself for being weak and letting you play with my body and feelings over and over again. I shouldn’t have indulged you in your drunken state.

The reason I say all of this in detail is because you claim to forget what happens when you’re drunk. At this point, I still don’t know if you’re just using alcohol as an excuse to use me without repercussions or if you legitimately have a drinking problem. You have called drunk and put me down for being a stoner, for still living under my mom’s roof and for not being free to hang out when you wanted me by your side. You have called drunk and told me what an amazing person I am and how stupid you are for not taking me seriously. You have called drunk and detailed your adventures barhopping downtown and put yourself in danger by getting behind the wheel. 

I want you to know all the details, so you know how much you’ve hurt me. 

J, I don’t regret a lot of things but you are the only exception. I have lost so much of my self-respect because of my decision to be involved with you. I have spent so many nights crying over you. I believed I was never worthy of love. I have been nothing but a compassionate and empathetic person to you. I've done nothing but put you on a pedestal.

I didn’t accept it until a few months later, that I had been sexually assaulted. You don’t know this, because I never told you. In your eyes, we were merely friends with benefits. How we initially got together should have been a warning sign for how you’d treat me throughout the duration of our relationship, but I was blinded by your reputation of being the all-American boy that all the girls at our college pined for. 

I could only count the fingers on one hand, the people I’ve told the real story to because of all the shame I am harboring within myself. I’m still healing, but my relationship with sex has changed forever.

J, I loved you, but from now on I love myself more to never be treated the same way that you treated me. I loved you, but maybe it was just Stockholm Syndrome.

[possiblyimbiassed]

What happened to Sherlock? Part VIII - The Sign of the Hetero Norm (1)

Why does Mary Morstan play such a prominent role in BBC Sherlock? 

I’m surely not the only one asking myself this; while she’s barely mentioned in canon after marrying Watson, she’s all over the place from TEH and onwards in Mofftiss’ adaptation. And when I recently read this excellent fic by @discordantwords, a couple of things dawned on me, that I think have been brewing in my mind for quite some time. Which brings me to the long promised continuation of my marathon meta series about what I think we’re actually seeing in this show. Because the entire point of Mary Morstan seems to be to prevent Sherlock and John from getting together in a romantic relationship - a story of hetero norm. This eighth installment will explore the ‘case’ of little Rosie, and the role she and her mother plays in this show. 

This far I’ve published an intro and seven installments, each with corresponding attempts to test my hypotheses:

Introduction - The game is on (explains the method of analysis) Part I - Blog vs TV-show Part II - Re-living memories Part III - Drugs and weirdness Part IV – Heartbreak and coma (1) Part IV – Heartbreak and coma (2) Part V – Bizarre scenarios Part VI - Live and let die (1) Part VI - Live and let die (2)

Part VII - The Importance of Being Earnest (1) 

Part VII - The Importance of Being Earnest (2)

This installment will also be parted in two, and the second half can be found here (X). Many of the screen caps from BBC Sherlock in this meta are from Kissthemgoodbye.net - thanks! And thanks also to Ariane DeVere for the incredibly useful transcripts!

My next hypotheses is, in and off itself, a clear and straightforward prediction that can be explicitly verified or falsified once we finally get to S5, so it will be extra fun to see what happens with it in future: 

Hypothesis #8: John is not the father of Mary’s baby

(Disclaimer: My suspicion here only concerns John’s biological offspring. It would still be possible that John, and perhaps also Sherlock, might father the child - if it exists - by adoption. It does not exclude a metaphorical reading where the baby represents, for example, Sherlock’s and John’s relationship. I also want to stress that this hypothesis is an attempt at logical reasoning based on observations in the show and in ACD canon; it’s not meant to be ‘gossipy’ and has nothing to do with whether I would actually like to see this happen or not - that’s a whole other story. ;) )  

This hypothesis has been brewing in my mind for quite some time now, but I don’t think it’s just a hunch; there are actually a series of reasons that have made me come to this conclusion. 

(Continued under the cut)

But first of all: can we debunk my hypothesis at this stage in the story, by testing it ‘scientifically’? Well, not really, since the show doesn’t provide any reliable evidence that confirms John as Rosie’s biological father. Not even IRL would this have been possible without a DNA-test (or without physical circumstances that would have made any other option impossible). And the only thing that the show tells us about human DNA-tests is that not even this procedure is 100% reliable, as shown in ASIB:

JOHN: You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you. IRENE: DNA-tests are only as good as the records you keep. JOHN: And I bet you know the record-keeper. IRENE: I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.

DNA is brought up in TGG (Ian Monkford’s blood) and again in TST (the identification of Charlie Wellsborough’s body), but since John’s fatherhood is never questioned in the show, little Rosie is never tested, as far as we know. The remaining evidence that speaks for John being the father is circumstantial: that John and Mary obviously must have been living together at the approximate time of conception. And that they both act as if they’re both Rosie’s parents.

So I guess that in order to get any further with this, I’ll have to start at the other end, analysing the characters and see if I can find evidence that support my hypothesis - on a textual level as well as metaphorically and on the meta level. 

Mary’s function in the story

I think we can safely say that Mary is the most controversial character of BBC Sherlock. Some viewers love her, others hate her, but I can’t recall anyone claiming to feel indifferent towards her. Mofftiss have indeed managed to push forward a character who is hardly even visible in canon, once she’s married to Watson. In BBC Sherlock, however, Mary totally dominates the show from HLV and onwards. Her appearances may have been increasing in numbers and length already from her introduction in TEH. But from the point where John wakes up in HLV, there isn’t a single case where she’s not somehow involved. Up until TFP, everything is about ’Mary’. And even then, once we might have believed we’d got rid of the ghost of this hijacking protagonist, she comes back, only to once again take over the narrative with a weird and basically inexplicable voiceover. She seems like some kind of obsession; a brain ghost stuck on someone’s mind.

This is rather different from ACD canon, where Mary Morstan has extremely few lines as soon as she’s no longer a client, but Watson’s wife. Personally I find it hard to see the lovable aspect of this character in BBC Sherlock, since she constantly shifts appearance, behaviour and motivation; it’s almost impossible to pin down who she actually is. Which makes me convinced that Mary is not meant to be a real, believable character that we can relate to as such - at least not all the time. And maybe that goes for canon as well.

But what then is the purpose of her, what’s Mary’s actual function in the narrative, looking at the subtext? I think there’s basically three of them, and by no means mutually exclusive:

1. Mary is a metaphor for heteronormativity and its power over people when they internalise it

2. Mary is a façade or ‘beard’, where a straight marriage is established to cover up a story of a gay relationship

3. Mary is a mirror for Sherlock; by substituting himself with a female spouse for John, Sherlock can be with John ‘by proxy’, trying to figure out John without having to face his own real problem: reveal his emotions and risk failure.

As soon as Mary firmly puts her foot in the show, it all becomes a spectacle, a demonstration of how to keep up a straight facade at any cost. After TSoT, no-one ever assumes John and Sherlock are a romantic couple; Mary is the ultimate ’proof’ that John is indeed straight. Which is of course illogical, because why would a bi person stop being it because they married someone, no matter of which sex? Mary admits it herself by telling Sherlock that ”neither of us was the first, you know”. And Sherlock complains that John is dancing around Sholto ”like a puppet” even after the wedding ceremony. But in all the episodes after TSoT, John is happily freed from people’s assumptions regarding his sexual orientation. Gone are all the gay jokes, and John Watson is miraculously ‘cured’. 

I think this is perfectly illustrated in the fic by @discordantwords​ that I mentioned above. The plot follows logically on TFP, as things would be if everything we’ve seen from HLV and onwards is actually meant to be ‘true’. Mary is now dead and John lives alone with little Rosie. For a case, in order to get close to the suspects, Sherlock is planning to fake his own wedding with Janine Hawkins, and John is feeling jealous and excluded – especially when he finds out that one of the murders that Sherlock is investigating had involved a wedding of a gay couple:

"Why all of this, then?" he asked. He tipped his head towards the kitchen, where Janine was fiddling with the kettle. "I could have just—wouldn't it have been easier for us to just—?"

"You're not gay," Sherlock said.

"Well," John paused. "No." He cleared his throat, looked back at the wall. "But everyone already thinks we're a couple. Wouldn't be that much of a stretch, really. For a case."

"No one has thought that for quite some time."

This fanfic rings perfectly true to me, considering S4 on the surface level; John and Sherlock appearing as a couple wouldn’t work after John’s own wedding in TSoT. Because gone is now every allusion to John being anything else than straight. Gone is also John’s admiration for Sherlock; from HLV and on, he hardly ever even speaks about Sherlock in a positive way. (Which also makes me wonder: was ‘The Fall’ also about Sherlock feeling he had fallen from John’s pedestal of admiration?). For the rest of the show, it’s only Sherlock whom we see suffering from (presumably) gay pining. It’s only in Sherlock’s Victorian imagination that Moriarty tells them to ’elope’ together, while John in TLD is shown to be exclusively fixed on his dead wife. 

On the surface, Sherlock seems to support John’s relationship with Mary, while I’m sure he is actually suffering deeply. But I think, metaphorically, that Sherlock is acting like some kind of self-sacrificing Christ figure. (Don’t forget Irene’s words from ASiB: “I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself”). He bears the ‘cross’ of torture by seeing John with someone else, until he can’t stand it any more and trashes himself on drugs. This is what we see at the beginning of TEH, John holding hands with a woman in front of Sherlock’s grave:

Why can’t we see Mary’s face already here? I think it’s because this is from Sherlock’s POV; he’s either seeing or imagining them from behind. She might have a hidden face but a familiar shape because by the time Sherlock is recalling this, he already knows what Mary looks like. But at this point in time, maybe he didn’t? In any case, it must be devastating for Sherlock to see or imagine John with someone else, when he should be there to mourn him, Sherlock. 

Thinking about John with Mary, Sherlock can’t even sleep. He is tortured on a cross and dies for all our ’sins’, doesn’t he? On the meta level Sherlock Holmes sacrifices his life, he extinguishes his true self, in the name of heteronormativity. So that John can have his straight marriage, even if it’s dysfunctional. But our worst ’sin’ as an audience, I believe - our ultimate mistake - is to buy into this narrative without questioning it. That’s literally letting the hetero norm rule.

King David the Adulterer

Mary’s ex-boyfriend David is introduced in TSoT, but after this episode he never shows up again. But this seems very random to me; why is David even there, and why is he depicted as some kind of rival to John? What is his narrative purpose? David is often blurred out in the scenes, but he is definitely present during the whole wedding reception, where his role is to be an usher (showing people their places/seats). David gives the impression to be single, since he attends Mary’s wedding without any partner as company.

Sherlock, who meets David alone at 221B during the wedding planning, deduces that he still seems to have an intimate relationship with Mary. Only recently I discovered this meta from 2014 called The Baby Problem by @abitnotgood​, which brings up pretty much exactly the same suspicions I have had for quite some time now. The main points are the following:

Mary was dating David for 2 of the totally 5 years she had been undercover with the false name Mary.

They’re still close enough friends for David to attend the wedding, which might indicate their breakup was unwanted from one or both parts.

Mary’s reactions during the wedding reception indicates that she still cares for David.

Sherlock finds out that David has “offered to be her shoulder to cry on no less than three occasions.” 

David sits at the same table as most other major characters, which indicates that he’s important.

David doesn’t look particularly happy while toasting for the bride and groom.

To these I could also add that Sherlock gets so suspicious about David that he threatens him with keeping a close eye on his whereabouts with Mary. From a story telling POV, when a character is suspected by the main character who is a genius detective, there should actually be some reason for this - shouldn’t it?

So who is David? Does he appear anywhere in canon? I actually think he does. In ACD’s short story The Crooked Man (CROO), the name David plays a symbolical role. The story is about a (supposed) murder of a middle-aged military officer, colonel James Barclay. It’s a classical Sherlock Holmes mystery with a door locked from the inside and the key missing. The death seems to originate from a domestic quarrel between the colonel and his wife. (Which is particularly interesting considering the Watsons’ ‘domestic’ in HLV). 

Turns out the colonel died of fright when he saw his old rival Henry Wood, whom he had betrayed in the war and deliberately left to be captured by the enemy. Henry was repeatedly tortured and crippled and held prisoner for many years, until he could escape back to London and a coincidence brought his old love interest in his way, who was now married to the colonel. (Hmm... tortured by the enemy. Been away. Love interest married. Does this seem like anyone we know? ;) ). Henry was “the crooked man” of the story, who was bereft of his loved one because of James. 

But the name David was mystically uttered by Colonel Barclay’s wife while quarreling with her husband - why? Holmes claimed it was a biblical reference to the drama of king David, Batsheba and Uriah. King David committed adultery with the beautiful Bathsheba, who was married to his soldier Uriah. Bathsheba got pregnant after sleeping with David, while Uriah was out fighting a war. David tried to cover up that fact by sending Uriah home, but Uriah refused to leave his comrades. Then David betrayed his rival Uriah the same way James betrayed Henry: by deliberately leaving him exposed to the enemy. The only difference was that Uriah died on the battlefield, while Henry was caught and crippled. Which leads us almost inevitably to Captain John Watson - he is a soldier who was crippled by the enemy too, wasn’t he? ;)

What about Rosie?

Although Mary is dominating the show from TEH and forwards, John’s and Mary’s daughter - little Rosie - is subjected to the opposite treatment; she has very little screen time, and we never learn about a single character trait of hers. In ACD canon the Watsons never had a child, as far as I know. And – even in Victorian times – I believe it would have seemed strange with the Doctor spending so much of his free time (besides work) together with Holmes, obviously neglecting his family duties. So since Mofftiss have introduced a totally new ingredient to their adaptation - a time-consuming baby - one would think this has to have a clear purpose, right? I would have expected Rosie to play a part of her own, someone the audience could relate to just like the other characters, if only still a baby. 

But instead, Rosie is seen most of all as an obstacle. Mary is balancing her while discussing a case with Sherlock. Rosie is handed over to John like a sack of potatoes when the family goes on to solve a case with Sherlock; she doesn’t make a sound and we don’t even see her little face. We see John change Rosie’s diaper once (basically to show that he has a toy daisy behind his ear, which is apparently a good flirting device), and then we see Sherlock trying to babysit her at 221B, getting hit in the eye by her toy. We also hear her cry in the background once, and see Molly hold her once. And that’s about it. 

When Sherlock texts them from the London Aquarium at the end of TST, Mary and John debate which of them is going to have to stay with the baby, but finally both of them show up at the Aquarium – without Rosie. And this happens not long after Mary has taken a ‘little trip’ around Eurasia ending up in Morocco and John and Sherlock going after her – little Rosie staying at home. Which means weeks without any of her parents. If S4 were real, I’d feel truly sorry for little Rosie.

In TLD, Rosie is more absent than her dead mother! While Mary haunts the episode, all we hear about the baby is John’s tremendous guilt for neglecting and abandoning her (which he manages to do completely). John does seem to have enough spare time and energy to go on another case with Sherlock, though, in the middle of his therapy session. At the end of TLD, all is supposedly fine again with Rosie (until John gets shot with a tranquiliser), but we never get to see it. But then in TFP John goes on a long journey with Sherlock to a far away island, and not a word about Rosie. She’s not even present when John receives Mary’s DVD at home. At the end she’s suddenly there again, though, without any comment. 

Based on this, it doesn’t seem farfetched to ask if this little character is even supposed to be real. There’s a subtle hint in TLD which could point in this skeptic direction: 

Sherlock: “And, of course, I hadn’t really anticipated that I’d hallucinated meeting his daughter.” “Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn’t have acquired elsewhere.” 

John: “But she wasn’t ever here?”

An earlier quote from TGG could also question John’s fatherhood: ”Of course he’s not the boy’s father - look at the turnups on his jeans!” (Sherlock while watching telly with John in TGG, right after the fourth ‘pip’).

And - of course - if S4 is all imaginary, only happening in Sherlock’s head, Rosie would probably not even have been born yet. 

There are also some more subtle hints about Rosie’s narrative function: John’s guilt about cheating on Mary in TLD is connected to the baby. John specifically mentions that he was “cheating” on Mary while she was taking care of Rosie: JOHN (to Ghost!Mary): “We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when.  When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – that’s when.” This does make the (otherwise rather exaggerated) texting affair sound a bit more damning for John, doesn’t it? ;)  If this is all taking place inside Sherlock’s head, it might rather reflect one of Sherlock’s (possibly) major excuses to himself for not confessing his true feelings to John; it might (once the baby is born) disrupt a whole family and affect an innocent little child.

John and Mary’s relationship

The other day I took to re-watch this little piece of extra material from S4: statements by Martin Freeman and Amanda Abbington about John’s and Mary’s relationship (X). Every time I see this video I’m just laughing so hard. Please don’t miss how Martin is struggling to keep a straight face without smiling, after claiming “they’ve been through stuff already in S3 that would test any couple.” (Yep. Like the discovery that Mary is actually a contract killer who shot his best friend and hasn’t even revealed her real name to John). Or how Amanda avoids looking at the camera when she’s lying talking about Mary’s feelings towards John, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Great acting! :)

I mean, this cannot even be intended to fool anyone; I think this is meant to signal to the audience that the marriage we’re seeing is a dishonest, superficial construction made up of empty words. It’s very similar to the scene in HLV where Sherlock tells John about his ‘relationship’ with Janine. Platitudes like “we’re in a good place” are not only included, but also called out in the very same dialogue. John: “You got that from a book!”  Sherlock: “Everyone got that from a book!”. In the video clip, overly sweet violin music is playing when Martin and Amanda talk about their characters’ supposed deep love for each other, but this is mixed up with sitcom-like scenes where this love is made very hard to believe in, like Mary about to give birth in the car and roaring to her husband to pull over, or John telling Mary that he simply intends to forget about a recent past where she very nearly murdered his best friend.  

John’s marriage actually seems terrible from start; he can’t even keep himself off Sherlock’s blog comments during his own honeymoon. Which I believe is canon consistent; in ACD’s stories Mary Morstan even encourages Watson to never leave Holmes’ side. And the bad marriage is also confirmed in HLV by Wiggins’ and Sherlock’s deductions about John’s cycling to work and keeping his shirts ‘folded and ready to leave’ at any moment.

But what’s Mary’s position in this? Let’s say, as a mental experiment, that she knows from start about John’s feelings for Sherlock. Why would she want to be together with, and even go on to marry, a man who is obviously in love with someone else? Well, while I don’t buy the facade-climbing Ninja!Mary who tries to kill Sherlock in HLV, she could still be dishonest in her approach to John. She could still be on some sort of mission related to Sherlock, where her role simply is to get in between John and Sherlock, while she actually is together with someone else (and even carrying that someone’s child). Her aim could be to hurt Sherlock as much as possible, for a specific reason. 

As far as I see in TEH, Mary seems suspiciously eager to befriend Sherlock. Instead of behaving like one would expect from someone in love who just got their special moment ruined by a rival; with anger or at least annoyance, and of course supporting the beloved - Mary immediately sides with Sherlock.

And she seems to side with him most of all on an intellectual level, taking part in his explanations of how he managed to fake his death.

“Oh, he would have needed a confidant...”

So - what can we deduce about Mary?

If everything we see in the show after TSoT only has happened inside Sherlock’s head (as I’ve tried to make a case for in this meta series), from this follows logically that in Sherlock’s ‘reality’, there is no Assasin!Mary, no SecretAgent!Mary, no Martyr!Mary and - of course - no Ghost!Mary. Because up until the wedding, Mary seemed to be just an ordinary woman. The character’s appearance from HLV and onwards would all be fabrications of Sherlock’s drug-influenced mind, albeit loaded with a lot of metaphorical meaning from his subconscious. 

But Mary still seems to exist on some level, doesn’t she? She is referred to by John on his blog, talked about by other people on the blog (including Sherlock), and she even makes comments on it on no less than ten occasions. On the blog, John is clear about getting married to Mary. And after Sherlock’s final blog post ‘The Sign of Three’, it also gets obvious that Mary is now pregnant. 

And – most importantly – if S4 is all-fake, this also means that in Sherlock’s ‘reality’, Mary’s drama-loaded death in TST never happened. Mary is still alive! So if Mary is a ‘façade’, a ‘beard’ and/or a mirror for Sherlock on a meta- and sub-textual level, who is she on the textual level? Well, I think there are some clues in the show, and also a lot of subtext material in ACD canon to draw from, which might have been developed into actual story line in the show.  

And this will bring us to the second half of this meta, which you can find here (X).

Tagging some people who might be interested: @raggedyblue​ @ebaeschnbliah​ @sarahthecoat​ @gosherlocked​ @loveismyrevolution​ @sagestreet​​ @tjlcisthenewsexy​​ @elldotsee​​ @88thparallel​​ @devoursjohnlock​​ @sherlock-overflow-error​​ @yeah-oh-shit​

[crewhonk]

...Of The Line (Introduction)

A series collaboration with @nomadsgrogers where she writes for Giovanna as the reader! We’re just projecting onto our writing, its FINE

Series Summary: Steve watches YN Banner grow up before his eyes-- from a shy, dorky sixteen-year-old to a fierce, brilliant woman who never fails to keep him on his toes. He knows that she’s untouchable, but that doesn’t stop him from being completely wrapped around her finger for the rest of his long life. 

Series Warnings: Mutual Pining, age gap, gun use, these two are idiots-- seriously they're so dumb, slow burn

Pairings: eventual Steve Rogers X Banner!Reader, eventual Buky Barnes X OC!Stark

Words: 2.7K

Chapter Summary: Introduction of YN Banner, her brilliance and her meeting her best friend, uncle and one Steve Rogers for the first time. (warnings: battle of new york, english major discourse)

“... Of The Line” Masterlist

_______________________________ 

YN Banner had grown up under her father's wing. Her mother had left her at his doorstep in New York, swaddled in nothing but a baby pink blanket and a note describing how she was too much of her father. How she was too much of Hulk— the strength of him, and his same green eyes— it was too much for her mother. 

He took her in without a doubt in his mind. He had never hulked out when she cried as a baby, or when she fell from a large boulder in Spain. In fact, Hulk seemed only concerned for her— no desire to show himself but all the desire in the world to shelter her from all that was bad or could hurt. And he did so— for sixteen long years, he had taught her to control herself, taught her to be gentle, and taught her to pick her fights only when she had no other option. She made her first perfect stitch at ten, she had corrected him on the progression of Gamma Cells at twelve. She was everything he could want in a child. 

His heart, still, broke for her. 

She had lost her first patient in Somalia—a child just shy of five to radiation poisoning. She had never had a home, nor a best friend, nor a proper education. Sure, she could explain the basis of nuclear physics in a way a child could understand (something he still couldn’t do) but she didn’t know how to write an essay, how to sit down long enough to understand the meaning of a story because hell, there was no time for that when you grew up running. 

Until 2012 a few months after her sixteenth birthday when Natasha Romanoff swept her and Bruce to the big city of New York. 

“What’s your name, Little Lamb?” She had crooned, tucking a strand of hair behind YN’s ear. Her touch was gentle, the caress of her still chubby cheek almost longing. 

“YN Banner, Ma’am.”

“It’s Natasha to you, Pretty Lamb.”

Everything picked up after that— YN and Bruce had been shoved into an expensive lab (with swivelling seats!) and a time bomb of a weapon with probably the most overwhelming man on the planet. YN had actually grabbed his forearm when he jabbed Bruce int he side with a pen, hoping to bring out Big Guy. Her grip was too strong for that of a sixteen-year-old, and he wasn’t afraid like he should have been. He was amazed. 

“YN Banner. Little genetic miracle. Nice to finally meet you and not read about you.”

“Touch my dad again like that and I’ll rip your arm off.”

“Good.”

_______________________

A few days had passed until the attack on New York. The man wearing horns and green silk had escaped along with the Big Guy and the Norse God, and they had returned with fire and blood and green blurs. 

YN had been hiding in the bunker of the tower with a few of the civilian employees while the buildings crumbled around them when a girl around her own age sat beside her. 

“Banner, right?” She asked, her dark eyes already on YN. YN only nodded, trying her very best to keep her cool under this very new, very stressful situation. She didn’t need to respond to the other girl for her to continue speaking. 

“I’m Giovanna Stark. One night stand with my dad and I came out the other side of nine months. Left on his Malibu doorstep. Good thing too— Mom was apparently an English major. Can't do much with that though, can you? Write a book. Teach a few high school kids. Yell at the clouds or something.” YN found herself laughing more as the new girl— Giovanna— continued to ramble. 

“Me too. I don’t know what my mom did— Dad doesn’t talk too much about her, but she didn’t like that I was too radioactive. Apparently, she likes her kids without Gamma radiation in their blood.” 

“Wait,” Giovanna stopped her pity party with a hand on her knee. “You have Gamma in your blood?”

“Yes?”

“First, when dad saves the world can I take some blood? I’m going to be a surgeon in ten years and how cool would it be to write my thesis on Gamma blood and its benefits? Second, if I annoy you will you turn into a green monster?”

“I haven’t turned green yet, have I?” YN smiled, and Giovanna smiled back. 

“I like you. I think I’ll keep you.”

___________________

As it turns out, Giovanna was just as smart as YN was— the two girls found themselves in the lab most hours of the day following the disaster that was New York. YN’s dad had hulked out, and Tony and his assistant (“they’re going to get married one day, honestly”) cleaned up the legal mess quickly and beautifully. Giovanna had drawn blood and babbled on excitedly in Italian about how different YN’s blood from any other humans blood she had seen before. 

“Seriously, the way it adapts to the mutation as it multiplies is better than any porn I could find on the internet.” Giovanna rushed excitedly, putting the slides in the freezer and wiping down the counter. “This is brilliant— you’re brilliant.”

YN could only blush and smile, excited to have someone in her life who stretched her boundaries to the border of discomfort. She had been learning so much about how to be a sixteen-year-old in the past week that when Bruce walked into the lab one Monday night to ask if she wanted to join him in Australia, she could only wrap her arms around his neck in a tight hug. 

“I think I’m gonna stay here, Papa. I— I can be a teenager here. I don’t have to save lives here, and I can actually finally read Harry Potter for the first time. I— I want to have as much of a childhood as I can.” She whispered a grimace on her face for fear of breaking her own dear father's heart. 

“Good.” He only smiled tears of joy in his eyes. Finally, he could give her everything she deserved. “You stay here. I’ll come back every two weeks. Maybe I’ll even get you some presents occasionally.”

“Presents?” YN tried to quell her excitement. She hadn’t grown up with much, so the idea of her father spending money on her on things she didn’t need sent a small thrill jolting up her spine. 

“Occasionally.”

“I love you, Papa.” She squealed, hugging him tighter. He squeezed back, burying his face in her messy hair and breathing her in. This would be the longest they would be separated and it scared the life out of him. 

“Love you, Squish.”

______________________

It’s later that day after Bruce leaves on a fancy jet that YN meets Steve Rogers for the first time. She had stolen American textbooks before, read through them and rolled her eyes at the basic knowledge that was the American curriculum, but one topic she could never get enough of was that of the Howling Commandos. Bucky Barnes, quick with numbers and a gun and oh, so easy on the eyes. Timothy Dugan, always smiling under the bush of moustache hair on his lip. Gabriel Jones expert sharpshooter and the best translator in the American Army— twenty languages in his load magazine. 

Steve Rogers, sickly small until a serum mutated his blood and made him a soldier with enhanced strength, speed, agility, stamina, endurance, reflexes, durability, and regenerative healing. 

YN couldn’t say she didn’t like to see someone like her heightened to such a high pedestal. 

Tony had thrown a dinner in celebration of the commemoration of the Avengers: Initiative. The dinner wasn’t much— take out from any place that hadn't been destroyed and was, in fact, still open. “God bless the working class,” he had said after finishing his second cheeseburger. Gio sat next to a mopey YN who was not yet used to being without her dad and chatted around the food in her mouth while YN picked at her fries. 

“Roscoe! Nice fo you to finally join us!” Tony cried, grinning as Steve Rogers rolled his eyes and sat down next to Tony. God, he was even more beautiful here in front of her than in the books she stole. His blond hair was darkened by the water fo his recent shower, skin tinged pink from the heat of it but fresh nonetheless. His shoulders were beyond wide and thick, and his arms bulged under the fabric of his white t-shirt. YN flushed red at the idea of him picking her up and doing things her father would very much not approve of. His thighs were straining the dark grey fabric of his sweatpants and YN had to genuinely turn towards Giovanna and talk to her so she would force herself to not stare at this Adonis of a man. 

She, in her distraction of him, hadn’t noticed that he was staring at her in much of the same likeness. Her skin was glowing and soft, probably malleable under his hands, the softness of puberty just barely leaving her stomach and shoulders and face— a soft thing which he almost immediately wished to protect. He wanted to hide her away from the world until she looked at him. Her eyes were impossibly gentle but had an arsenal of maturity behind them and a roaring fight behind the shine of her green iris. She had fought every day to be where she was now, and the intelligence in her posture told him already that she would continue to stay and continue to fight. Whichever teen was lucky enough to catch her eye would be blessed by Thor himself— this was, in fact, an angel among them. 

“Sorry, the media wanted about one hundred quotes. Did you save any fries?” He asked, and YN swore she could hear his stomach snarl at the sight of food. 

“Nah, they were good though, if that means anything to you,” Tony said halfway through a bite of his third burger. (“I’m a growing boy!”)

“It doesn’t but thanks,” Steve grumbled, grabbing a take out container of fried rice and pulling it towards him. One thing Steve loved about this whole new century was the diverse choices of food. Sure, he still boiled everything but he honest to god had no clue how to do anything else so take-out was a really neat invention. YN acted quickly, sliding her paper plate of fries towards him and offering him a small smile and a shrug. 

“I wasn’t gonna eat much anyways.” And Steve blushed nodded a thank you before swallowing them all down in a matter of seconds. Kind girl, he thought.

They talked aimlessly, laughing about some of the things they had seen in battle and boasting about their teammate's work and the night passed quickly. YN, always the shy one, could only steal impossibly brief glances at Steve as if he was the sun and she couldn’t look at him too long for fear of being hurt. 

“What about you, what do you want to do?” Steve asked her now, and she flushed at the intensity of his stare before looking down and picking at her nails. 

“I wanna work at an outreach centre, I think. Or maybe make changes in government that allows for kids like me to be safer in their homes. Something with kids.” She said faintly— she genuinely wasn’t entirely sure if she would even be able to go to school, but Bruce had always taught her it was good to have plans— something to look forward to.

“That’s amazing.” He encouraged ducking his head to catch her eye. His smile was gentle and warm and YN’s stomach flipped. “Nice to know that you two are going to be leaders of your generation. Real trailblazers.”

The way Steve made YN feel seen was a feeling she really didn’t want to go away any time soon. 

______________________________

It’s about three in the morning later that evening and YN was sprawled on Giovanna's white duvet, staring at the posters on her ceiling and listening to One Direction's most recent album (”Take Me Home”) as Giovanna sat next to her, painting her own toenails a bright blue. 

“You’re more broody than usual.” Giovanna piped up after a song called ‘She’s Not Afraid’, and YN shot her a confused look. 

“Pardon?”

“I know we just met, but you’re already easy to read. What’s going on?” Giovanna asked, putting the lid onto the varnish and hucking the bottle across the room. It landed in one of her clothing drawers and Gio fist pumped before leaning back on a hand and staring YN down.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I just— God. Steve’s really nice, okay?” YN groaned covering her face with her hands and groaning into them. Giovanna’s eyebrows shot up before a thrill shot through her bones— did she sense a crush? Was this what that was?

“Bit of a stick in the mud, honestly— but yeah, he’s nice. His butt’s nice too.” Giovanna smiled, watching as YN’s skin flushed a darker red and cheering silently to herself. God, she was good. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” YN mumbled, dropping her hands to her sides and smiling at her new friend who squealed and threw herself back onto the bed before clapping excitedly. YN shushed her quickly for fear of her excitement waking up the others on the floor, and Gio shushed herself enough to only let out a tiny squeak of excitement every ten seconds. The two sat in silence for only a few seconds longer before YN opened her mouth to speak once more. 

“I think this one singing now is my favourite.”

“Harry’s my favourite too.”

________________________

Three years had passed since then, Uncle Tony, as YN knew him now, had defeated the Mandarine (white cooperate guy playing the villain? Groundbreaking.), moved into his Malibu house, moved out of the house, rescued Dum-E and ended themselves back in the Avengers Tower. Flashy building with far too many rooms, but home. Always home. 

YN and Giovanna had since become inseparable, bonding in a way only soulmates did and having the ability to almost communicate telepathically when words were not able to be said. They were both homeschooled by Tony and Pepper themselves, Bruce dropping by often and teaching them both about anatomy and other surgical procedures. Giovanna had almost cried the first time he complimented a sucre— textbook, he had said and she squealed and threw her arms around his shoulders.

“Thank you, Uncle Bruce!” She squealed into his ear. YN watched with bated breath— not out of jealousy but out of fear of Big Guy getting too uncomfortable. However, much to her surprise and joy, Big Guy made no move to show himself, only purring low in Bruce’s chest and hugging Giovanna tighter. 

“Anytime, Brains. Now, YN come over here. JARVIS has a hologram of a heart that I want you guys to see.”

When YN and Giovanna weren’t in class or in the lab tinkering into the early hours of the morning with their dads, they were in the gym with Tony’s trainer, as Natasha and Steve had been posted down in Washington. She had worked their muscles and refined their fighting until they were almost lethal. It wasn’t until Clint had dropped by for. Weak they really became the pair to watch. Giovanna had become fond of the shining knives in the armoury, and YN had become fond of the arsenal of guns and Widow tech Natasha had left behind when she and Steve had left for Washington. Her aim was impeccable and her strategy on the matt threw even Clint a run for his money. It was an impossible match when Giovanna backed YN up— two angry, twirling tropical storms which could take out anyone who dared face them head-on. 

[spicy-melon]

What Remains of the Night | Illinois x GN!Reader

Chapter 1 (NSFW)

MASTERPOST

Warnings: possession (not reader), mind reading, mutual pining, mild breathplay/choking (reader receiving), reference to unsafe sex, implications of kidnapping reader, Night is kinda an asshole in this

A/N: i've made a couple of small changes from when i first shared this in the server, but overall plot is the same <33

The underground temple air hung damp between the two of you as you traversed the rocky architecture.

A sudden noise earlier had led you to cling to Illinois. The clutching had transformed into just holding his hand, if not for anything but the stability it gave you trying to walk along the uneven floor.

It would be odd to any outsider that you had held onto him like your life depended on it. Like you were more than just friends, like he was the protection between you and whatever had made the sound. Brain wracked with emotions of your closest friend and how he made you feel.

Emotions that you had a funny feeling were one way, no matter how flirty and charming the man was towards you. Something told you that’s just the way he was with people.

You two eventually came to what seemed to be the main room of the temple, a dark red orb ceremoniously sitting on a pedestal in the center of the space. You had begged Illinois to let you handle the lead of this adventure, you had been with him for a bit and wanted to prove yourself to him, including getting the artifact itself.

Luckily, there were no traps on this particular expedition so far, letting you walk with relative ease up to the object and carefully lift it from its home, placing it in your bag. You look back to your partner with a proud expression.

“Look like I might have some new competition, one of these days you’ll be as good as me, Darlin’,” he winks with a smug expression on his face, but pure pride in his words ”Now let’s get outta here.”

You hear yet another odd noise off in the distance as you walk back to his side of the room. Illinois laughs it off (like he always does, does anything ever get to this man?) and you two start for the exit, treasure in hand. A mission successful and almost complete.

Something in the temple shivers from its very foundation, like you had just woken something ancient up, and it was not pleased. A louder, closer sound erupts and sends shivers up your spine.

Illinois stops suddenly in front of you, as his head whips to the side, almost like he heard you say something to him.

"Illy, are you ok? What--"

He slowly turns around, showing eyes glowing like the last embers keeping a fire alive. The laugh that comes out of Illinois's mouth is not one you recognize. It echoes through the chamber and rumbles in your very bones.

“Aren't you a pretty thing… Do you have any idea what the two of you have unleashed, playing around in my temple?”

You take a cautious and slow step back, and shakily let out, “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh no, little mortal, it’s not. I do not take trespassing and stealing lightly. There’s got to be some sort of punishment. The question is just what to do with —”

The face in front of you flickers, almost like it glitches in real life. One face is staring at you, an evil smirk tugging on its lips with glowing red eyes and the other one has the purest fear in its soft brown ones, mouth wide open in a silent scream.

If the being wasn’t filled with anger before, it was now. He lets out a low frustrated whisper, talking to himself. You only catch one word: “control”. Illinois’s body is puppeted to roll his neck, shaking out the feeling and looking annoyed. He stands there briefly not saying anything, eyes off to the side as if he’s thinking. That is, until that smirk grows into a grin, full of teeth you were sure they were sharper than usual.

“This mind of your... companion is truly entertaining. All those words unsaid. It’s a shame really, that you’ll never hear them once I’m done with him.”

You drop the flashlight you had forgotten you were holding, mind racing with ways to appease this… deity? Demon? Spirit? Everything in your head was screaming ‘Take me instead. Not him. Don’t hurt him.’ but your throat was blocked with fear, keeping you from voicing your pleas.

The being’s low voice rumbles out in a mockingly dreamy tone, “His heart soaring with every blush he makes appear on your cheeks, taking the chance to hold your hand any time he can, wishing he could touch you forever…” His face twists more and more with how much he reveals.

“Lovely little internal struggles, but… that’s not all the fantasies he has.” A different kind of smile grows on his face as your possessed companion slowly stalks towards you, backing you up into a corner of the temple, trapping you. Was he…taller?

“Do you have any idea how many times he’s fantasized about you, how many times he desperately rocked into his own hand at Night, imagining it was you? Picturing your pretty little face all twisted up in pleasure, moaning and whimpering on his cock? Ultimately disappointed when he eventually found his release, that it wasn’t inside you, slowly dripping out of you?,” The words leave his lips dripping with utter sin.

A soft noise escapes you, one that you swear you’d never made before in your life and you'd be embarrassed of if not for the situation you were currently in. Your entire body feels like it’s on fire, both from the words and the way he's crowding you. He has to be making these things up, right? Just trying to stir anger out of you as punishment?

He continues to take you in, eyes trailing your body, “I can see the appeal. But still, something has to be done about you. Even gorgeous sinners need to repent. Perhaps I’ll keep you, you’d make a wonderful little pet.”

His eyes blink for a moment, briefly losing the intense glow. A large, powerful hand swiftly moves up to encircle your neck as a sharp gasp leaves your lips. He leans in, a breathy whisper, right up against your ear.

“That wasn’t all me, ‘Darlin’.” The last word is spewed out of his mouth like it was an insult. It felt wrong, so very wrong, to hear that pet name Illinois always used for you in that tone.

He leans back and drops his hand to rest on the wall beside you and a laugh rumbles out of him.

“You mortals and your desires. It’s almost adorable. Almost.”

He goes to say something, but a thought seems to interrupt him.

“Oh, and what’s this? This is unexpected: Fear.���

He continues to look right through you, spilling the thoughts and emotions of your closest friend, “Now why would he be afraid of a little thing like you? You’re not exactly intimidating.”

One part of you wants to scoff and yell in this asshole’s face, and another part of you is just as curious as he seems to be.

The being inhabiting your explorer eyes you with a look, somewhere between internally searching and analyzing you. He lets out a knowing and mischievous sound.

“Ah… I see,” Illinois’s face twists into an expression you’ve never seen from him, and it makes your skin crawl, “You can ask him yourself later, for a fun little chat. That is, if you ever talk to him again,” he ends the sentence with a sound you can only describe as a growl, a stark contrast to the seemingly tender motion he does to move a stray hair out of your trembling face. His hand travels down to your bag, the idol still securely inside.

“Now, be a good little thing and return your little treasure, leave and I may let you and your little companion live.”

[obsessedwithbbandsuju]

Too Late for Regrets

Jiyong paused. Tried to put the stopper on his feelings before they could burst and tear its way through his veins, making his heart sink and his stomach clench, but as usual – it didn’t work. The envy burned and seethed throughout his body, and he had to put a hand on the counter to steady himself. Fuck, he thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Pairing: Kwon Jiyong/Son Taeyeon

Warnings: Angst, mentions of depression & identity crisis

___

kimchijeon: a Korean food primarily made with sliced kimchi, flour batter and sometimes other vegetables

oppa: a term used by a female to refer to a male, older than her, that she is close to

sunbaenim: a term used by a junior to refer to a senior in the industry

sshi: a Korean honorific used when the speaker is relatively unfamiliar with the object of their words, usually regardless of age

___

Taeyeon looked beautiful. Her long hair, newly freed of any coloring and back to its natural shade of sleek black, was pulled back into a hasty ponytail, inky strands falling out to frame her delicate cheeks and forehead. Her face was free of any makeup, its natural beauty stunning underneath his kitchen light, big dark brown eyes gleaming, pale pink lips pursed and fine black eyebrows pulled together in concentration as she perused the recipe she’d brought over to his apartment to cook for him.

“God knows – well, I know, at least – that you need to take better care of your meals.”

“Look who’s talking,” he arched his eyebrows at her, ignoring the thu-thump of his heart in his chest. Stop it. That’s over with. Don’t go there, Jiyong. Don’t. “Between the two of us, you’re the one who works twenty-four seven.”

“While that may be true, I dedicate part of that twenty-four hours times seven days a week to make sure you eat like a human being,” Taeyeon replied, placing the groceries in her hand on the kitchen counter and shuffling away and down the hallway to wash her hands.

Jiyong was sure she didn’t know just how much those words had affected him.

“That’s an odd recipe for kimchijeon,” he commented, having taken a glance at it while she was washing her hands. Jiyong wasn’t much of a cook, that was no secret, but he was also pretty sure that he’d never seen anyone add spring onions to the list of ingredients for that particular dish. And that wasn’t even touching on the scallops and the shrimp.

“Oh.” Taeyeon sounded distracted and didn’t look up from the recipe, but she answered him. “That’s because Jungsoo-oppa and I spent two hours coming up with and trying it out.”

Jiyong paused. Tried to put the stopper on his feelings before they could burst and tear their way through his veins, making his heart sink and his stomach clench, but as usual – it didn’t work. The envy burned and seethed throughout his body, and he had to put a hand on the counter to steady himself. Fuck, he thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Why? Why couldn’t he just quit this? Why couldn’t he stop feeling so ridiculously jealous over every male friend that she had? He knew about her solidarity with Heechul-sunbaenim. He knew that she considered Eunhyuk-sunbaenim a close companion. He was aware that she enjoyed Taemin-sshi’s company. He knew about her prior relationship with Leeteuk-sunbaenim, and how they’d managed to remain good friends years after their breakup, just like Jiyong had managed to make up with and retain his friendship with her after their breakup. She had male friends, and he understood that. Accepted that. He had female friends too, and there was nothing more between him and those women than friendship. So why?

Why couldn’t he lay off pining after a woman whom he’d mutually broken up with years ago? Why did he have to realize several years too late that he’d never fallen out of love with her like he thought he had when they split? Why did he still have to be so, so in love with her?

Jiyong remembered their decision to break up, ending their two-year relationship that had lasted from 2011 to 2013. He remembered their long conversation, stretching on for hours, and, at its end, their conclusion that they didn’t love each other anymore, that their relationship was going nowhere and was never going to go anywhere, left to fade into obscurity and maybe even bitterness. They’d wanted to avoid that. They���d thought it would be better to just end it cleanly, and Jiyong had had no regrets at the time. It had hurt, of course it had, but he thought he was doing what was best for himself. That he would soon be resenting her if they kept going like this, and that hadn’t been something that he had wanted.

Now, though, he was older. He had been dragged through scandals, watched his friends being dragged through scandals, gone to the military, lost a member. He knew himself better now, and deciding to break up with Taeyeon… that was a mistake. He should have held on to her. He should have pleaded with her to stay with him, done a better job to straighten out their relationship, put more effort into salvaging what they’d had.

Because Jiyong didn’t not love her. He had never stopped loving her, had never gotten over her. But back then, he had been young, and his doubts had been eating him from the inside out. He had begun to wonder who he was, if he was really this famous and talented and charismatic star that so many people seemed to place on a pedestal, or if he was just an ordinary human like anyone else who eagerly clawed his way into public spotlight and found himself unprepared for what he thought he’d wanted. Which one was it? How could he possibly live up to the expectations that the world seemed to place on him? Or, he had wondered, was he just being dramatic? Was he just deluding himself into thinking that he was so respected, when the truth was that he was just another cheap and disposable piece of entertainment for the media, to fuss over as a distraction from their own lives?

And he knew Taeyeon had faced similar thoughts. They might have stopped dating, but Jiyong still considered her the person who understood him the most. And he considered himself the person who understood her the most. If nothing else, he was confident of that, because when they talked, when he looked at her, he felt like he was staring into a slightly distorted mirror, so very like him in a way that no one else could manage, while not quite him. Not quite completely.

It wasn’t that he had stopped loving Taeyeon. It was that he had stopped loving himself, and he couldn’t find inside him the confidence to keep being with her, not when he felt so hollow and unfulfilled inside. And he didn’t know for sure – maybe he was being presumptuous – but he believed sincerely that it was the same for Taeyeon.

It had all just… hurt. It had all just hurt so much that they decided to let each other go. He had been wandering aimlessly, so confused and so dissatisfied with everything and everyone that he gave up. On himself. On her. On them.

And now, he regretted it. Thinking of it now, they were happy together. Maybe they weren’t happy with themselves, not totally, but they had been happy with each other.

If only he had recognized that back then. If only he had decided to fight for the two of them.

But it was all pointless now, anyway. The two of them, they had come too far to return to those times. They were too afraid, too fragile, too tenuously held together to risk going back ever again.

It was too late for regrets now.

[indulgnces]

the list of wanted plots I promised in my intro! i wanted to post this before i started to hit people up for plots, so if you liked my intro I’m gonna hit you up soon, but if you also like this I’ll also hit you up all the same! it got long bc i can’t help myself so i put it under a cut. for her connections, i really want her to have like, people who care about her in general, but damn was it easy to come up with antagonist relationships instead oof 

AUDREY ROSE | TWENTY-ONE | STUDENT | DESCENDANTS  

mutual annoyance audrey is a polite, but stuck-up priss. she tries to be nice, but WOW is that hard to do around this muse. they could be a grump, they could low-class, they could be crass, they could be crude, they could be all or none of the above! whatever they are, they are very much Not audrey’s kind of people, just like audrey is very much Not their kind of people. and yet, they have found themselves crossing paths more times than they would like. every time they do, some form of bickering or snide remarks are made, whether they mean for it to happen or not. 

frenemies because of course audrey has frenemies. a true friendship does exist between these two. they spend hours at each other’s places getting ready for dates or balls. they gossip about the latest trends, have bachelor/bachelorette viewing parties every week, host impromptu slumber parties when the other had a bad day. and yet, there always seems to be an air of competition between the two as well. fake smiles when one gets more attention than the other when they go out, strained congratulations when the other achieves an advantage, be it career or relationship. they can’t help it. they’re too similar, too used to being the best of the best that when put together, it’s only natural to try to one-up each other from time to time.

classmates audrey’s in her senior year at university in truman, majoring in hospitality management and minoring in art. because she’s audrey, she’s not the type to go through college entirely unnoticed. i imagine she’s still cheerleading in college, probably in a sorority, and definitely a part of a couple of different organizations. if there are any other muses also attending this unspecified truman university, i’d love to strike up some sort of connection!

bad influence i just really want to see audrey dye her hair that vivid pink again! girl’s got a bad side underneath her polite demeanor. she’s holds herself to a higher status, and while life is Good in truman, the chaos that was her emotional state pre-truman still lies underneath all the pretense. she often feels like she’s on the verge of snapping and she doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how to handle it or make it go away. she just knows she doesn’t like how she feels on those days, when the anxiety runs high, and she tends to find herself coming to this muse for help. often found at the bottom of a bottle or on a clubbing adventure, though the real itch is scratched when they find themselves doing more daring pursuits, like a motorcycle ride through the city, or light (light!!!) criminal activity like trespassing or recreational drug use. she likes to hold herself to a moral high ground, so this is a side of herself she does like to admit exists, but it does - she doesn’t know why it does, all she knows is engaging in bad or reckless behavior seems to do the trick in curing her tension, and this muse is the one shes goes to when she needs to engage. 

ride or die please, please, i’m begging for this. audrey needs someone who is THERE FOR HER. her a1, her other half, someone who is there for audrey come hell or high water. she had no one like this in her past life even though she desperately wanted/needed that, so having someone like that for her in truman would just be the one thing this girl needed to fully turn her back on all her past memories. why be stubborn and try to cling to a life of loneliness when in this reality, she has this muse, and knows she’ll never be lonely again? an actor is probably the most likely person to fill this role (oof and wouldn’t that hurt to find out later on that the thing she needs most is fake af and was just inserted in her life for entertainment purposes), although non-actors can take this role as well

unlikely friends in no universe but the truman universe does this friendship work because it makes no sense. these two are seemingly not compatible. they have different backstories, different personalities, different goals in life. but they say opposites attract for a reason, and that seems to be the case with them. they could have started off as a mutual annoyance that blossomed into a true friendship. or they could have instantly bonded, the circumstances right for these two to find each other, and maybe see a little bit of each other inside the other. whatever the case, these two seem to work, and they’re not gonna question why anytime soon.

exes who ended on good terms, who ended on bad terms, who still have lingering feelings, whatever! could be real exes made in the last seven years, could be fake exes they think as real (high school sweetheart ben who? first kiss chad what? first girl crushes mal/uma hmm? non existent! they happened with these muses instead). 

and then there was sex aka the title for all connections where sex is involved. i’m talking flings, i’m talking one-night-stands, i’m talking friends with benefits, i’m talking fuck buddies. audrey Does Not do causal sex, thank you very much. she is a woman of high class, a believer of true love and romance and happily ever afters. casual sex does not fall into that romance spectrum for her. at least, she says it doesn’t. and then comes these muses. her secret flings, her desperate one night stands, her itch-scratching fuck buddies. ask anyone in audrey’s life, and they’d scoff at the idea of this prude trying to get her rocks off just as audrey scoffs at the idea of getting laid for the sake of getting laid. but these muses know the truth. on more than occasion, audrey has found casual sex as the temporary remedy to her problems. there’s a deep sense of loneliness inside her that she can’t seem to shake, and on the nights when that loneliness threatens to eat her alive, she resorts to sex to fill the void. enter these muses, the useful but probably ultimately discarded bed warmers.

friends all for muses audrey has formed friendships with. people audrey actually cares about who cares about her as well. maybe they’re not best friends, but they enjoy being around each other when they are together. they know that when she’s being bossy, she’s just trying to be helpful. they can clap back at her when she’s getting mean, or can easily get her to sidestep off her pedestal for a minute to come back to the real world for a few. they ground her in ways she desperately needs, while offering her companionship and appreciation all the same.

and that’s all i have the inspiration to write blurbs for! some others that I really like though are

owners of the same pets: audrey’s an animal lover!! particularly with birds and cats, tho small dogs can capture her heart as well. idk how this can even happen, but i like the idea of it so gimme

unrequited: im a hoe for pain and angst, and unrequited love/crushes always just do something to me!! i want it for her (but also don’t bc bb doesn’t need the pain)

crushes: could be unrequited, could be one-sided, could be mutual, idfk: i just want some cute pining in my girl’s life

enemies: i put mutual annoyance up there bc that’s the most common antagonistic relationship audrey will probs have tbh, but wow am i down for all kinds of enemies!! rivals, lovers turned enemies, friends turned enemies, saying rivals again bc audrey’s the type to have rivals she’d be jealous over (*cough* MAL *cough*) - any enemies, i’m down for!

[and-then-yoi-happened]

When do you think Yuuri truly fell in love with Viktor? Like when did he go from loving him as his idol to falling in love with Viktor as himself.

HiNonny! Thanks for your question :)

Theshort answer would be: He started to develop feelings after the beach talk in ep. 4, and fell more in love with the passing time (summer of mutualpining etc.).

Here’swhy I think so:

First,the time frame: Ep1: end of March to beginning of April

Ep2 & 3: April (Victor travels to Hasetsu, they have about aweek together or so, then Yurio arrives, the whole Onsen on Icepractice, preparations, and show-off)

Ep 4: beginning ofMay (phone screen in the beginning of the episode tells us this)until approximately the end of June (GP assignments go public).

BetweenEp 4 & 5: July, August and half of September or so. 

Ep 5: Chu-Shikoku-Kyushu Reginal Qualifier which took place from 22-25 of September 2016 (if we use the confirmed information that YOI took place in the 2016/17 FS season).

Between EP 5 & 6: October

Ep6 & 7: CoC. We know that the Cupof China was the 3rd GP event in the YOI universe, which with the2016 time frame means it took place November 4-6.

(Thistime line is the result of a group discussion from the WWV chat froma few months ago)

Yuuriand Victor have very little interaction in the first episode, andwhen Victor arrives in Hasetsu, we learn just howstar-struck Yuuri is. I’dsay it takes about a week until Yurio arrives, and that week isn’tnearly enough to get Yuuri comfortable enough around Victor to trulyget to know him (which might also be because of Victor’s flirtingattempts that make Yuuri skittish and avoidant). While Yurio isaround Yuuri suddenly has to “fight” for Victor to stay and coachhim, and his own skating career and practice take the main focus.

Duringthat time Victor is clearly the coach (while still trying to flirtwith Yuuri whenever he can) and Yuuri still has him on that pedestalhe’s put Victor on for years. After winning Onsen on Ice andsecuring Victor as his coach, and without having to share Victor’sattention with Yurio they really get the chance to getto knoweachotheron a more personal level.

Theyhave the talk at the beach during ep 4, and I really think that fromthen on Victor made an effort to be who he really isinstead of trying to play roleswhen he’s around Yuuri, and inturn Yuuristarted to open up to him as a person. Nowthey have the foundation to build a personal relationship aside fromthe student-teacher one. And indeed: at the end of ep 4 when theassignments for the GP come out Yuuri seems a lot more comfortablewith Victor’s physical closeness, andalso how he looks at Victor.(Side-note:Yuuri’shigh admiration for Victor as “the king of skating” might havemade it easier for him to deny that he started to fall in love withVictor the person, which would just mean that he took a bit longer toacknowledge his ownfeelings—ifthat was an issue/doubt of him at all.)

Thenfollows the huge time gap of the “summer of mutual pining” wherethe only content we have are a few pictures in the end credits.Regarding the following development of their relationship Ipersonally HC them having their first kiss and getting together inbetween ep 5 & 6, which I coincidentally wrote a fic about :’D

Hope this helps! :)