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theartisticcrow · 6 months ago

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🌻 :)

Alright, I saw this ask last night, but decided I'd save it for the next day when I was feeling actually awake. Well, now I've got a Queen record playing so i might as well talk about the French Revolution, particularly Maximilien Robespierre. Now you might be thinking, "Robespierre? The bloodthirsty tyrant that guillotined half a France? What about him?" Well I am here to tell you that he wasn't actually a tyrant or a dictator, despite what your high school teacher might have told to the entire class. If you don't know who Robespierre was, without accidentally writing a short biography of his entire life and career (again), he was lawyer from Arras, France, most well known for his involvement in the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. I will get to that [his involvement in these events] in a moment, but firstly, what was the Reign of Terror? Hell, what was the French Revolution? I'm sure you know, it's a very famous events after all, but I shall explain as though you do not for anyone who may come across this post and not know exactly what I'm talking about.

Alright, so the French Revolution began in France in 1789. The country is drowning in debt after the American Revolution, people are starving because of a poor harvest season and prices of bread are rising, and it's just not a great time. The country was in crisis and something needed to be done. The Third Estate (social class involving anyone who is not nobility or a member of the clergy) demanded change and the other Estates actually sort of agreed that "yeah, country's fucked". Thus the king called upon the Estates-General, a sort of meeting of the three Estates (First Estate: Clergy. Second Estate: Nobility. Third Estate: literally everybody else, they make up 97% of the population). This was a pretty big thing because the Estates-General hadn't been called upon in a very long time (I think it was roughly 175 years?). Anyways, the point of the Estates general was basically, correct me if I'm wrong, to fix things in the kingdom when everything had gone to shit. Each Estate was represented by one singular vote. This was sort of a problem, you see, because the minority of the population, the First and Second Estate, had collectively two votes while the Third Estate, the majority of the population, only had one. Do you see where this is going? Anything that the majority of the population wanted could be very easily outvoted and it was incredibly unfair, obviously. After a while, after various disagreements and things just not really going according to plan, the Third Estate decided "Fuck this, I'm not doing this anymore", and they went off and formed something called the National Assembly. The National Assembly was to represent all members of the population though in particular the Third Estate. Literally 3 days after forming this Assembly, the King, Louis XVI, locked them out of their own building so that they wouldn't be able to meet there anymore. This sort of backfired on the King because they just went down to the nearby tennis court and sort of signed something called the Tennis Court Oath, which basically was them saying, "Well fuck you, we are never going to stop meeting".

(I've had to go back through my 30 page essay to find the correct dates and timeline but anyways). Without getting too deep into the politics and technicalities of the time, let me just walk you through the major events of the Revolution that would eventually lead up to the Reign of Terror. (At this very moment I've only now just clicked back on to that document so I can look through it and oh my God I forgot how small the fucking font is. This is going to take me a few minutes.)

OKAY, Third Estate wants lower taxes (taxes are partially result of the country's debt and the country's debt is because of their funding of the American Revolution and a really flawed taxing and banking system); Estates general is called, all three Estates bring up collectively 60,000 grievances; the Estates general doesn't go so well because of unfair voting; fueled by the ideas of the Age of Enlightenment, the Third Estate goes off and forms their own little kind of government, that being the National Assembly; the National Assembly would represent the entire country; only a few days after forming, the King would lock him out of their own building; Tennis Court Oath happens, Robespierre is among those in the National Assembly and he is one of the people that signed the Tennis Court Oath. Alright, by this point Louis XVI is getting a bit nervous, understandably. The King begins organising troops near Paris and, understandably, people begin to panic. In this panic, (that along with the King firing or dismissing Jacques Necker), people begin to riot a bit, and thus is how came about the storming of the Bastille. The storming of the Bastille was a massive turning point in the Revolution, not only because it was an incredible display of the people getting together and successful storming this prison which represented mass political power, but even the army, who was likely called to 'disperse' the crowd, fought on their side and helped them take the Bastille. A couple decapitated heads later and the Revolution is imminent. It has begun.

Since this is getting long: March on Versailles happens, the King and Queen are overthrown and later executed, lots of stuff happens but it would take me another eleven days to write about. Reign of Terror begins (a fuck ton of mass executions).

Now, back to the topic of MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE, my god is this ever getting long. Right, he wasn't a dictator. Lots of people think that he was a dictator but that is a truth this is based on Thermidorian Propaganda and basically no truth... What if I just... screenshoted or copied that essay... Like the actual essay part of the essay. Hold on... OKAY, HERE'S THE ESSAY ITSELF THAT I WROTE. HAVE FUN READING ALL THIS:

And that's pretty much it. The rest of the essay was fucking background context that turned into a biography of Robespierre's life and career. Important things that I want to say here: Robespierre was not a dictator. He was one of 12 members on the Committee of Public Safety; they had equal superiority, it physically could not have been a dictatorship even if he wanted it to, and he didn't. He signed the least number of arrest warrants out of all Committee members, he was generally a pretty decent guy. His death was horribly cruel and unjust. He advocated for equal male suffrage, (even supported a few women's rights which I know right now may seem not impressive, but like you need to think about the time and how revolutionary that would have been), he did not support slavery, he basically said to the colonies that 'hey if it takes slavery to keep your colonies running, then your colonies can fucking perish'. Was he perfect? Oh absolutely not. He wrote up the Law of 22 Prairial which I absolutely do not support and he still did sign arrest warrants but he signed the least number of arrest warrants out of all Committee members like I previously mentioned and did I mention that this guy fucking hated the death penalty? He absolutely hated it, tried to have it abolished even but the National Assembly had already accepted a proposal by one Joseph Guillotin a year earlier. (I'm sure you can figure out what roughly that proposal lead to). Robespierre hated blood and physical violence, he never attended a single execution except his own. And every single person that he would have signed and an arrest warrant for would be arrested, have a trial and then may or may not end up being executed. Whether or not they were executed was actually out of his jurisdiction. But here's the thing about his execution: he didn't get a trial. His enemies overthrew him and executed him without fucking trial. And you know what they did after his death I probably mentioned that already in that essay but they pinned all of their crimes on him. I mean you look at how many wild accusations were coming out of the time and really, what's a little gasoline on a forest fire? It's already burning, it's not like anybody's going to notice. I cannot stress how much propaganda there was after his death. And that's what so much of our modern view of him is based on: propaganda, of all things. The evidence is right there you look the propaganda and then you look at the records and you say well no actually he didn't fucking do any of that. It just takes a little bit of digging and it's really not that difficult. Also I don't know if I mentioned it in the essay part of the essay but, why don't I just take a moment to briefly touch on the Festival of the Supreme Being. Everybody likes to say oh this was him thinking of himself as some kind of God and trying to start a cult around himself. That is not true. France at this time was so chaotic and out of control. The hardcore atheists were very much against relation they wanted to abolish all religion and this caused a lot of conflict so he wanted to try and bring the people together. That is literally all it was. And it was a massive success actually, but his enemies obviously saw the opportunity there to slander him more and they took it.

Maximilian Robespierre was an autistic little nerd who was so obsessed with equal rights of people that he was nicknamed The Incorruptible and loved fruit tarts so much that he wrote a poem about god damn fruit tarts. How can you not love him? He was a decent guy he wasn't that bad, at least not in comparison to a lot of people at that time. Sort of the same story for Saint-Just: he's only known as the Archangel of Terror because he supported Robespierre and defended his dear friend on 9 Thermidor.

And it's honestly quite funny, the reason I know all this. In my Socials class we had just started learning about the French Revolution, and I was excited, everyone was excited. Because we love blood and violence and overthrowing the government. And in my English class, we were doing basically a book club thing and the group I was assigned to was reading the novel Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao. And I remembered seeing a short video on YouTube by the author of this book that was basically along the lines of one person going, "You can't just have your protagonist murder their way to the top!" and the author responding, "The protagonist is based on the only female Chinese emperor. How do you think they got to that position? By being nice?" And so I went looking for this video because I found it amusing. I found the author's YouTube channel and began searching and while I was looking, I gound out that the author of the book that is literally about a murderous bisexual polycule destroying the patriarchy and overthrowing the government, also does Robespierre cosplay... Anyways, I found the videos quite amusing, but then at some point I came across this one that was basically them saying, "Yeah, I know I joke about him a lot, but I do have to come to his defense here because wasn't actually a dictator". And that's how I found out. I later pirated one of the books that they credited and read that in the span of like three days. Then I made the entirely impulsive decision to write a 30 page essay on Robespierre and why he wasn't a dictator... I'm not a masochist, it's only a coincidence that I happen to be the cause of a lot of my own suffering.

#this isn't even all the reasons people think he's a dictator #this is only the tip of the fucking iceberg #and i am so near to bringing down this entire ship #robespierre #maximilian robespierre #frev #feel free to correct me on any details i got wrong #ignore any errors in grammer #i'm not checking to make sure there aren't any this is already too long #iron widow #xiran jay zhao #french revolution

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whentherewerebicycles · 1 year ago

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just got hit with an unexpected $600 bill for what my insurance says is a “noncovered service” even though they’ve covered it in the past sooo gonna have to call about that later and already have the sinking despair feeling of: it’s probably not going to get waived. between this and a week of unfortunate vet bills I think the dream of one last trip before the baby is not going to happen and I feel pretty bummed about that… also I fear I will be broke for the rest of my life because I spent almost the entirety of my 20s making $15k a year in grad school and it turns out that does not set you up for long-term financial stability in your 30s. but it was sunny out and we went for a nice long calming walk, including a foray into the cool dark woods where little mushrooms are growing up out of the damp earth. I’m in a pretty bad funk right now but money isn’t real and it’s not really fair to compare myself to my brothers’ financial situations when they make way more money than me, have been working well-paying jobs for much longer than me, and are part of two-income households. ugh I just have some black sheep feelings around being the oldest in the family and yet perpetually the one whose financial situation is the most precarious. but like I made my professional choices! and it’s fine it’s fine I like my life I just wish I felt less squeezed all the time. I will pursue various avenues to try to get this medical bill partially covered. I will start this second job in January and if they don’t give me enough hours I will pick up another one. also I will cry a bunch right now because I can tell I just need to get it out of my system.

oh and maybe I will practice doing this cognitive behavioral therapy triangle thing my therapist gave me as homework.

activating event: got walloped with another huge medical bill which has been a huge stressor for me all year (bc so many fucking medical bills)

belief (negative self-talk): I am either broke or on the verge of being broke all the time, I have no savings cushion at all, and every small setback makes me feel like I’m one crisis away from real financial catastrophe. this means I am a fuck-up and a failed adult who probably has no business having a baby. this situation is my own fault and reflects an inner unworthiness. also my parents and family are probably silently judging me for being an idiot with my money.

consequence (how I feel as a result): I feel a lot of shame and it makes me feel really bad

now I am supposed to go back to the belief and try to disentangle it/give myself an alternative narrative.

alternate belief: I live in a society with a super fucked up healthcare system that extorts us all to the maximum extent; I also live in a culture where insurance companies are allowed to be like ‘haha very funny go fuck yourself’ to lgbtq people and people with fertility issues who want to have kids. I have made values-aligned choices about what I want my life to look like (working in public ed and having a family), and it is a brave and honorable thing to create a life you believe in when there is lots of pressure to do something different instead (keep the horrible government contractor job that paid an obscene amount of money, not have a baby). that might be being a failed adult by some people’s standards, but if I think about what being a grown-up means to me I think it should include being able to exercise autonomy over my body/choices and making decisions that bring my lived experience into closer alignment with my core values and beliefs. also money is real but it also isn’t real and I can do the “stress now and suffer twice” thing or I can take a deep breath and move through it and hope things look different in six months. also people who are financially stable don’t “deserve” to have families more than people who don’t have savings or are dealing with a lot of debt! that’s not how it works!

#personal #blah

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luv4fandoms · 2 years ago

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Another headcanon that I'm obsessed with (as much as I'm obsessed with the idea of Marko being Italian)

Is David being originally from the south (This might partially be because I am a big Doc Scurlock fan but lol)

But also like..there isn't that much of a leap from gunslinger to biker in my opinion lol.

I could have seen David growing up on a farm, herding cattle with his dad and maybe brothers (I think he had 3 brothers, him being the oldest) and so he's used to taking charge, he's used to being the man of the house when his dad had to run to town, which was a two day trip.

But all good things must come to an end.

He had gone to town, a task that his father had asked one of his younger brothers to do but David did instead, after all, he had done all his chores early that day, and his brothers could take care of the horses for the one day he would be absent. He also didn't like his younger brothers going into town alone, he knew there were rough characters there.

Upon his return though he found something that had made his blood run cold...his whole family dead.

David instantly blamed himself, swore that if he would have been home he would have been able to save them, that he would have had control over the situation, even at 13.

A year later after living on his own and trying to find who killed his family, David learned the truth. His father had a few vices, 1. He was a heavy gambler, and his trips into town often left him broke and in debt. And 2. His father had an eye for taken women. Both of which left him with more enemies than friends. But it was when he got a little too friendly with and spent the night with a local gunslinger's wife that he officially had a bounty on his head.

His mother and brothers had just been casualties of the revenge.

At 14 he vowed to find the men who did it and kill them, and he spent the next 5 years doing that. Living as a gunslinger himself, taking bounties that would pay well and talking his way into the good graces of deep pocketed men and beautiful women. If he needed to, he would steal, but why steal when you can manipulate people into giving you money?

That was how he found Max, Max was one of the rich men whose good side David got on. He was impressed by David's wit, after all, in those times it was hard to find.

He had asked David what he planned to do with his life after he got his revenge, to which David didn't have an answer, having been so caught up on avenging his family, he hadn't thought of after. That was when Max offered David the gift of immortality, convinced him he would find the men faster with it, and that afterwards, well, he could do whatever he wanted. David did think it over, weighed his options, after all what Max was offering him had its pros and cons. But eventually the offer tempted him too much to pass up.

So that night Max turned him on his 21st Birthday.

And a few months later he found the gang that killed his family, getting revenge.

He wandered around a lot after that, doing whatever he pleased, but in the end he always stayed close to Max, always in the same state if not the same town. Slowly as time went on he found who he was, who he wanted to be outside of Max and his Vampirism, though he would never even think of getting rid of it if he had the chance, it was who he was now, but he knew he didn't have to be Max's shadow.

(I also think it was during his wandering that he met Dwayne and his tribe)

It took him a bit to hide his southern accent, and to this day he can still slip in and out of it.

There are also times he does think about his family, but after so long he feels very disconnected from it, like it was a whole other life, which he guesses, it was.

After all, he has three new brothers now, and he'll be damned if he lets history repeat itself.

Like I said, I am obsessed with Southern/Gunslinger David lol

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys headcanons #david the lost boys #tlb #tlb 1987 #tlb headcanons #david tlb #david headcanons #gunslinger david #southern david #cowboy david #kiefer sutherland

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fruitcoops · 3 years ago

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You write Moody so well! I would love to see something where Moody and Remus talk for the first time after Coops was outed. Whether it happens after the meeting Coops had with Arthur and Alice or after the all star break. I feel like they have such a good relationship!

Thanks! This was partially inspired by watching The Karate Kid (1984) last night, so I hope y'all are ready for some mentor hurt/ comfort this fine Sunday! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove

TW for mentioned forced outing

Remus was almost done. He only had a few more drawers to clean out. The whiteboards were as squeaky and shiny as the day he arrived; the desk had a few more dents and coffee stains decorating the surface, but overall it looked decent. He still couldn’t bring himself to take the pictures off, though. It was his life. His friends. He just couldn’t do it.

The sleeve of his ancient Wisconsin hoodie was still damp when he smudged it under his runny nose. No tears had fallen, but he could feel the maelstrom gathering in his throat. Everything he had worked for, gone because of one stupid mistake.

Not Sirius, of course. Sirius would never be a mistake. It was Remus’ fault they had been caught in the first place.

He stared around his office in misery—no official notice of his layoff had arrived, but he knew it would come, and it was always better to be prepared. Maybe it would hurt less if he did it himself, one final ‘fuck you’ to the homophobes before he trooped off with his tail between his legs.

The tiles were cold through the seat of his comfiest jeans. He tucked his knees closer to his chest.

A quiet knock at the door interrupted the suffocating silence. He didn’t answer.

“Kid?”

Remus’ lower lip wobbled and he croaked out a ‘come in’ with as much strength as he could muster; it wasn’t much. The door opened with a creak—he had never gotten around to having it fixed, after all—and uneven footsteps shuffled in, followed by a sigh as his visitor settled next to him on the floor.

“You have a chair, you know.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Not all of us have young knees. Doesn’t your ass hurt?”

Remus nodded.

Moody huffed through his nose and hoisted him up by the arm. “Well Christ, kid, up you come. You’re awfully dense for a beanpole. What, you got concrete for bones or something?”

“No,” Remus mumbled as he followed Moody across the hall and allowed himself to be plonked down in the soft chair by the door. It was his favorite of both their offices; as far as he knew, Moody never let anyone else sit there. His chest seized as a sob tried to fight its way out. “I’m sorry.”

Moody shot him a look at he got comfortable in the adjacent seat. “For what?”

“I dunno.”

“I don’t like useless apologies, Lupin.”

Remus sniffled. “I should’ve told you.”

“Says who?” Moody snorted. “Your business is your business. You’re a bright young man, none of this is your f—oh. Okay, Lupin, easy does it.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus blubbered as the tears finally started to fall. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like crying, but I’m kind of a wreck right now.”

Moody made a few soft shushing noises, inching closer until he could wrap an arm around Remus’ shoulders and pat his arm like he was trying to soothe a frightened dog. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

The sobs were near-silent; Remus never cried loudly if he could help it, and he already felt bad enough for dripping his perpetual raincloud all over Moody’s office. He caught his breath after a few hitching inhales and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Remus pulled his knees up again and hugged them tight to his chest. “I haven’t called my parents yet.”

“Did they know?”

His heart gave another painful yank. “Nobody knew. Nobody. And—and now it’s everywhere and people won’t leave me alone and I’m gonna get fired—”

“Woah, deep breaths,” Moody interrupted gently, giving him a little shake. “You’re not getting fired.”

“Yes, I am.” Everything felt gross and cold and sad.

“Who told you that?”

“Coach said it might happen ‘cause I’m a doctor.”

Moody scanned his face for a moment, then reached over and grabbed a box of tissues off his desk. “First of all, take some of these. You look like a mud puddle, Lupin. It’s very unsettling. Second, this is a complicated situation and I wouldn’t be too quick to make assumptions. And third, I’ll go to bat for you.”

He paused midway through blowing his nose. “What?”

“You’re a good man. An excellent PT. The best colleague I’ve ever had, actually. You know your shit and if they try to fire you over this, I’m not going to make it easy for them.”

More tears threatened to fall over the edge of his itchy eyes. “You’d do that for me?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Moody grumbled.

“He hasn’t called.”

“Who?”

“Sirius.” Remus swallowed hard and, before he could second guess himself, leaned his head on Moody’s solid shoulder. “I’ve called him 23 times and he hasn’t answered a single one. He just…left. Didn’t even look at me.”

“He’s making a mistake.”

“I ruined his life.”

“Hey.” Moody’s tone turned stern. “You don’t get to talk shit about yourself in my office. This is a Lupin Appreciation Zone.”

Remus’ shoulders shook and he closed his eyes; he wished he could just dissolve into the floor and stay there until someone mopped him up. Everything hurt. The world sucked. Moody—

Moody was petting his hair.

The tears stopped abruptly and Remus hiccupped in pure confusion. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m bad at comfort, kid, gimme a break.” The sat in silence for a few seconds as Moody continued to pat his head and muss his hair, which was in dire need of a cut but just long enough to cover his eyes when it was pushed forward. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, actually. How did you…?”

Something akin to embarrassment tinted Moody’s cheeks and he cleared his throat. “My cat hates thunderstorms.”

“Oh. Cool. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks,” Remus said again, much quieter. Moody’s office always felt safe; all the clutter was in its proper place, clean and homey. The touch of familiarity was more of a comfort than he cared to admit. He sat up straight and wiped his face clean, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “If I do get fired—”

“You won’t.”

“If I do, I wanted to say thank you for changing my life.” The words hung in the air. “You—without you, I would never have felt at home here. You were the best mentor I could ever ask for and I’m never going to forget that. You did more than just teaching me routines. Thank you.”

Moody cleared his throat again. “Tissues.”

Remus silently passed the box.

“If anyone gives you shit for being gay, you call me and I’ll take care of it,” Moody said once the tissue had disappeared into the depths of his pocket.

Remis blinked at him. “Are you offering to hurt someone for me?”

“I’ll deny it in court.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he laughed. “Fuckin’ hell, this is a mess. I’m a mess.”

“You just got outed and your boyfriend ditched you in an airport,” Moody said bluntly, fixing Remus with a look. “You’re allowed to be a mess. Now go talk to Lily. Call your mom. Do whatever you do that makes you so sunshiney, and then we’re gonna unpack all your shit and put it back where it belongs.”

Remus swallowed hard. Fuck it. Fuck the NHL, fuck the homophobes, and fuck being sad.

Moody narrowed his eyes. “You want to use the kicking bag, don’t you?”

“I really, really do.”

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

“Stupid—fucking—son of a bitch!” Remus gritted out as the beat-up and half-folded gym mat squeaked under his assault. It was two inches of plastic and therapy—he was 90% sure Moody had stolen it from a middle school gym, and it had rapidly become the team’s favorite way of winding down after a frustrating day.

“Harder!” Moody barked behind him.

Remus wound up and slammed his foot into it again. “I worked too damn hard to be kicked out for this bullshit!”

“Damn right you did!”

The kicking bag creased in the center. “And I’ve got too much student debt to walk out of here like—like a coward!”

“Yes, you do!”

His grief had burnt off at least five minutes prior. Remus was well and truly pissed now. “And it’s nobody’s goddamn business who I kiss!”

“That’s the spirit!” Moody cheered.

“And maybe his face is stupidly pretty!” Remus threw his shoulder against the mat before he resumed kicking it. “And, yeah, he has really nice shoulders and a great ass—”

“Lupin—”

“But fuck him for leaving me in an airport! What kind of douchebag does that to a guy? I’m hot and smart and nice and I can date whoever the hell I want if he doesn’t appreciate that!”

“That’s certainly one approach!”

Remus stopped with a harsh exhale and dropped one last halfhearted kick to the base. “I don’t want anyone else, though. And I miss his stupid pretty face.”

A hand, heavy but gentle, squeezed his shoulder. “Then go get him.”

#remus lupin #alastor moody #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic

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riddlecrux · 4 years ago

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Miserable together, happy apart: a dive into Elain and Lucien's relationship

This meta is based solely on textual pieces of evidence that can be found through the whole ACTOAR series written by SJM. My observations come from the text and what was given to us, the audience, by the author of the book. Due to the fact that this topic is connected with a raging shipping war, I would like to make an important note at the beginning of this (probably) long comparison post. This meta will be touching subjects such as trauma, forced and unhealthy relationships, being uncomfortable around the other person, and enforced feeling of duty. On that note, it's anti Elain and Lucien relationship.

The starting point of the whole relationship and mating bond begins in ACOMAF, when Lucien contributes to Archeron sisters being kidnapped - leading to them being Made. I'm very concerned with the way how this fandom seems to collectively forget about the trauma that Elain went through when she was pushed inside the Cauldron. After ACOSF we are left with the idea that being Made wasn't pleasant - on the contrary, it was horrible and scary, it left Nesta with psychological scars and mental barriers. So why are people forgetting that, in fact, it was Elain who undergone the same terrifying experience first? SJM had described this whole situation very vividly and painfully detailed. It was there to show us that both Elain and Nesta went through something disturbing and traumatizing. That's why I would like to start with a notion of TRAUMA:

"Elain’s foot hit the water, and she screamed—screamed in terror that hit me so deep I began sobbing."

Feyre is there to witness her sisters being shoved into Cauldron and one can only imagine how terrifying it was to observe such a thing. However, there is no amount of words to describe how utterly frightening it was for Elain to be pushed into the unknown. She was the first one, an experiment for everyone to see.

"More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water. And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown. Her legs were so pale—so delicate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them bare."

Elain was a proper lady. She was the one who went along with the prevailing etiquette and rules. Feyre notices Elain's bare skin and how she doesn't even remember when was the last time she saw so much of it in the broad daylight. Elain was modest, she followed the social obligations and we as readers are presented with the fact that all her principles are being violated in front of these strangers and people she knew from before.

"Elain was still shivering on the wet stones, her nightgown shoved up to her thighs, her small breasts fully visible beneath the soaked fabric. Guards snickered."

She was let out in the open after such a traumatizing event. Just after being Made, the first thing she experiences is another form of trauma. She is involuntary stripped bare in front of males, her proper upbringing and modesty ruined as they openly laugh at her nakedness. It's another traumatic event, not even a moment after her whole human life was taken away from her.

"As Lucien took off his jacket, kneeling before Elain. She cringed away from the coat, from him—"

It's not surprising that she acted that way. He is yet another male who appears out of nowhere, comes at her when she is in a very vulnerable position. Not to mention, that he is connected to the fact that she and Nesta were kidnapped and used as hostages. He plays a role in her trauma, a trauma that is still happening around her. Elain is subjected to watch her older sister going through the same thing she went through.

"Lucien’s hands slackened at his sides. His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, “You’re my mate.”"

I would say that it wasn't a good thing to say at that moment. It's yet another brick in the wall of traumas that Elain just went through. She lost her human life, she was Made, she lost her human fiance, was kidnapped and used as an experiment, ridiculed due to her nakedness and vulnerability, watched her sister being shoved into the Cauldron. Now she is presented with the fact that she was stripped off of her free will, and she still doesn't have freedom of choice. The lack of choice is evident, she just doesn't let it fall upon her as the trauma she had just endured was too great to even imagine how that declaration could shake her already broken heart.

“From my sister’s stories. Her friend.” “Yes.” But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.” “Yes.” It was all he could say. “You betrayed us.”

Elain is aware of the fact that he was a part of her trauma. He was there when she got kidnapped and watched her being Made. She acknowledges the fact that he is partially responsible for what has happened to her and her sister. Not only Elain but Lucien as well. Lucien is also very much aware of the fact that he had contributed to her pain and hardship. Those feelings are also very prominent in the way he approaches her and behaves around her. The knowledge that she is that way because of his mistake.

FORCED RELATIONSHIP:

Both Elain and Lucien find themselves forced to "be" together. It wasn't a natural thing that happened between them, not a healthy type of bond snapping in its place. They were put together because of the Cauldron's decision.

She was nothing like Jesminda. Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been … thrown at him.

Even Lucien, who had loved and lost his previous lover acknowledges the fact that it is something that both of them didn't want. Their bond essentially stripped both of them of their free will. They hadn't chosen each other, they were just put together in a fickle decision of The Cauldron. His previous love story signalizes that Lucien also wants to be chosen, wants to be loved by someone who decided that he is the man that the other person wants to love and spend their life with him.

“I am Lucien. Seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.” And a whole lot of nothing.

Lucien has also his own issues - family feud, the fact that his friend betrayed him and in the end, it was him who did the same. He has troubles on his mind that are concerning. He's self-conscious in front of Elain because as Lucien is a reminder of her trauma - she is a reminder of his biggest mistake and another painful ending on his part. She's a living proof of his betrayal, how he went against his common sense and stabbed his friend, Feyre, in the back by bringing her sister into the scene.

The words were a rasp as he instead said, “I know. I’m sorry.” She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride. A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.

He is aware of the fact that Elain doesn't feel anything for him, that she was promised to another and she had planned her life with that person. Just like him in the past - it was his choice to love, want, and need Jesminda. As he's trying to keep his composure the feelings of the bond swirl around, yet Lucien still understands that both of them ended up with something they didn't want.

“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.”

Even though they were "blessed" with this bond, the thread of it is weak and very unlike the other ones in SJM universe. As if it wasn't working properly - they both do not complete each other. Few pages before Elain says that she can hear Feyre's and Nesta's heartbeat and yet her mate can't hear hers? How is that possible? Also Lucien doesn't understand Elain - he sees her as someone who is devastated by her ruined human life, which is true, but right we as readers know by now that Elain was suffering because nobody seemed to realize what was wrong with her. Their first meeting doesn't spark hope for their future. It only showcases how wrong they both are for each other, two wounds plastered against each other.

BEING UNCOMFORTABLE AROUND EACH OTHER: Sadly both Elain and Lucien are pushed together by Feyre and her little meddling - which isn't something that they both want to undergo.

It was the most uncomfortable thirty minutes I could recall. (...) Pretending, while Lucien and Elain sat in stilted silence by the dim fireplace, an untouched tea service between them.

Even Feyre admits that a previously arranged get-together was a mistake. Because Lucien and Elain are wary of their presence around each other, they constantly remind each other's traumas and painful memories. Elain can barely stand his presence and Lucien is aware of that fact - the only thing that keeps him trying to break that barrier is their bond.

She rose to her feet, and Lucien shot to his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “What—what was that?” Mor put a hand on my knee to keep me from rising, too. “It—it was a tug. On the bond.”

Even their mating bond isn't a thing of comfort. They can't navigate through it, both of them uncomfortable because of their proximity. Lucien feels as if he has to repay his debt towards Elain, however, neither of them wants to close the distance. Their wounds are still fresh, both of them not entirely healed. They are constantly rubbing their hurt on each other, meeting after meeting.

“Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.” Elain sidled toward Nesta, who seemed to be at a near-simmer. “It felt … strange,” Elain breathed. “Like you pulled on a thread tied to a rib.” Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry“.

He feels guilty all the time he's around her. He can't navigate through the mating bond as it doesn't work properly. It's uncomfortable, hurtful, and tense. Just like the relationship between them, it is not a good thing. They are basically strangers thrown at each other after seeing the other person at their lowest. It's not a coincidence that the bond between them is a mirror to their rough, strained relation.

Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?”

Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.

Even with the bond, Lucien can't understand what Elain needs. They are basically strangers, yet the bond doesn't do anything to him in regards to helping her. They are constantly uncomfortable around each other, they try to avoid each other throughout the series because of the fact that they both don't want to be in this forced relationship. Lucien feels obliged to keep persuading her due to the bond, whereas Elain wants nothing to do with the said bond. They are in a maze of constant avoidance and unbearable proximity, which is very soundly described in the text and I would like to present some very important passages:

He hadn’t mentioned Elain, or his proximity to her. Elain had not asked him to stay or to go. And whether she cared about the bruises on his face, she certainly hadn’t let on.

Elain, at least, would be too polite to send Lucien away when he wanted to help. She was too polite to send him away on a normal day. She just ignored him or barely spoke to him until he got the hint and left. As far as I knew, he hadn’t come within touching distance since the aftermath of that final battle.

No, as Elain took a step back, hand falling away from the doorknob, she revealed Lucien smiling tightly at us both. “Happy Solstice,” was all he said.

A sidelong glance toward Elain, swift and fleeting. “Both of you.” Elain said nothing, but at least she bowed her head in thanks.

“You’re welcome to stay for the night,” I said, since Elain certainly wasn’t going to. Lucien lowered his hands into his lap and leaned back in the armchair. “Thank you, but I have other plans.” I prayed he didn’t catch the slightly relieved glimmer on Elain’s face.

My sister rose to her feet. “I should get refreshments.” Lucien rose as well. “No need to trouble yourself. I’m—” But she was already out of the room.

I would love to bring attention to the fact that Lucien understands and realizes that their relationships will never work. He acknowledges it in the text, with his own words!

"Give her time to accept it.” “To accept a life shackled to me?”

“Spend time with her.” “I don’t think she’ll tolerate two minutes alone with me, so forget about two weeks.” His jaw worked as he studied the fire.

He shook off my grip and headed for the door. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes."

ELAIN'S AGENCY: Throughout ACOWAR, ACOFAS and ACOSF Elain tries to get away from the bond and in conclusion also from Lucien himself. She doesn't acknowledge their bond and time after time she runs away from the fact that they are bound to each other. The thing is, Elain, probably doesn't know how to break their bond - we as readers are reminded in Azriel's POV how important their mating bond is for the Night Court, which makes her a sort of political pawn. It is yet another thing that is taken away from her, which to be honest is a kind of a hypocritical thing coming from Rhys and Feyre. We know that Elain is timid, however after slowly recovering from her trauma she started to voice out her discomfort connected to Lucien and their forced relationship.

I knew I wasn’t truly angry with her, not angry with anyone but myself, but I said, “You couldn’t say a single word to him? A pleasant greeting?” Elain only stared at the steaming kettle as she set it on the stone counter. “He brought you a present.” Those doe-brown eyes turned toward me. Sharper than I’d ever seen them. “And that entitles him to my time, my affections?”

Lucien still makes her uncomfortable, he is a constant reminder of her trauma and lost life. Another thing is that Lucien doesn't even know her, doesn't see her which is something that is very important to her. Everything he does is based on the fact that he is connected to her via mating bond, not by his own free choice. Which, again, is presented to us in her own words in the text:

“No.” I blinked. “But he is a good male.” Despite our harsh words. Despite this Band of Exiles bullshit. “He cares for you.” “He doesn’t know me.” “You don’t give him the chance to even try to do so.” Her mouth tightened, the only sign of anger in her graceful countenance. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want a male.”

It doesn't help that the one who pushes her forward into this spiral of unbearable proximity with someone she hadn't chosen and don't want to be around, is her own sister. Yet, she stands her ground and sets boundaries. She is her own person and she wants to get to chose. ELAIN AROUND LUCIEN:

I handed Elain the small box with her name on it. Her smile faded as she opened it. “Enchanted gloves,” she read from the card. “That won’t tear or become too sweaty while gardening.” She set aside the box without looking at it for longer than a moment.

I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said.

I said to Lucien when we’d settled in the armchairs before the fire, Elain perched silently on the couch nearby.

I found my sister in the kitchen, watching the kettle scream. “He’s not staying for tea,” I said.

I said to Lucien when we’d settled in the armchairs before the fire, Elain perched silently on the couch nearby.

Elain had picked up the teacup, and now sipped from it without so much as looking toward him.

Elain only stared at him for a long moment. And any lucidity faded away as she shook her head, blinking twice (...).

He glanced at Elain, who was again studying her lap.

Elain now watched Lucien warily. Blinking every now and then.

He only glanced at Elain, whose face was again a calm void while she traced a finger over the embroidery on the couch cushions.

Their gazes locked and held. But Elain said nothing. Did not so much as take one step downward.

Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get.

Elain only shrank further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be seen.

As you can see Elain feels: - uncomfortable - on edge - withdrawn - wary - closed off - silenced (she always loses the will to speak around Lucien, going deeper inside of her) - melancholic (she watches as kettle boil without flinching as if she wandered in the maze of her mind). Elain loses her comfort and courage around Lucien, which is problematic and utterly sad to witness. He is a constant reminder for her of violation against her own free will, but also a living proof of her own trauma. LUCIEN AROUND ELAIN:

Lucien surveyed it all with cool indifference. What he felt about Elain, what he planned to do … I didn’t want to ask.

“I would never hurt her.” A bleak sort of honesty in his words.

He tried to sound casual—comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet.

He didn’t expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he’d rise from this chair and leave.

Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He’d said the same to Jesminda once.

He wished she’d shoved him out the window behind her.

He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth.

“I think she went through something terrible,” Lucien countered carefully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to have your best healer do a thorough examination.”

Lucien looked to her, then over to me. A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Nothing,” he said, and again faced his mate. “I’m sorry—if that unsettled you.”

Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry.”

Lucien murmured to me, eye still fixed on Elain, “Should we—does she need …?”

Lucien silently slid into one of the chairs, before the window, that metal eye whirring as it roved over my sister.

Lucien just stared and stared at my sister, as if he’d never seen her before.

Lucien inclined his head in a bow, the movement hiding the gleam in his eye —the longing and sadness.

“I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two words dripped with discomfort.

Lucien feels: - uncomfortable - guilty - uneasy - confused (especially in the moments where Elain is having visions and he doesn't understand what's happening with her) - apologetic (he is constantly saying sorry to her) - tense

The guilt eats him every time he is around Elain, he is constantly apologizing while battling his inner problems such as remembering his true love. He was stripped off of his choice and even if the mating bond is there, he isn't happy. He is in constant pain just like Elain because both of them are each other wounds, each other reminder of trauma. They can't heal together because they are only happy when they are apart - Elain blooms in the Night Court, as we have read in ACOSF she is coming up with terms of Fae life and her own powers, adjusting her life to the notion of immortality. She is content and courageous and yet everything vanishes when Lucien is around. The same thing goes for Lucien. Lucien was struggling with her around him - he didn't know her, he didn't know what was happening to her as well. They were both strangers thrown at each other without their own say in this whole situation. Not to mention that their meetings were always arranged and supervised by others. When he sets on the journey to find Vassa he finds freedom and belonging - which was something he was battling in ACOWAR, after betraying his friends and his court, after being at odds in Night Court, and after being uncomfortable around his mate. He didn't have that sense of belonging in any of those things.

Elain and Lucien aren't compatible nor perfect for each other. They are constant reminders of traumas they experienced. They will never work out because they make each other miserable while being together, and they feel free and content apart. Their happiness lies with free choice, free will both of them were looking for in their lives. They are bound together against their own, and the only key for them being happy in this farce is setting themselves free. A choice of freedom. I strongly believe that after their rejection of the bond both of them could, perhaps, form a friendship. It would have been some sort of catharsis - to dwell upon the fact that they overcame that obstacle. That they chose to be happy apart, and not be shackled by this miserable bond.

#anti elucien #pro elain #pro elain archeron #elain archeron #acotar #i mean technically this is pro elriel #elriel #anti forced bond #elain and lucien as friends #not mates #also pls be civil in the comments

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hypnomicimagines · 4 years ago

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Fateful Meeting [Ninja!Harai Kuko/Reader]

The young ninja’s eyes were sharp, intense, so much so it felt like you were looking into the sun.

You looked down and away from his glare as you continued to tend to his wounds, ignoring the way he shifted uncomfortably, like he didn’t want you touching him at all. But he was the one who had stumbled upon your home a complete bloody mess, barely conscious as he looked up at you with pleading eyes, a moment of weakness when he thought he was on death’s door. Now that you had given him water and stopped his wound from bleeding his normal temperament had come back, and something told you he wasn’t the most pleasant dinner guest to have.

You had just finished bandaging him up when he abruptly stood, grabbing your wrist to stop you from reaching out to touch him again. You shared a look, wondering if he was the type of ninja to have taken a vow of silence before he opened his mouth for the first time.

“What do you want?” His tone is harsh but you think it’s likely just the way he sounds, if his looks are anything to go by. “You wasted your healing supplies on me, so what is it you want in return?”

“I don’t expect you to repay my kindness. Kindness isn’t kindness if it’s done expecting gratitude. Although I do suggest you spend some more time here recovering before you go anywhere…” Kuko’s eyes widened ever so slightly at your words but he doesn’t allow you to fully see his surprise, his neutral expression returning just as quickly as it had left. He adjusted the mask on his face as he stepped towards the door, ignoring your pleas for him to sit and rest a while longer.

“I always repay my debts.”

“Wait! Can’t you tell me your name at least? Or is that part of the whole secretive ninja clan thing you clearly have going on?” He hesitated for a second at your request, so simple to you yet to him… it was a show of trust. To willingly give your name to a stranger could mean terrible things for someone whose job was to blend in with the night; it would be better if you could forget he was ever even there which is why he becomes even more surprised when he spoke.

“Harai Kuko. Don’t forget it!” There’s a little more emotion in his introduction, a little less cold and far more personality shining through (which reaffirmed your assumption he was not the type of guest to bring home to your parents). But you found yourself charmed by him all the same, gentle smile on your face as you waved goodbye, his name just a whisper on the wind with how quickly he was gone.

You’re in awe at how such a bright shock of red hair managed to fade perfectly into the darkness but he’s gone from your view within seconds, leaving you reeling at the experience, wondering if it had only been a dream. The bloodied bed where he laid as you tended to him told otherwise but you tried not to think too deeply on it, grabbing the sheets to toss into your laundry pile to clean later. You cleaned up the scraps of your bandages and tidied your home like no one had been there, knowing that you had to sleep soon as you couldn’t burn the candle at both ends. You had to be up early for your patients the next morning as well since the work never seemed to end in the midst of the war.

As you’re finishing up there’s several aggressive knocks at your door, your body suddenly tensed as something feels off. Ever since your late-night visitor had left you felt an odd sensation in your chest, this anxiety unwavering in the heavy night air as you wondered how things could possibly get more interesting. When you’re greeted with the sight of two heavy-set men your anxiety finds itself skyrocketing, finding yourself backed into the corner of your own home as they make themselves comfortable.

“Excuse us for intruding. We just happened to see a trail of blood leading here… Are you alright?” His tone indicated he was not at all concerned about your well-being so you didn’t reply, instead trying to fix him with a steady stare that said ‘I’ve done nothing wrong’. “Ah, I see, the quiet type. I don’t mind that however… we’re tracking down a certain menace. A man with bright red hair who we heavily injured earlier today.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Are you not the resident healer?”

“I am… but that blood trail could have just as easily been from an injured boar who was fighting for territory in the woods. Assuming it was human is a leap.”

“Might I ask why you’re still awake?”

“Some nights my mind keeps me awake with all sorts of thoughts, like whether or not I have to go into town to get more herbs and the like. You’re awfully inquisitive, are you perhaps looking to become a healer rather than being a person who supplies me patients?”

Your temper started to flare up despite you trying to carefully navigate the conversation, wanting these people who clearly came here to threaten you out of your home. You’d dealt with their type before, absolute savages, and you don’t appreciate their intrusion. You’re fonder of the random man who was bleeding out on your doorstep than these people who hurt just because they could, who bullied because they knew people were too afraid to stand up to them. Your irritation doesn’t go unnoticed but is returned with a heavy silence and glares, the two men who had forced their way in their home looming over you menacingly.

Perhaps you should’ve just gone straight to bed.

Kuko hadn’t made it far.

As headstrong as he was even he couldn’t deny the pain his body was in, his wounds aching as they hadn’t closed properly. He was normally far more respectful of the healers back at the temple but he was in a hurry, needing to report back to his father his findings immediately. He didn’t want to bring those hunting him to you either, it would be bad news as they seemed to have no issue slaughtering innocents left and right. He felt like there was a boulder in his gut that was slowing his movements, his body not able to move as nimbly until he’s finally forced to stop. He doesn’t know how far he’s gotten nor how much time has passed but he’s bleeding again.

It’s either turn back towards your hut or continue forward in hopes of finding another healer.

Something else is pulling him back towards you, like you’d attached strings to his body and were pulling at him to come back behind the curtain. Kuko bit his tongue hard to keep himself conscious, leaning against a tree, taking a deep breath, and then starting the journey back to your home. He’d have to prepare a proper apology for impeding on you so late at night but the sudden sense of urgency that rushed through his body stopped his needless worrying, walking forward with a huff.

He didn’t know why but he had to get back to you.

Now.

Your head is pounding as you lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, hands raising to cover your head to prevent further damage to your skull. You’d be in more pain if you were fully conscious but you’re only partially aware of what’s happening to you, your house in shambles around you. The place had been torn apart, the bloody bandages from earlier thrown across the room as they had been found during a ‘mandatory search’. The table you had been sitting at was flipped over and jars of needed herbs were tossed on the floor, even worse, now your own blood was staining the floor.

You’re fighting to stay awake, eyes scanning the floor for anything to defend yourself with but it was a fruitless endeavor. Your hands were meant to heal not harm, you weren’t suited for anything like this, and your assailants were clearly far more skilled than the average soldier. You wished you could say you put up a better fight than the pathetic mess that actually happened but there wasn’t time for self-pity.

“Hey you bastards! Didn’t hurt your pride enough after round one?”

Ninja’s are supposed to be quiet, stealthy, but Kuko had burst onto the scene like some sort of hero in a play. You’re wide-eyed as you spot the shock of red hair but your vision is so blurry and your brain so scrambled you’re worried you’re just hallucinating him. Your eyes met his for a second, your pleading reaching Kuko’s heart immediately; if he hadn’t been so carefully trained his entire life, he thinks his anger might’ve exploded in that moment, causing him to do something he’d regret. To see someone who had treated him with kindness, without asking any extra questions about who he was, someone who was likely innocent and had no means of defending themselves…

It pissed him off.

You hear the sound of skin on skin, some cackling that you’re sure is your ninja savior despite how high-pitched and wicked it sounded, and what you hope isn’t your house getting torn into even more pieces. Your face was buried in your arms as you were growing more exhausted, knowing the moon must be high in the sky at this point. You should’ve been in bed hours ago. Who would help your patients tomorrow when you could hardly help yourself? You weakly managed to bring your head up to survey the room around you but it’s suddenly silent, not a soul in sight until Kuko re-enters your home from the front door.

“Should I ask where you took them or just rely on blind faith?”

“You don’t have to blindly trust me but those assholes got what they deserved,” Kuko scoffed as he walked over to you, lifting you effortlessly so he could bring you over to your little bed (which had stayed clear of any debris). “Shit, I’m tired.”

Your eyes widened as Kuko lowered the mask so he could breathe a little easier, his face so smooth except for a scar on the underside of his chin. You can see a few more scars peeking out from the tears in his clothes but you don’t allow your mind to wander. Kuko is currently questioning why he just revealed his face in front of a civilian without thinking twice about the consequences, knowing this was yet another rule he had broken. There was a strict code all ninja were expected to follow and he’d already broken at least two rules, even more because he actually found himself liking you. He would be lucky if he got out of this unscathed by his father, not that he gave a damn what that shitty old man had to say to him, but he’d rather make his life easier.

“You’re bleeding… your wound from before reopened, didn’t it? I need to help you…”

Kuko shied away from your touch but you can see he’s actively fighting his body’s natural response to protect himself, freezing in place to allow you to place a hand on his shoulder. You kept your movements deliberately slow to prove you meant no harm, not like you could even consider raising a hand to him after he had saved you from who knows what kind of fate. He had half a mind to argue with you about trying to help him when you were injured yourself but he was too tired to even argue, his dad would’ve laughed if he heard that one.

“We should sleep…” After you had replaced his bandages with clean one you sent an exasperated look to your home, disliking the fact it was so messy despite none of it being your fault.

“We can just clean tomorrow.” Kuko flopped himself unceremoniously onto the floor beside your bed, hands behind his head like a pillow with his legs crossed; he winced a bit at the impact but otherwise gave no indication he was uncomfortable. You’re about to question his decision to sleep directly beside you but there really didn’t seem to be enough room in your home with a table flipped over in the middle of it, so it was easier to just settle yourself in beside him and hope he wasn’t secretly some pervert.

Wait, did he say we?

“So, you’re going to stay this time?” You turned on your side to look at him, “I could use some extra help in the woods tomorrow… It shouldn’t be too rough a walk with your injuries… but I guess it’s selfish of me to ask a stranger to just help me out with my own chores…”

“Hmph. I guess I can help.” Kuko’s eyes are closed yet he’s unable to sleep, peaking one open when he hears you shuffling around next to him in an attempt to get comfortable. Even with a bruise forming on your temple you’re as stunning as ever, the young ninja biting his lip as he wondered how much of this was a sense of duty and how much was just him indulging his personal desires.

“Thank you…” You finally whispered out as sleep overcame you.

Kuko is left speechless, cheeks warm as he tries to settle his rapidly beating heart.

#Harai Kuko #Kuko Harai #Hypnosis Mic #Hypnosis Microphone #Hypnomic #Hypnosis Mic Imagines #Hypnosis Microphone Imagines #Hypnosis Mic x Reader #Hypnosis Microphone x Reader #Harai Kuko x Reader #Hypnosis Mic Scenario #Scenario #AU

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9layerdevilfoodcake · 4 years ago

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Some Of A Kind

Chapter 1: Virgin in the Chapel

(Michael Langdon x reader)

Summary: When you accompany your friend to a black mass at the Church of Satan. You pick the wrong time and place to let him in on the fact that you’re a virgin, garnering the attention of the ‘chosen one’ himself.

Warnings: murder, mentions of drug use, poorly represented Satanism

Word count: 3,666 (that’s right)

It was a typical Wednesday night when you got a text from your friend Tyler.

‘So what do you say? Is tonight the night?’

He had been bugging you for weeks to come see a sacrifice at the satanic church. And since the first time he asked, the conversation always went the same way.

“I’m telling you, just one slice and then you can have whatever you want”

“You mean I can have powers beyond compare?”

“Yes” he answered back, in a hopeful tone. Clearly he hadn’t picked up on the sarcasm in your voice.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the excitement in his voice.

“I’m sorry, you do whatever you want over there with your edgelords but I’m perfectly happy in my boring powerless existence”

“First of all we aren’t edgelords, we're satanists. We just see the world for what it is. A dreadful place full of selfish people.”

“Well I can’t say I argue with that”

“Exactly, so give in to being selfish, and start doing what you want. You work so hard, and for what a one bedroom apartment you can barely afford and bags under your eyes that are only getting bigger by the day?”

“Hey” you interrupt, slightly offended. Which only earns a laugh on his end.

“I’m just saying, you put in so much effort for no pay off, when you could do this one thing and have everything you deserve”

“What a cable package and a ‘skip the line’ pass at Disneyland?”

“I also get unlimited snacks!”

“Oh sorry how could I forget, well if one soul is all it takes to get a free waffle cone then what are we still doing here?!” You ask back, your tone full of mockery.

“Have you ever wondered why I can snort as much coke as I want and have never OD’d? Or why every girl I bring home is a certified 10?”

Actually you had, the two of you had met the year prior in a religious studies class when you were partnered to write a paper on whether morality was dependent on a god. He could barely get through a sentence without tripping over his words or looking away in embarrassment. It was sweet really, and by the end of the class you two had basically become best friends.

But about 2 months ago things started to change. There was almost always a girl leaving his house when you would come over.

You swore at least two of them you recognized from Victoria Secret runways.

One night you even saw a man leaving whose resemblance to Ryan Reynolds was suspiciously uncanny.

He got a new car without any explanation as to where he got the money, and he had so much coke in his living room you assumed he started dealing, before he told you it was just his stash for the weekend.

At first he was vague about everything, but eventually he told you the truth, or at least what you assumed was a version of it.

For his final project he wrote a research paper on the church of Satan.

You went with him to a couple of services when he was writing it, him being too nervous to go alone.

You both thought they seemed a little kooky, but relatively harmless.

Yet what you didn’t know was that he kept going back after the class ended and had gotten himself sworn in, and eventually given the honor of participating in a black mass.

Where he had sacrificed a school teacher in order to get these new “gifts”.

Now you weren’t naive enough to think he actually killed someone!

You were sure his new lifestyle was a part of some religious Ponzi scheme, and one day the debt collector would come calling.

You’ve watched enough documentaries to know better than to get involved with this.

But he is still your friend so you take it upon yourself to be supportive and let him have his moment, while simultaneously letting him know you’ll be here for him if the day comes that he gets excommunicated.

“I love you and I am so happy for all you’ve gotten, especially when you share it with me, but I’m good, really. I’ll let you know if I ever change my mind”

That dropped the subject for a while.

That is until a few days ago when you lost your job.

Well actually when your job was stolen from underneath you by your boss's son.

All it took was one night of bitching to your best friend for the talks of satanism to start up again.

So here you were bored on a Wednesday night actually considering his offer to watch a black mass.

‘Well…’

He texted back after a few minutes of no response on your part

‘Fine’

It’s not like he’s ever going to let up, you might as well go see what all the hubbub was about.

After he picked you up, you made your way to the church.

More precisely the back alley with a hidden door. Not at all unsettling.

And the rain pelting down on the robe he gave you just adds a nice ominese touch to what you're sure is going to be a long night.

Now inside you sit in a pew in the back. While the choir above you sings as the others file in.

They actually sound pretty good if you’re being honest. Maybe on your way out you’ll pick up the album you saw for sale in the lobby (for $6.66 no less).

You haven’t been sitting more than 10 minutes before the mass begins.

And in that time Tyler roughly explained what you were about to see.

You weren’t paying too much attention though. More enamored with the atmosphere.

It was a sea of red cloaks and black pentagrams. And the thunder outside appeared to clap along in sync with the crescendo or the choir.

This place seems vastly different from the shabby collection of misfits you encountered when you visited the first time. Who spent most of the service complaining and handed you a stale donut on your way out the door.

“...Y/n are your listening?!”

“Hmm Yea”

“Really?”

“Yea the guy’s gonna sacrifice some ‘innocent soul’ say a few hail satans and voilà he gets his hair back and starts getting laid again” you answer back, waving him off. You’re more interested in watching two Satanists in the front of the room give each other the “sign of the cross” gesture in reverse order.

“This is serious, the things you see might shock you but you can not react! If they think you’re some sort of threat to our secrets or even just afraid of them, it won’t end well. I’m kind of taking a risk by bringing you here”

That brings your attention back to your friend.

“So you hound me for weeks to come with you, but I’m not even allowed to be here?” You ask back, starting to wonder why you actually said yes to this.

“Well yea, I just really want you to see what I’ve seen, I want what’s best for you”

That was actually really sweet of him.

Now you felt a little bad for making fun of this so much.

That is until you see a man in the next row pull out a flask with “unholy water” written on it and rub it on his chest like Vick’s.

But before you get the chance to ask Tyler where he keeps his flask(which you're certain he has). The choir stops singing and the Priestess has the room's attention.

Everything goes as Tyler explains at first.

The “sacrifices” are brought in in their underwear. (They couldn’t even keep their clothes on, what does the devil give them a level up if the victims are humiliated before they die?) and tonight's chosen one, Phil, is about to take his position, before you hear a voice behind you.

“Wait!”

You turn your head to see an older woman rushing in, but it’s not her that steals your focus it’s who walks in behind her.

He is quite possibly the most attractive person you have ever seen. With cheekbones that could slice butter and soft blonde hair falling around icy blue eyes.

She says his name is Michael and this honor belongs to him.

You look over to Tyler to see what’s going on. He didn’t explain what part of the performance this was, was this some sort of second act surprise?

You were expecting this night to follow like a church service, watching Phil take his vows and minimal audience participation. Now you wonder if this is all rehearsed, or if the Satanist’s are partial to improv?

But Tyler pays you no mind, he can’t take his eyes off the blonde either.

It’s not until the Priestess mentions the “mark of the beast” and that he is the chosen one, that you get why Tyler is looking at him like he’s some sort of god.

Because to him he is, this guy is supposed to be the Antichrist.

Tyler says nothing only glances in your direction when he sees you’re the only one still standing, before he pulls you down to your knee like everyone else.

The rest of the performance is really top notch.

The flickering of the lights was a nice touch, but you can’t help but feel a little uneasy wondering how they keep getting the thunder to time up with everything they do.

Plus the bodies of the sacrifices fell to the ground almost too well.

How did they manage to get their bodies to look that lifeless, and why did those cuts look so deep?

But you try not to focus too much on it as you walk to the ceremonial Wednesday night potluck.

After the Antichrist has dismissed his followers from fawning all over him, you sit with Tyler at the end of the table and dig into your lasagna.

“So does the antichrist part happen at every sacrifice or is this one special? Is it some Satanic holiday I wasn’t aware of?” You ask, breaking Tyler out of whatever trance he appears to be stuck in.

“What?”

“I gotta say the dramatics were very entertaining, but if you really wanted to get me here all you had to do was tell me the guy who plays the Antichrist is really hot” you snicker under your breath.

“Play? Y/n your don’t understand he IS the Antichrist” he explains in a hushed voice before continuing

“That doesn’t happen every time, he really has come. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for! Don’t you see?! I think it was fate you came here on this night!”

“Ha, why do you need a virgin to sacrifice or something?” You laugh and take another bite before you look over and see Tyler staring at you with wide eyes.

“What?”

“You’re not serious are you?”

“Well yea, what’s the big deal, I didn’t realize you were so caught up on a social construct”

“I’m not, but you can’t say things like that around here” he looks around the room nervously and you follow his path of vision until your eyes land on Michael, who’s own gaze is locked on you.

There’s no way he heard you, you were across the room and you were whispering.

Still he continues to stare with eyes that speak only of intensity. No smile, no nod, no hint emotion whatsoever.

It’s only after you raise your brows and mouth a “What?” That he looks back down at his plate with a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Oh Satan, I think he heard you. You should go” Tyler’s tone becoming more erratic by the second.

“What?” You’re sure he's joking, but when he looks at you there is nothing but worry in his eyes.

Now you’re starting to get nervous, this is too far.

He actually thinks these people are going to do something?

He’s practically shaking with fear, and because of the man in the turtleneck? Who barely knows how to hold a spoon?

Okay you’ll play along for tonight, but tomorrow you are having a serious talk, he might need professional help.

“Alright let's go then” you huff out as you start to grab your belongings.

“I can’t just leave, especially since our savior is here, but I’ll make sure everything is good and you’re not followed or anything”

“Okay, is there some sort of satanic shuttle bus that can take me home? Or should I call an Uber? Does this place have an address or should I just send them an inverted cross?”

Still unamused by your inability to grasp the gravity of the situation, he just shakes his head and hands you his keys.

“Here just take my car, I’ll get a ride later, in fact stay at my house incase you’re followed”

He’s basically pushing you out of your seat and nodding to the door.

“Okay...bye I guess”

And with that you take off down the hall.

You know you’re supposed to go straight to the car. You’ve never seen Tyler look so serious in his life.

But when you walk past the chapel you can’t help but stop. You can still see the bodies up at the altar.

Why are they still there? Was there a trap door you missed and these were just doubles?

Or were these people so committed to the role and as crazy as your friend that they had to stay in the character of “dead sacrifice” all night?

Curiosity got the better of you, the car could wait, you had to see for yourself.

Closer inspection did nothing to stifle your suspicions.

It looked so real.

They weren’t breathing, so there was no way they were still the two actors, but you had never seen fake bodies look so real.

You're reminded of an anatomy class you took last semester.

Those cadavers looked suspiciously close to these.

Just colder and with less life left in their faces.

And there was so much blood, the iron was thick in the air.

But that couldn’t be true. Your friend wouldn’t kill someone would he?

He didn’t actually think they would kill you?

If you got a closer look, if you just swiped some of the “blood” with your pointer finger it would surely taste like corn syrup and not like…

“Are you afraid?”

You whip your head around, blood still staining your finger and beginning to drip onto the linoleum. To see Michael walking in the same way he had an hour earlier. Only this time without the cloak, but with some newly added confidence.

“They’re really dead aren’t they?” You know it’s true, but you still wait for his confirmation.

“Yes, that tends to happen when you slice someone’s throat” He acts as if this shouldn’t be a shock to you. It didn’t shock any of the other members of the congregation. Yet you know without him saying it, that he’s well aware you’re not like the others. That you don’t belong here.

“So you really sacrifice people, just to get stuff” you blurt out. Still trying to wrap your head around the fact that everything you witnessed tonight was real. Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken that last crescent roll you’d seen another satanist eyeing at dinner, you definitely have a curse coming your way. That is if you live through the night.

“Well not me” Michael says, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to the present.

“Oh of course, you’re the one they do it for”

“Well my father more specifically”

“Does that upset you?” You know you should be more careful about how you proceed with this conversation, but the words leave your mouth before your mind can stop them.

The question seems to catch him by surprise as he ruffles his brow, you’re not sure if it’s in anger or just shock at your brazenness. But he doesn’t answer. Just goes on to question you.

“Have you ever witnessed a murder before?”

“No”

“How did you feel watching it before your eyes?”

“Well I didn’t feel much, considering I thought it was all fake” That earns you a smile from him.

“And how do you feel now?”

“Curious”

“Really? Not scared?”

“No. Why should I be?” You’re really digging your own grave here. But your mouth seems to have a mind of its own.

“It seems your friend would say otherwise”

“Ah so you did hear.” You say, seeing his smile grow wider. “These aren't the days of the Old Testament, virginity doesn’t equally purity. Just ask sacrifice number one over there, with a body like that I doubt she was a virgin” you laugh, partially at your joke and partially out of sheer uncomfortableness. Michael doesn’t even spare the bodies a glance, eyes latched onto you, you go on to add

“I’m no saint. Despite my sexual history, or lack thereof”

“No, I’m sure you’re not” he emphasizes by swiping some of the liquid from your finger with his own, before taking it into his mouth. Making a show of it by closing his eyes as he releases it from his lips, slow as molasses. Smiling when he opens his eyes and sees you’re practically drooling.

Before his little show can go any further, you continue with your own questions.

“Have you killed people before?”

“Yes”

“How many?”

“You don’t have the time”

He’s looking at you waiting for your response. Waiting for the shock to subside and the shrieks of terror to take over.

Instead you just pause thinking everything over.

You should be scared, you know you should.

In one night you have watched two people die, found out your friend is a murderer, and that the Antichrist is not only NOT a myth, but is standing in front of you, conversing with you like he’s nothing more than your new neighbor.

Yet you search and search in your mind for any hint of fear and come up empty. All you feel is curiosity. You must be losing it too, you feel bad for judging Tyler so harshly. Maybe it’s his youthful face and the little outburst in the dining hall earlier, but Michael seems like more than simply the ‘incarnation of evil’. He seems so...human.

And more than anything he just seems confused and dare you say, lost.

“Do you like killing people? Or do you do it because it’s expected?”

“It depends”

“Would you like to kill me?”

Now it’s his turn to take pause, looking like he’s trying to decide if he’s “in the mood” to take your life.

“Not right now”

You can’t help but laugh at that (yea you’re definitely in shock). Soon enough he joins in too, and the mood feels lighter than it has all night. You might even say you feel comfortable.

That is until the laughter subsides and you meet his eyes. He’s now staring at you with the same intensity you’d met earlier at dinner.

It’s like he’s looking right through you, into your soul. You feel on display and more than anything afraid of what he might find.

“Stop that”

“Stop what?” He says with a playful tone and a tilt of his head.

“You’re..well..I don’t know what you’re doing but I don’t like it. You’re trying to get a read on me or something.”

He just smiles at that, because of course he does.

You know there is no avoiding playing into his hand. He wants to get a rise out of you, in one way or another.

“And what do yo-”

“Y/N!”

At the mention of your name you both turn to see Tyler standing in the doorway.

Antichrist or not, the look Michael gives him is enough to send a wave of fear up your spine.

He appears as though he’s about to snap his neck through just a look(and you're afraid to find out if he could).

Noticing his anger, Tyler stops and bows before Michael, apologizing incessantly for interrupting him.

You don’t miss the twitch of Michael’s lips. He’s clearly loving the effects he has on his followers.

You just roll your eyes at your friend.

“Calm down Tyler, get up”

He just let’s your words pass over him as if you hadn’t even spoken. If he hadn’t been the one to call your name a moment ago, you wouldn’t be sure he even knew you were in the room.

Every sense he had was aimed at Michael, and it was only when his precious dark lord gave him a nod that he got up and looked your way again.

“What are you doing? I thought you were going home?” He says through clenched teeth.

If he weren’t so worried about keeping you alive he would be pissed at you for not listening.

“I was. I am” you reassure him turning to Michael.

“It was a pleasure to meet you Michael, I’ll see myself out”

You are scurrying out of the room, grabbing a frozen Tyler and tugging him along with you, when Michael calls after you.

“No y/n, the pleasure was all mine.”

You’re at the end of the hall, and in the middle of Tyler’s scolding session, when you realize there is still blood on your finger.

It feels like it’s vibrating where Michael touched you, begging you to take notice.

Just wipe it on your jeans, you tell yourself.

Wait until you get to the car and find a napkin.

Do anything rational other than what you're thinking.

As you pass through the exit door, you cave and take a taste of the crimson on your finger.

Although you can’t see him, you know Michael is smiling. You can feel his smugness in the air around you and you're sure he knows what you just did.

This started out just as me wanting to make some jokes about Michael and the Satanists and has somehow turned into a multi-chapter fic. I still don’t really know where it’s going I’m just letting it take on a mind of it’s own. If it looks familiar it’s cuz it’s been on ao3 for a little bit now, so sorry it’s not a “new” new story! If you liked it that makes me very happy, and if not I hope it was at least entertaining! Either way thank you for reading!

(I wasn’t sure who wanted to be tagged just in my Xavier fic and who did in general so I didn’t add a tag list to this one)

#Michael langdon x reader #Michael langdon #ahs apocalypse #far too much sarcasm

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lihikainanea · 4 years ago

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God Lei I had such a day😭🥺😰do you have any thoughts on how Bill would comfort Tiger if she had a situation at work that was like 99.99999% her fault(or at least she feels that way)that there’s not really any way to fix, it’s just one of those things that has to be and has to pass when it occurs?

Ohhhh man kid, I been there. I been there so many times.

Look, the thing with Bill--at least in my world--is that Bill has a real thick skin. You don't survive in Hollywood unless you're at least partially immune to criticisms of any kind, and while he's still human--there's a big part of him that doesn't really care what other people think.

What's that old adage about lions and the opinions of sheep? Yeah, that. If the people don't matter to him, then neither do their opinions. Sure he has his weak points, his points where the entire world just seems too loud for him and he DOES start to pay attention to the murmurings, but the majority of the time, he just...doesn't care.

Bill realized a long time ago that you can either care what everybody thinks or you can have a career in Hollywood--but you can't do both.

And I think tiger really admires that side of Bill, admires the way he can just flick that off switch an not care. Not about the people who don't matter, anyway. But tiger? for all her fiery exterior, tiger cares a little too much.

And listen, as much as I like my fairy tale paradises much as I want to turn this into maybe something happened that wasn't her fault-I also want to go the other way. Because sometimes we fuck up in a big way. Sometimes something is all our fault because we didn't think, we didn't do what we were supposed to, we got lazy or knowingly shoved something aside. Sometimes it's honest mistake, sometimes it isn't. And hell I've gotten fired from like 6 jobs in my life--for everything from an attitude problem to a genuine mistake--so I'm kind of partial tot his idea that tiger really did fuck up, because there's a much heavier magnitude to it.

So look, she fucks up. Big time. And she calls Bill at lunch, bawling her eyes out over it. She got in trouble at work, maybe it escalated to the real top dog in charge, and tiger got a heavy reprimanding. And she's embarrassed, she's remorseful, she's so full of shame and bad feelings and she's tormented at what she did. Her job might be on the line. All of which she's attempting to squeak out to him over the phone, but she's wheezing and her sobs are breaking up her sentences and Bill is just trying to get the gist of what happened, tell her to breathe, try to calm her down.

"Tiger, do you want me to come to you?" he offers. And he offers it more because he knows he'll be a little more successful at calming her down, at thwarting an asthma attack, if she's there in front of him.

"No I, I have to get back," she stammers through tears, "Oh god Bill. Oh god--"

"Tiger, just get through the next few hours okay?" he tries to soothe, "Yes, you fucked up and yes, it's bad. But get through the next few hours and we'll sort this out together."

"How am I supposed to go back in there?" she mutters.

"The same way you always do, full of piss and vinegar and with your head held high. It was a mistake, kid."

"A bad one, Bill I--"

"You're going to get through the afternoon and you're going to come home, I'll pour you a drink, and we'll talk it out for as long as you need," he says, "Just a few more hours, kid."

She nods even though he can't see her.

"Okay," she acquiesces, "A few more hours."

And listen, when she gets home, Bill is ready. He pours her a real strong drink, and pulls her in for a long hug. He helps her out of her work clothes, sits her up on the counter while he takes her make up off for her, and then he plunks her on the couch with her feet in his lap--and he listens. He just listens. It's clear that she wants to talk, and that's how tiger figures things out sometimes--or at least, how she gets over them. She talks them through, sometimes in circles, re-living every small detail but Bill just listens. He asks questions when he can, but otherwise he just lets her rant and lets her cry.It's going to be a long night, because tiger processes things by just going over them time and time again. She's not hungry, and while he will insist she eat a little something later on, right now she just needs to calm down a bit. And once her cheeks are mostly dry, once she's just more tired than anything else, that's when he helps her to the second part.

Tiger is anal retentive to an insane degree. She needs a plan, not advice. She needs to identify every possible scenario and work through it. So he gets his laptop and sets back on the couch.

"Alright, what's scenario A?" he asks. Tiger takes in a deep, shaky breath and knocks the rest of her whiskey back--he leans over and refills her glass.

"Scenario A," she says, "Is that I get fired."

His fingers tap that out.

"And what's the plan for that?"

"The plan is I go massively into debt, can't pay my rent, and end up living on the street."

He holds in the sigh and he barely contains his eye roll, and taps it out.

"Solution?" he asks.

"None."

But that, he won't be having that.

"Solution is you have a rich best friend who covers your rent and all expenses while you look for work," he says, and that's what he taps out.

"Bill--"

"What's Scenario B?" he interrupts.

"Scenario B," she sighs, "Is that I get a heavy reprimanding from work, maybe taken off a few projects."

"Okay," he taps, "Solution?"

"Just time," she says, "It's going to suck. I'm going to be embarrassed. But I can't fight it. I just....fucked up."

And it continues like that. Bill just listens very patiently for hours, hell maybe they run through the whole alphabet in scenarios, but he knows it's the only thing that will help her. Just running through every possible outcome, and its solutions. When she's finally basically asleep sitting up, he takes her (fourth) whiskey glass from her and crowds her space, just gets right up in there and puts his knee between her legs, hovers over her as she looks up at him.

"Let me be clear about one thing kid," he says, and it's that no-nonsense tone, "The scenario you can always rely on is me being there. Always, kid. You'll never end up on the street, you'll never be behind in your bills, and you'll never be hungry. I've got you."

And she opens her mouth to protest, but he places a hand over it.

"I've got you," he says again, "Clear? Call it Scenario double A."

She kisses his palm.

"Scenario double-Z?" she offers, "The last resort."

"Whatever you want to call it," he says, "It's there. Always."

#bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard drabble #BFF!Bill

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klugpuuo · 4 years ago

Text

hi so i wrote a lemschez fic like. two months ago and i'm posting it now. warnings for mention of food, way too many innuendos (including some i didnt intentionally make, which prolly means something..), mentions of violence, and near-shirtlessness near the end (which isnt sexual but still)

uh. Enjoy fgnhj

Lemres was shocked, to say the least. This odd, slightly giddy feeling they experienced every four years came in not four, but simply one. They were already beginning to shake as he was walking down the street, even! Alright, Lemres, just a bit further now, they thought to reassure themself. Soon you'll be home, and you'll be able to siphon and battle to your heart's content.

Then there was a problem. More than that, a roadblock.

Schezo stood there, begging random passerby and yelling what just barely wasn't obscenities. “Please! I just need someone to point me in the direction of the desert!" He said desperately, "I have something important I need to do there. I promise it won’t bother any of you!” Just as he was about to begin ranting again, Schezo saw Lemres staring at him with a very strange expression. Lemres waved to him, and he hesitantly waved back. “Hey, Dark Mage~! Need any help?” Lemres called cheerfully. “In fact, I do, Comet mage!” Schezo responded, not surprised at Lemres knowing but rather at Lemres asking. “I need to get to the desert immediately, as there is something I need to do there, but I cannot find my way by myself.” Lemres smiled a strange smile that made Schezo feel a bit concerned. “Alright, I can bring you there.. But for a price.” The comet mage said, their slightly loopy grin widening at the end of his sentence.

Schezo was confused, but nodded slowly to his companion, and then they were off. Before reaching the desert, they ended up getting caught in quite a few Puyo battles. Something the now half-lucid Lemres thought was concerning was that their rush didn't halt even slightly during any of the battles, and something the fully lucid Schezo thought was concerning was the fact that Lemres kept giggling and was doing a fairly bad job at the games they played.

When the two reached the desert, Schezo stole a look at the now very clearly loopy Lemres and felt well and truly concerned. “Are you-“ He began. “Alright?” Lemres answered with a chuckle. “Yes, I’m ju~st fine, no worries~" This did nothing to calm Schezo, especially after he realized how odd Lemres sounded. Just as Schezo opened his mouth to say something, Lemres began to speak. "..However, I still want my payment." They said. “You never told me what it is you wanted!” Schezo exclaimed, worry now partially replaced with indignation. “Yes, yes, that’s true, isn’t it…?” Lemres said, faking being deep in the thoughts they didn’t have. “Well.. how about this - once you’re done with whatever you’re gonna do here, you’ll come to my house and I’ll show you what I wanted, deal?”

Just as Schezo said “Deal”, Lemres nodded and walked off into the desert, leaving Schezo completely alone. “How odd!” Schezo remarked, trying and failing to find his companion in the wastes all around him. “They seem to have completely disappeared. And what exactly was wrong with their attitude? Something entirely strange is afoot here.."

After Schezo was confident that the ritual worked, he checked the time. The sun was setting now, and he knew if he didn’t hurry it would get too cold; the crystals he used in the ritual tended to break when introduced to anything too far below room temperature, but not before turning a deep blue. “I don’t want to have blue balls,” Schezo announced to himself. “So I better head to Lemres’s house before the night comes.”

As Schezo walked to Lemres's house, he was surprised to see there were very few people around, and none offered to battle him. Although he was thankful for this, as he had to bring the crystal balls somewhere warm soon, he was also just as confused. Had a strong enemy beaten them all already?.. It was unlike the people of this world and many others to just.. not offer to battle on sight. He shook his head as he continued on. There were very few people that were strong enough to beat people so hard they'd not battle again. Sure, one of those people had definitely come through here, but..

Schezo, lost in thought and unaware of where he was going, nearly walked straight into Lemres's house before regaining his senses right in front of the door. After more gently shaking his head, the dark mage knocked on the door. He didn't have to wait for too long before Lemres opened the door, bouncing slightly on their toes. "Hey, dark mage." Said Lemres, sounding incredibly hyper. "Hello, comet mage," Replied Schezo, carefully hiding his concern for his friend. "I am here to put my crystal balls somewhere safe, and to repay the supposed debt I owe you." At this, Lemres grinned. "Alrighty, come in before it gets too cold." They said, stepping out of the way to let the concerned mage inside. "Why don't you join me for dinner first? Meat and potatoes, plus pineapple ice-cream for dessert~!"

The dark mage shook his head as he entered the home, crossing his arms. "The most I am right now is thirsty- thirsty for knowledge! What exactly did you want me to do for you, and why were you so intent on avoiding all mention of it?!" Lemres didn't flinch as their friend's voice rose to a yell, knowing that he wasn't angry at all, just overdramatic. "Good things come to those who wait, and both of us have waited quite some time now.." Lemres started, shutting the door behind Schezo. "Alright. Come upstairs with me, and I'll show you want I need from you." Schezo nodded to Lemres before heading upstairs fairly quickly, leaving the comet mage behind for just a few seconds. The comet mage shook themself a bit before heading upstairs to meet with him.

As Schezo entered the bedroom, the first thing he thought was how nice it looked. On a desk were several candles that burned softly with magical fire; there was small bookshelf with many books about herbs, cooking, magic, and assorted battle types lining the shelves and sorted by size and color; and several small model planets floated above it all. It felt like a home. After Lemres entered the room, Schezo snapped out of his trance and suddenly felt very awkward. At this moment he had also realized that this was the first time he had ever been in someone else's bedroom, which caused him to feel even more awkward. "S-so." Schezo started, unable to hide how embarrassed he felt. "What do you want me to do to- for, you?" Lemres chuckled softly. "Just take off your armor and get comfortable." They said, gently leading Schezo to the bed. Schezo, shocked and flustered, stuttered a bit and refused to sit down. Upon noticing this, Lemres attempted to make their expression a bit softer. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you." They said, trying their hardest to calm both themself and Schezo down. "I just need you to take your armor off for a bit. You can keep your sword, if you want." At this, Schezo definitely calmed down. Recalling that Lemres couldn't really see unless they wanted to use a lot of extra energy, he felt slightly more comfortable as he slowly took his armor off until he was only wearing his undershirt and pants. After he finished and sat down on the bed, Lemres followed suit, taking off their clothes until they were only wearing their binder and own slightly longer pants.

Schezo opened his mouth to speak, but Lemres put a hand on his shoulder and he realized that now was simply not the time for words. He laid down on the bed, and Lemres laid down next to him, putting one of their hands on his chest. Well this was... interesting, Schezo thought as he felt the quite literal magic in the air. Understanding flowed through him as the planet models shimmered above the resting couple. So that was why they avoided me, and that was why they were cryptic toward me, and that.. He snapped back to reality as he felt their other hand move onto his shoulder, and against everything he had ever thought before he moved his hand to meet theirs and held it. Even Lemres themself seemed surprised by this reality, but accepted it happily and gratefully.

So Lemres got to siphon their energy out in a safe way, and Schezo experienced something new. And, for now, it seemed like things were alright.

#lemres #schezo #lemschez #homoromanticism #ficlet #shipping #shipping cw #fanfiction #uh #these are really short tagd im not used to this/lh #beeper writes #god this isnt really good huh #uhhh #sfw #bbbbbb #thats it #enjoy/gen

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jaydicksummerexchange · 4 years ago

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JAYDICK EXCHANGE: SEPTEMBER 3

[ ❤ Works posted so far! ❤ ]

SECOND TO LAST DAY OF THE JAYDICK EXCHANGE!

Why the second to last instead of the last? That’s because we’ve reached 114 Exchange works for 2020! The more treats get added, the more we time we add to our juicy cabooses and keep the exchange train rolling. Until Saturday that is. Tomorrow is the final posting date, and we’ll reveal the wonderful participants on September 5 no matter what.

Here are today’s releases!

Claws by anonymous for solomonara [ART, Not Rated, No Archive Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: FanartHurt/Comfort, Injured Jason, Secret Identity, dick's teams don't know the red hood's identity, dick's harem of morally ambiguous older men, dick: he's not older, dick: wait i mean he's not my villain boyfriend, dick: damn it

Summary: Dick takes the Red Hood to a Titan safehouse after an injury. Explanations are expected.

Learning To Love The Fall by anonymous for 3isme [ART, Teen, No Warnings Apply, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Fanart, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Mechanic Jason Todd, Plane Pilot Dick Grayson

Summary: It's the early 1900s and the country of Gotham is recovering from a long war.

Trying to get a better life, Jason Todd has been moonlighting as an underground plane mechanic for illegal aeroplane racers, getting a cut of whatever the pilot wins. After one particular competition, he's accused of sabotage and, despite his protests, forced into deeper debt. At the end of his rope, he runs into Dick Grayson, ex-ace of the Gotham Air Force and supposed dead man. The war hero was supposed to have been shot down near the end of the war. Regardless, this pilot is the best chance Jason has to grab hold of that better life, and he's not going to let it go.

The Still and Quiet Surface by anonymous for TheWayneManner [FIC, General Audiences, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Gift Fic, Ficlet

Summary: Dick leaves the sea behind and never looks back.

Scents & Sensibility by anonymous for Nitrojen [FIC, Explicit, No Warnings, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fae, References to Jane Austen, although the writer has a pretty dark secret concerning our dear friend jane, Getting to Know Each Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Summary: Prompt - Something along the lines of the Princess and the Pea. It can be A/B/O, modern, fantasy, or even something that takes place in canon where there's some kind of curse. Have fun with it!

Give It A Shot (of espresso) by anonymous for morimaiter [FIC, Teen, No Warnings, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Hurt/Comfort, Barista Jason Todd, Flirting, Awkward Flirting, Sexual Tension, JayDick Summer Exchange, very minor injury, art included

Summary: Dick was one of their regulars. And yes, that was his real name. The first time he’d asked Jason to write it on his cup Jason had given him a death glare until the man had whipped out a driver’s license to prove it. ‘Richard John Grayson’, printed right there. It hadn’t been an innuendo after all, just an unfortunate choice of nickname. He came into Gotham Grinders (and hell if Jason hadn’t heard enough innuendos about that name to make up for any lack of innuendo in Dick’s own) every Tuesday and Friday, which happened to always be Jason’s shifts. Every time he asks for some new over-the-top order, and every time without fail he also asks for Jason’s digits. Jason replies every time with:

“I’m sorry sir, we can’t give out personal information to customers. Will that complete your order?”

(Fic + Art)

Lazy Days by anonymous for BehindTheRobinsMask [ART, Teen, No Warnings, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Married Life, Married Couple, Established Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Literal Sleeping Together, Lazy Mornings, Domestic Fluff, Fanart

Summary: It's the weekend! Jason and Dick sleep in after a long night on the streets.

Taken in the Butt by the Gay Vigilante Acro-Bird by anonymous for solomonara [ART, Teen, No Warnings, JayDick]

Additional Tags: Romance Novel, Cover Art, Jason Todd is an Author, Partial Nudity, Birds, Vintage Gay Pulp Novels, Chuck Tingle-Adjacent, Please Forgive me, FanartDigital Art, JayDick Summer Exchange

Summary: The Red Hood has a secret: he's a part-time romance novelist.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea by anonymous for stribird (timidGoddess) [FIC, Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Heavy Angst, Self-Doubt, Lazarus Pit, Panic Attacks, Established Relationship, Bad Decisions, Romantic Fluff, Amnesia, Broken Promises, Road Trips, On the Run

Summary: Jason couldn’t do that. He could never forget what Dick meant to him. Which is why he had to bring his Bluebird back. Which is why he had to remind Dick of everything that he had lost.

Even if that meant forcing him into the Lazarus Pit. Even if it meant cursing him in the process.

tell your boyfriend, if he says he's got beef, that i'm a vegetarian (and i ain't fucking scared of him) by anonymous for prompt_fills [Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Fluff and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Protective Damian Wayne, POV Damian Wayne, Batman: Reborn, Jason Todd has a Heart, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Dick Grayson is Batman, Mutual Pining, enemies to idiots to lovers, Misunderstandings, Damian Wayne Plays Therapist, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, My Continued Mocking of Tim Drake (it's loving i swear), Donna Troy is a goddess and no one deserves her, My love for Donna Troy is so strong that I projected it onto Damian and I am not sorry, Unbetaed we die like Jason Todd refuses to, Past Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Jealous Jason Todd, Pining Dick Grayson, BAMF Donna Troy AND MORE

Summary: It had taken a few weeks for Damian’s ill-fated hopes for the more platonic explanation of Grayson’s unseemly conduct regarding Todd to expire because Damian (unlike Drake) is not an idiot (and Brown had prattled on about every instance of very clearly not platonically fueled tension, slowly crushing Damian’s remaining hopes for Richard’s taste in romantic partners). Denial, heavenly as he has now known it to be, can only take one so far. And as a pragmatist and the grandson of the great Ra’s al Ghul and son of the great Bruce Wayne, he assesses the situation from a logical perspective, free of any emotions clouding his impeccable judgment, and comes up with a solution that benefits both himself and Grayson.

Jason Todd must die.

Or the story of how Damian Wayne became the number one shipper of JayDick and is not at all happy about it.

Si solo fueras tú by anonymous for fallogory [ART, Gen, Creator Chose No Warnings, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fanart, Kid Dick Grayson, Adult Dick Grayson, Kid Jason Todd, Adult Jason Todd, King Bruce Wayne, Prince Damian Wayne, Prince Dick Grayson, Poor Jason Todd, Hurt Dick Grayson, Jealous Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug

Summary: Blue came first

Then Green arrives

Then Blue meet Red

And Green hate that

Or where Dick was Bruce's bastard child who was forced to lived like a prince until Damian's born and meet someone who make his world be upside down.

the smell of cold stone by anonymous for abcission [FIC, Mature, No Warnings Apply, Dick Grayson/ Jason Todd]

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Dick Grayson, Autumn, American Football, College Football, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Getting to Know Each Other, Getting Together, referenced Jason/Kyle, Past Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Past Dick Grayson/Roy Harper, past dick grayson/wally west - Freeform, implied Roy/Kory, implied Roy/Wally, implied Donna/Kyle, future besties Jason and Roy, Roy's eternal crush on Donna, frat boy Dick, Fluff

Summary: Their eyes meet on the quad one day; he’ll probably never see the frat boy again, but he’ll be nice fodder for Jason’s dreams at least.

#2020 jaydick exchange #dcu fanfic #jaydick summertime blues.#jaydick #dickjay #dick grayson & jason todd

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honeyhan-123 · 5 years ago

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Project Legacy

Summary: After the events of Civil War, Tony Stark is left all alone and decides that he will do whatever it takes to ensure a legacy.

Warnings: Dark!Tony, breeding kink, dub con, hints of stalking.

AN: I know I said I would be on hiatus and I am but this was 90% completed and even though I had to write some on my phone it turned out okay. That being said I’m sorry if there’s any weird formatting issues but I won’t be able to fix them for some time. Also, this was written for the lovely and incredible and just all round amazing @searchforanotherway dark fic challenge, my prompt will be in bold. 🥰

My Masterlist

You had grown to hate your email account, your phone too, asking yourself why it was always empty, never filled with any new messages.

It had been like this for months, ever since you had finished your PhD and was actually looking for work. You had sent out countless resumes, trying to find somewhere that was in need of a lab assistant, preferably specialising in human genetics but at this point you weren’t picky any more. You just wanted something, anything other than the way you were forced to sell your body - and your remaining dignity - every other night.

You longed for the days you had joked with college classmates about how you planned to drop out and become a stripper rather than sit the bio-chemistry final. Oh how innocent you were, how naive, thinking that you would be able to find a job straight out of your postgrad.

You had been left with nothing but a load of student debt and no way to pay it all off when you had stumbled across the Golden Circle one night. The alcohol which had been your only company along with the numerous rejection letters, had urged you forward, into the dark interior, seeking out the manager.

That had been nearly three months ago and while the stripping had got easier the more time that passed, dealing with the constant stream of rejection letters hadn’t. Every time a new one came, a part of you died a little more. While stripping had been enough to satisfy your financial needs, it did nothing for your mental needs. You had graduated nearly top of your class and here you were, practically watching your brain cells die every time you undressed, revealing the scrap of silver that your manager called an outfit.

Tonight was no different than how any other night had started out. You stood in the changing room, glancing around at the other girls in various states of undress as the readied for their shifts. The one who was known as Kitty by the patrons sat next to you, telling some story about a date she had been on the night before.

‘I just don’t understand it. He had seemed perfectly sweet until he found out I was a stripper, then he got all mad, said I had lied to him! But I hadn’t, I never said what I did for a living and even if I had who’s he to judge, you know? It’s not like when I was little I wanted to grow up and be a stripper, but you know, shit happens sometimes and life doesn’t always go to plan.’ She sounded close to tears and you knew that if you wanted tonight to be as painless as possible you had to say something fast.

‘I mean it seems to me that he was a loser Kit, anyone who reacts that way when finding out that your trying to make an honest living doesn’t deserve your time. And to be so two-faced about the whole thing, sounds like a real red flag, acting all sweet only to be a jerk.’ You lay a comforting hand on her shoulder as you tried to cheer her up. Thankfully it worked, a small smile playing across her lips.

‘I know you’re right, deep down I do. It just hurts you know? Because it’s not just him, it’s pretty much every guy I’ve ever tried to date. When they find out I’m a stripper they get all possessive, they act like I’m fucking other guys behind they’re backs and I know it’s partially my own fault I just… I guess I just never thought it would impact me this badly you know?’ You nodded even though you couldn’t relate. Between working nearly every night and trying to keep your brain active during the days by reading recent papers on hereditary genetics, you hadn’t had very much time for friends, never mind dating.

The sound of the door crashing against the wall pulled you out of your reverie, as you glanced over at your manager, his eyes eating up the scantily clad bodies of your fellow dancers. ‘Okay girls, we’ve got some VIPs in tonight so Bubbles you’re going to be on serving now, don’t give me that look. Kitty, you’re taking Jewel’s set and Jewel you’re going to be working in the Lounge.’

‘The Lounge?’ You’d never worked there before, it generally went to the older girls, the ones who had been here for longer, who had built up a clientele, who were more used to grabby customers with cash to spare.

‘Yeah. He requested you.’ He barely spared you a glance as he left the room, heading back down the hall to his office, his words resonating around in your head as you stared at the place in the wall where his head had just been.

A request.

A feeling that somewhat resembled pride flowed through you as Kitty turned excitedly. You must’ve been doing something right all these months to get a request, in the VIP lounge no less. ‘Your first request! This is so exciting. You’re such a natural, it’s going to be so good. I hear on average girls make nearly $500 a night in tips alone in the Lounge. I wish I could work there.’ She stared off in a daze as if imagining herself walking among the plush red leather couches, dancing on the small private stage.

You tried to smile at her; tried to ignore the nerves that were crawling their way through your stomach as she left the locker room, a smile and good luck thrown over her shoulder, leaving you alone.

Your heart raced, eyes focussed on the rich mahogany, tracing the grain of the wood as you slowly raised your hand to the brass doorknob, shivering as you paused. The metal was cool beneath your fingertips, your grip was solid, twisting the handle until you could hear the lock click. The door was slightly heavier than usual to help soundproof the room and you nearly jumped as it swung closed behind you, trapping you in with the dark, lone figure on the smooth leather couch.

The crystal glass in his hand reflected the small amount of light that fell on him as he sat in the shadows, swirling the amber liquid around with a swivel of his wrist. ‘Well? Aren’t you meant to dance for me?’ His voice was a sarcastic drawl that snapped you into action. Your heels wobbled slightly as you made your way to the sound machine, cueing a song before heading up into the small podium.

‘I’m Jewel. What’s your name handsome?’ You hated the way your voice shook with nerves as your hips swayed, your hands running up and down your body as you slowly warmed up.

‘My name doesn’t matter but you can call me Daddy, baby girl.’ You’d heard of things like this happening in the private rooms so his words themselves didn’t really bother you but there was something about the way he said it. He was very commanding and even though you couldn’t make out much of him in the dark, you knew he would be a force to be reckoned with, a man used to getting exactly what he wants.

‘Okay Daddy, how’s your night going so far?’ You weren’t sure about the protocol of having conversations while stripping for a man but some seemed to like it and judging by the small chuckle that fell from his lips he did too.

‘It’s pretty good so far Baby girl, I have you all to myself. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.’

‘Oh?’ You heard the clink of his glass being placed down onto the small coffee table beside him as his hands ran down his legs.

‘Oh yeah Baby girl. I’ve wanted you ever since I first saw you months ago. The photo in your resume really doesn’t do you justice, and when I found out you worked here I just had to come see you in person. I couldn’t stop staring at you as you danced. I knew I had to have you. But I had to wait. I had to make sure you were a match, a perfect match for me.’

Your hips stuttered in their movements, your nerves mounting as his words washed over you. ‘My resume?’ Your voice was quiet against the smooth backdrop of your song, a whisper in the vast room. A perfect match? What did he mean by that? Was he trying to offer you a job?

‘Of course. It landed on my pile months ago, quite impressive really. You were nearly top of your class at MIT, and a PhD specialising in hereditary genetics. You’re just what I was looking for. Now come over here Baby, we need to talk shop.’

You weren’t naive enough to believe that shop was the only thing he wanted to talk about but the reflection of light off of his wrist caught your eye and you instantly recognised the small logo of his watch. A Rolex. Whoever this guy he was loaded and if you had to give him a lap dance or two to get a job for him, your morals were willing to do it if it meant paying off your bundles of student debt.

On teetering legs you crossed the small distance between you two, coming to a stop in front of him as his hands wrapped around your waist pulling you down onto him with surprising force. ‘That’s a good girl, I just know you’ll do nicely.’ At the sound of his voice, your eyes darted up from your lap, meeting his, your mouth dropping slightly open.

What was the Tony Stark doing here with you?

His fingers gently tapped your chin, pressing your lips together again. ‘I see you recognise me, that should make the next bit easier. I’m looking for a specialist in hereditary genetics to help me with a very close and personal project. It should take around nine months for completion if everything goes well and the intense hours will mean you’ll have to quit working here but you’ll be well compensated, completely taken care of. Due to the secrecy of the project I’ll need you to sign your contract and NDA right now if you choose to accept.’

He slipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket, pulling two folded pieces of paper which he handed to you. The first was an NDA, a brief scan over the details told you it was all up to par. The fact that he was making you sign it wasn’t very concerning, most labs in the city made their employees sign one to keep company secrets and so when he handed you a pen you signed your name away on the dotted line without a second thought.

The second piece of paper gave you pause though. It was a contract. Your contract.

‘You want me to move into Stark Tower?’ Your voice was soft, confused by the sprawl of words across the page.

‘It’s standard protocol for a project like this. Most of my top employees live on site.’ He waved away your concern with an air of nonchalance but you could feel the tell-tale tightening of his hands on your hips, holding you slightly closer to him.

‘And this… Project Legacy, I would be running it? I’m just a little confused in my role in it all, it’s a little vague.’ You looked up from the papers into his eyes, searching for answers but once again he waved you off.

‘Look, if you don’t want the job that’s fine. You can just walk away and go back out there and strip for those men like any common whore and I’ll go find someone else. But I’m giving you a chance to be more, to do more. Working at Stark Labs would look great on your resume but that won’t matter because if you do a good job we might just keep you on. So, are you in or out?’ His eyes seemed to burn through you as you sat on his lap, gripping the paper in one hand, his pen in the other.

Taking a steadying breath, you pressed the paper against his chest and leant against him as you signed your name on the dotted line.

‘Good choice baby girl.’

Tony had insisted on you quitting your job right then and there, he had said he wanted to celebrate the birth of Project Legacy and since he would be your new boss, you felt you had no choice but to comply, following him out to his car, still in your outfit as he hadn’t given you time to go back to your locker and change.

‘Don’t worry about your clothes Baby, I said you would be completely taken care of and I meant it.’

His hand had gripped your exposed thigh the entire way to Stark Tower and when you finally arrived, he had ushered you into the elevator and up to his personal floor. Before you knew it a glass of champagne was thrusted into your hands.

‘Drink up baby, I suspect it will be the last time you get a chance for a while.’ He smiled as though he had just made a funny joke but you merely stared at him in confusion, taking a tentative sip of the bubbles in your glass. ‘C’mon, I’ll show you to your room.’ He grabbed hold of your other hand and started tugging you through the lounge room and to a narrow hallway, pausing at a door with frosted glass. ‘Here it is.’

Pushing open the door, confusion flittered over you. It was by far the nicest room you had ever seen, but then again everything in this building was too. There was a small chaise lounge and settee in one corner. a door that lead to what you presumed was the bathroom and the largest wardrobe you could imagine. But what really took your attention was the king sized bed in the middle of the room. Its quilt looked to be a dark red silk and with matching sheets and pillow cases. At least you wouldn’t have to worry about your hair every night.

‘Isn’t it just marvelous? I can’t wait to see all your work for Project Legacy. It’s going to be beautiful.’ Hands snaked around your waist and he slowly walked you back towards the bed.

‘Mr Stark? Tony? What’s going on? What are you doing?’ You knees hit the back of the bed, and you felt him lift you slightly, laying you down on the silken mattress.

‘You’re on what? Day fourteen of your cycle right? It’s perfect timing for us to get started on my legacy.’

‘Wh-what do you mean?’ Terror was flooding through your veins as he slipped the thin straps of your one piece down your shoulders, pulling it from your legs, revealing your body to him.

‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’ve studied your blood, your DNA. You’re a perfect match for me. We’re going to make such beautiful children. I hope the first one’s a girl though, I’ve always wanted one.’ His explanation did little to calm your racing heart as your stared up at him.

He was mad, completely batshit crazy. That was the only way to explain what he was doing as he palmed your breasts, his gaze transfixed on your body beneath his. Your hands pressed against his chest, trying to shove his body away but he merely gathered your wrists in one hand, tugging them up above your head and pinning them there.

‘Shhh, baby. Be a good girl for me. You’ve already signed your contract, your fate is sealed. So just be a good girl and I promise I’ll make it enjoyable for you too.’ He grinned down at you, tweaking your nipple to the point of pain, a shout escaping your lips.

‘But… what about Pepper though? Don’t you want a kid with her?’ You both knew at this point that you were stalling and it was completely useless, but you cling to the sliver of celebrity gossip you could remember. Surely his girlfriend would have an issue with this.

‘What about Pepper? She’s gone, she’s useless to me. You know, she only just told me she was infertile, after almost ten years together. Who does that? And all this time I thought we had just been unlucky, but now I know. She’s just a vindictive bitch. And now with everything that’s happened with the Accords… I’ve lost most of my family, I need a new one; to make one with you. We’re going to be so good together Baby, I can already tell. You and my child growing inside of you is all I want now and I always get what I want.’

You choked back a sob as he slid a hand between your bodies, smirking at the wetness he found between your legs. ‘Oh baby girl, you’re so responsive to me. I told you we were a perfect match.’ He thrusted a finger inside, letting out a groan at the way your velvet walls clenched around him. ‘So fucking tight too I don’t think I’ll last that long; the first time at least.’

His palm rubbed against your foot with every rigorous thrust of his hand bringing you closer despite the way you tried to resist him. ‘That’s it baby girl, I know you’re close.

You felt a cool metal against your clit, juxtaposing the warm slick pooling between your legs. You weren’t sure what it was as he continued to thrust his fingers into you, curling them against your walls, stretching you out for him, yet as soon as it started vibrating, every thought disappeared.

‘Oh, Oh, god Tony.’ Your words came between your panting, you’re hips rising up into his hand involuntarily.

His hot breath was against your ear, a sharp tug of the lobe between his teeth as he whispered ‘Baby girl I thought I told you to call me Daddy.’ Your moans interrupted his words as you felt the familiar coil tightening inside of you, ready to snap. ‘Call me Daddy can I’ll let you cum baby. I know you’re ready to.’

You tried to resist the urge to do as he said with little success and before you could stop them the words tumbled from your mouth. ‘Please Daddy. Please let me cum.’

His lips brushed against yours, his smile evident even in the kiss. ‘Well, who am I to deny a pretty woman? Of course you can Baby.’ And just like that, the floodgates opened, your walls clenching around his fingers, your body thrashing against his as he worked you through the orgasm before finally slowing and letting you catch your breath. ‘Those were just my fingers, imagine what I can do with my cock.’ As if to prove his point you felt him thrust his large bludge against you, the rough denim causing a shiver to run through you as it rubbed against your sensitive clit.

He released your hands from above your head, and you rubbed them as he knelt above you, and he slowly, almost teasingly, undid the small button on his jeans, pulling the small fly down all the way, exposing a small tuft of hair leading down to his cock. You weren’t surprised to see the lack of underwear as even though you had only just met, he seemed like a straight to business type of man. He shoved the denim down his legs and knelt above you once more, one knee on either side, taking a hold of your hand and leading to it him, wrapping it around his length and pumping himself slowly.

He was warm and you found yourself flicking your thumb over his tip every few thrusts, collecting the small beads of precum as they came from him. His head was thrown back his mouth agape. ‘Oh yeah Baby, just like that. Fuck, you make me feel so good.’ Suddenly your hand was back, pinning against the mattress as his other lead himself into you in a harsh single thrust.

You cried out at the stretch of your walls, he was much thicker than his fingers. His hands found your neck, resting at the base of your throat, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers. Your own hands were wrapped tightly around his chest, pulling him closer despite your better judgement, the feeling of fullness he gave you too good to resist.

You moaned as he continually brushed that spot inside of you, stroking a deep desire inside of you. Fingertips dug into his back, clawing at the skin as he ignited the fire inside of you. ‘Fuck… Daddy, yes.’ Your voice was a whisper against the obscene sounds of him thrusting in and out of you.

‘Yeah Baby? You wanna cum? Be a good girl and cum for me, cum for Daddy. Cum on my thick cock so I can fill you up.’ You moaned against the skin of his neck, your walls fluttering around him as you came, feeling the spurt of his own release coating your channel. ‘Fuck baby girl… that was so much better than I ever could have imagined, and trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot.’ He was out of breath as he rolled over, laying on his side, still inside of you and hitched your thigh over his own.

‘I can just tell you’re going to do such a good job on this special little project future Mrs Stark.’ In your haze you barely noticed him lift your left hand, sliding a cool band down your ring finger. The diamond glittering in the dim light.

My Masterlist

#aw!dark!ficchallenge #tony stark #iron man #dark!Tony #dark!Tony Stark #dark tony #dark iron man #dark verse #dark mcu #mcu #marvel #one shot #honeyhan writes

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agentargus · 4 years ago

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So this was in my drafts and I figured I’d finish it up. @thatdamnokie and I had talked about the possibility of Seraphim interacting with more of my characters and this was the result. It’s intended as a sequel to Morgan’s Drabble about Seraphim’s first mission with Nova.

Loath as Dante was to doubt Caroline’s judgement, especially in matters of their shared trade, he could hardly pretend that he didn’t have questions. Exorcists were Repubblica’s bread and butter—or rather, bread and wine. What could possibly be so special about this one’s injuries for Caroline to suggest such desperate measures? He found cold comfort in the fact that she trusted him with a task like this, but he only hoped that this whole trip would prove to be unnecessary.

“Agent Seraphim?” Dante poked his head into the examination lab, scratching at the sigil at the back of his neck absentmindedly at the sight of her, “or would you prefer ‘Morgan?’”

“Morgan’s fine, thanks,” she replied You must be Dr. Argenti.”

Oh no, darling,” Dante laughed, “I’m barely a soccorritore* Dr. Argenti is my mother,” already finished established in her field at his age, in fact. The unwelcome reminder unfurled itself from the corners of his mind like the first clouds of a storm. Swallowing hard, he busied himself with washing his hands to keep the thunder of his thoughts at bay. Remember your training, as much a prayer as it was a constant reminder within the Societies. “Looks like you’ve got your shoe off and your foot propped up already. Sei propiro in gamba...”**

“What?”

“That was supposed to be a pun, but it doesn’t make sense in English. Anyway, let’s sneaker a peak at that foot of yours.“ She did not laugh, but he’d hardly expected her to, not if she was in pain, anyway. “Beautiful work,” he studied the tiny spiral of scar tissue with consideration, “no less than I’d expect from Cara. You could say she toes the line—toes, as in feet? Never mind. But it’s still hurting you?”

Morgan turned away from him at this “It’s not that bad. I’m only here because Caroline insisted...”

“You flatter me, but just because you made your hospital bed, that doesn’t mean I’ll let you lie in it.”

“What?”

“You’re lying,” Dante could only hope that his squint would mask the crimson glaze that always seemed to fall over his eyes at the realization of a hidden sin, “about how bad the pain is, I mean. I’m a fool, not an idiot. If it wasn’t crippling, Cara would have given you something for the pain and sent you on your way. Perhaps she already did, but you’re still hurting enough to have come back to her. She flew me out from the Vatican, darling—and boy, are her little cherub wings tired. If the pain wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here.”

I...” Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly and she pursued her lips for a moment before finally sighing, “...okay fine. My fiancé insisted I go back to medical. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but I get these really awful flare-ups...”

“When you feel particularly guilty, yes? Or when you’re attacked during an exorcism.” When she didn’t respond, suggesting to him that he was right, he continued, “you blame yourself for Agent Nova’s injuries too, and the fact that she had to remove the needle, though all of that was hardly your fault.”

Morgan raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “how did you..?

“You didn’t read the release form that Cara gave to you for to sign? For sign? To sign?” English, always a welcome distraction with its many idiosyncrasies, “To sign! That’s it. But you did sign it...” again, no response. As silent as a priest upon hearing a particularly scandalous confession. Fitting for an exorcist, really. “You know,” he continued, “it was very tempting to pretend that I was reading your mind, but I’m beginning to think that the joke would be as lost on you as...well, as lost as an angel in hell.”

Morgan flinched slightly, steadying herself with almost indecent haste “...Sorry.”

“Marone! I’ve gone and made you feel guilty,” then more to himself than to Morgan, “I just make things worse! This is why I can’t get into med school...”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine...”

Not so much a traditional confession, Dante realized. Rather, it was as though the confessional vestibule stretched between them like a volleyball net, guilt and forgiveness bouncing from one side to the other...Well, it was an amusing visual at least. “I expected you to say that. You knew it would hurt you more if you projected it outward, because the ultimate guilt is that anyone else should hurt the way you do, which makes the guilt worse. A...circolo vizioso...a vicious circle?”

“You mean a vicious cycle? Yeah, I guess?”

“I see. Well, it isn’t infected, the scans in your file don’t suggest any traces of the poison left inside. Cara is beyond compare when it comes to these things. The bulk of the damage that remains is spiritual, rather than physical in nature. Then again, we could simply amputate your foot; it could give you a leg up...”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

“Only partially,” he forced a smile, hoping to God she didn’t suspect that he was stalling, “anyway, I’m imagining you’ve already been to see a therapist—and that gorgeous priest of yours, Agent Exorcist. Incidentally, have you heard the one about how a priest is like a Christmas tree? The balls are only for decoration!”

Finally, a good solid laugh from Agent Seraphim. Maybe this would be alright after all. Agent Cherub wouldn’t have brought him here if she didn’t trust him, and who was he to question her taste?

“The very business of hell is the separation of guilt from pain, yes?” Dante continued, “for what are true sinners but people who feel no guilt from the pain they inflict? Your guilt isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but we might be able to separate it from the pain. I suspect a summoner might transfer the pain into their own body when the demon left them, so that eliminates the average magic-user. Sending you back through the hellgate is out of the question, of course...” this new boost of confidence was more fleeting than he’d realized, draining with the reasons he could muster to keep stalling. His heart raced in his throat and he took several deep breaths before conceding, “there really isn’t a better option, is there..?”

“A better option than what?”

Just blurt it out, he told himself, don’t think it through, don’t dance around the truth anymore. Then, deciding himself better off throughly ignoring his own advice, he replied as carefully as he could, “I’m a terrible liar so I’m not even going to try: I’m afraid. Why do you think I haven’t stopped talking the entire time you’ve been here? You’re an exorcist. Once you stop hearing me, you’ll feel me. You’ll know what I am and what I’m made of and you’ll understand why Cara thinks I can help you. She thinks that this...this part of me can do something other than punish people, other than hurt people, scare people into running—thank God I didn’t wear eye makeup today, because that would be running too if I had.”

He hadn’t expected her to take his hand, much less that her grip would be so firm. “Wait...just let me...” Morgan’s voice was soft, more gentle than authoritative. Her gaze, by contrast, rippled through him, awakening the dormant forces beneath his skin now struggling against their tattooed restraints. An anxious lurching, like the flutter of wings, pulsed within his stomach. He could see her lips purse and her shoulders tense in pain, but she never turned from him, not once.

“I’m sorry, Morgan...” never enough. Eventually, the realization always came.

“Hey, like you said, I was going to find out anyway,” Morgan’s forced smile was a mirror of Dante’s own, “it’s alright. I know how to handle demons...”

“But if we both doubt ourselves...”

“We have to believe in each other instead,” she finished for him, “I’m an exorcist. Literally been through hell. I’ve got this.”

Dante heaved a deep sigh, pulling up a stool to the examination bed, “alright. How did you want to do this?”

“Close your eyes. Let your heart rate slow. Relax your shoulders and think of something calming. Let go of your inhibitions. I’ve got you. You’re safe... Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

His mind filled with memories of home. Far away, among the souls of the dead, towering and sequestered in blue—was it sky or water? Heaven or Poveglia? Did it even matter?

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Home that was not home, that place where he could not be what his creator intended, never quite fit, so he couldn’t stay.

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Too much for heaven to contain, too much trapped within a prison of flesh frozen in time. He’d broken through the shell of his cosmic egg, transformed, a baptism of fire, of his own destruction and rebirth. Graying plaster dust and fallen stars, fraying straps on a white straightjacket, an angel’s robes singed...and smoke. So much smoke...

“Duke Murmur?”

Fluorescent light swam around her with an angel’s glow. A little star bereft of the warmth her light might have exuded long ago. Now she sat before him, cold and small and fragile as all humans were. “Pretty little seraph,” he hummed, “fell and hurt yourself, did you?”

“I was injured restoring Prince Krueger to his position. The court of the Fallen owes me a debt. Will you pay it for me?”

He reached his neck as long as it would go, lips stretched white in semblance of a smile...“I was a throne, once, I think; if memory serves, I would have served you.”

Unflappable, she was. “And will you serve me now?”

“I live to serve,” this abject truth should have come up bitter. Perhaps it would have, when he was young and falling, drowning—sky or water, toward Hell or the bottom of Venice Lagoon? He couldn’t remember—all for a creator who would sooner let him fall than accept failure. But now, now he found himself in service to a trade to which he was uniquely suited—and in service to humanity.

He struggled against the shackles tattooed upon his human body’s flesh, trying in vain to grow. Such tiny hands to carry so heavy a burden...but perhaps, just this once, he could be enough.

Slowly, he caressed the seraph’s wound with one of those tiny human hands. She tensed beneath his touch as he found the throbbing agony within her, drawing it out like a splinter until it became indistinguishable from his own. “The debt has been paid.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she hummed, lowering her head in what seemed to be more relief than reverence.

Then, his chest tightened; pang of fear, a sinking doubt. Human insecurity or fear of God, he could not tell, “are you going to try where the others have failed, little seraph, going to send me away, little exorcist? You wouldn’t be the first to waste the effort.”

“That depends entirely on what you do to me.”

He could see her, really see her, even with just two eyes, perhaps with greater clarity than either one of them could see themselves, “I remain here because humans wished to be more than they were. You remain here because humans feared that they couldn’t be more than they were. A fallen angel is her own inner demon. The only thing I can do to you that you’ve not already done to yourself is ease the pain of the fall. I revel in the knowledge that we’re more alike than could ever be entirely comfortable...and that, little seraph, is why we’re both here...”

It was closeness that the both of them desired, warmer, like Icarus to the sun. Was it the sadism and masochism equally present within the fallen that relishes the suffering he shared with her? Or was it the desperation of his humanity that valued what companionship might arise from that suffering? Perhaps both.

Perhaps not comfortable, but fitting. Doubt and guilt and pain, suffering for something distant and divine. Perhaps there was solace in the bonding, mutual discomforts canceling each other out, community among the outcasts for whom the binaries of heaven and hell had been shattered into the sands of the earth. Demons and angels and humans.

After all, he was human, wasn’t he? He was small and fleshy and hungered for Morgan’s friendship, or at least her approval. One bleeding into the other, the separation imposed only by the limits of the human body. Slowly, the star’s glow faded, Morgan coming into back into focus.

“D-did it work?” Dante asked apprehensively

“I think so. My foot feels better, anyway. Do you remember anything?”

Dante pursed his lips “I... I think so. Sort of...should I be worried if I remembered?”

“Why would you be?”

“Because it would mean that Murmur isn’t as separate from me as I’ve been trying to convince myself. Demons, they’re supposed to possess you completely, but I am still myself when I’m him, in a way. Does that make me evil?”

“I don’t know as much about this stuff as you give me credit for...” Morgan signed, humbling herself as usual.

“You are an exorcist. You see me. You see him. When you look, where does he end and I begin?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell. More importantly, I’m not sure it matters. It’s what you do that’s important, not who you are.”

“I don’t think I did anything I wasn’t supposed to...Did I hurt you? I don’t remember hurting you...”

“You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”

“A miracle from heaven, then. Gloria patri!” It was as though a weight had been lifted. No longer drowning, floating to the surface, as close to heaven as a demon reborn human could manage... “And now, lunch! Carter—Agent Thorn— and I were going to get Chinese food when I was finished working on you. You should come. It’ll be...”

“Let me guess, chow-fun.”

Dante beamed “I was actually going to say the ‘mein event’ of my trip, but ‘chow-fun’ is much better.”

“Chinese food sounds great. Thanks—for everything.”

“Well, I had a bit of divine intervention.”

——

*An emergency medic who works in a specific kind of ambulance. The closest English equivalent would be an EMT or a paramedic.

**”in gamba” literally means “on leg,” but is an idiom meaning that someone knows what they’re doing.

#the high priestess (agent seraphim)#the page of swords (agent alichino)#murmur #mun’s writing

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nayutai · 5 years ago

Text

Sleep Walker

⇢ Genre fluff (this nearly killed Jesus Christ fluff authors are powerful)

⇢ Pairing Jimin x OC

⇢ Word Count 4251

⇢ Summary Jimin finds himself wandering into a 24-hour coffee shop after his efforts to sleep have proved unsuccessful where he finds more than just the caffeine boost he needs to get through his day

⇢ Notes this goes out to my love bug @tae-tae-drives-me-kray

Working the night shift at a 24-hour coffee shop makes for a very boring shift. Most of the customers clear out by the time that two o’clock rolls around and those who do pop in are on their way to their own early morning shifts and generally don’t stay long. They also don’t usually start arriving until at least 4:30. For Amira, this means that she can eat snacks and binge watch Supernatural until the day time people show up for the most part. At $11 an hour it’s a pretty cushy gig if you don’t mind the fucked up sleep schedule.

The sound of the bell above the door tinkling loudly just before three sends Amira flying from her perch on a stool behind the counter. Whoever it is giggles melodically at the flurry of creative curses that come out of her mouth as she rises to your feet dramatically. She gives them a dirty look that softens at the way their eyes twinkle even in the low light of the cafe.

“Are you okay?” At least they have the decency to ask about her well-being after nearly giving her a heart attack. The lower half of their face is covered in a mask and a baseball cap sits low on his head. If it weren’t for the fact that this person’s eyes look so friendly she’d be standing a lot closer to the silent alarm and the baseball bat that her manager allows her to store under the counter.

“Just peachy for someone who was on the verge of death. What would you like to order?” He rattles off the name of some frappuccino thing with an assload of ingredients and Amira has the sudden urge to beat her head against the granite countertop. Being that she works night shift, most of her barista knowledge circled the memory drain a long time ago due to the fact that the most complicated thing the early morning demographic orders is flavored iced coffee. A walk in the park compared to the science experiments that the daytime crew is required to mix up throughout the day.

“I’m gonna keep it real with you, chief. I forgot how to make this but I don’t have the authorization to do refunds so if it’s bad you’re stuck with it.”

“At this point, it could be dishwater and I’d drink it as long as it’s got caffeine.”

And yet he ordered one of the froo froo drinks Amira thinks to herself. Those drinks have the least amount of caffeine out of everything on the menu. He’ll be asleep before he even finishes his drink.

“Well if caffeine is what you need, this drink isn’t what you want. I’ve got just the thing though.” You put away the clear cup for the frappucino with his consent and reach for a regular coffee cup. “What’s your name? I know you’re the only one here but it’s against store policy for any cup to leave this hellhole without a name on it.” He seems to panic at the thought of giving up his name, a wary look morphing his gaze. Her brows creases as she watches him contemplate how he wants to answer what she thinks is a very simple question.

“Jimin...” He says after a minute.

“Ha, that’s cool. There’s a guy in BTS with the same-“ Amira’s hand freezes halfway through writing his name as her drowsy brain starts connecting some very important dots. The news lady on channel six had said they’d be in town this weekend but never in a million years did she expect something like this to happen. She peeks at him from beneath her lashes. He looks ready to bolt out the door at the slightest provocation so she do her absolute best to remain calm for his sake.

Alright, sis you can do this. Just stay cool, calm, and collected. Mama ain’t raise a loser you can do this.

Jimin visibly relaxes when Amira starts writing again and turns to start making his drink. It’s a special concoction she makes for her fellow graveyard peeps. It’s strong enough to knock a donkey on its ass which is why it’s such a hit. One of her regulars, a long haul trucker, tells Amira all the time that he doesn’t know how he’d make it through his long drives without the liquid defibrillator that he practically orders by the gallon. Definitely doesn’t seem safe but he’s got an incredible driving record and he always brings her a fistful of the soft peppermint candies she’s partial to.

“Thank you for not freaking out. I’m not really supposed to be here.” Jimin mumbles as he accepts his drink. He loves interacting with fans but not at two a.m when he’s barely able to stand up from his lack of sleep.

“I gathered as much. Not many global superstars stroll through here at this hour or at all really.” Amira give him a smile that she hopes puts him at ease and, judging by the way his lips turn up a bit, it may have worked.

“Couldn’t sleep and we’ve got interviews all day so at this point I don’t have time to sleep hence the desperate need for caffeine.” He takes a cautious sip of the drink in his hand. She wasn’t kidding when she said that it would help. The caffeine hits his veins with the force of a speeding bullet train and Jimin already feels more alert just a few sips in.

Somehow, talking about his sleep troubles snowballs into a conversation about Disney movies and why Maleficent is the baddest bitch in the Disney realm when the blaring of his ringtone cuts her rant short. A heavy sigh escapes him at the interruption. He’d much rather listen to the adorable barista in front of him continue her impassioned argument, but duty calls.

“Guess that’s my cue. Thank you for the drink and the company.”

“No problem! If that shit starts fucking with your heart rate though you did not get it here. I refuse to be attacked by your twitter army for giving you heart palpitations. I ain’t built for that type of guerilla warfare.” Jimin full on belly laughs, nearly dropping the rest of his drink in the process. He couldn’t get rid of the goofy smile on his face even if he wanted to.

He grips the door handle in his hand but something is holding him back. Something feels unfinished and his feet refuse to move any further until that changes. Jimin turns around to see the source of his frozen feet standing behind the counter again, staring at his still form curiously. Before he can stop himself, Jimin crosses the short distance, snatching the pen stuck to the top of her apron to scribble his phone number on a nearby napkin. The gagging noises she makes when she realize what he’s just done make him feel justified in his rash decision. This time when he backs away, the smile on his face is one of mischief.

“Don’t let this be the last time I talk to you or I’ll never forgive you.” Jimin’s steps feel lighter as he treks back to the hotel to face the wrath of his manager. He hopes desperately that she texts him later. A frown replaces the grin behind his face mask at the prospect of his new crush not contacting him after tonight. His steps falter slightly as he processes the fact that he just met her not even a full hour ago and has already developed a full-fledged crush on her. Oh, Amira, so powerful and yet so unaware of it.

[Amira]: best friend

[Amira]: rise from the dead

[Amira]: I have a story to tell and before you even ask no it can’t wait until a decent hour

[Pomegranate]: if this doesn’t involve you meeting BTS or you hitting the lottery and paying off my crippling student loan debt I promise I don’t care

[Amira]: ….sometimes I swear you’re psychic

[Pomegranate]: BITCH DID YOU HIT THE LOTTO?????

[Pomegranate]: I BEEN YOUR BEST FRIEND FOR 13 YEARS DON’T FORGET ABOUT ME

[Amira]: shut up I didn’t hit the lottery but I did meet someone from BTS…

[Amira]: Jimin to be more specific

Incoming call from Pomegranate

“Well look what we have here. A traitor.” Jimin rolls his eyes at Taehyung’s dramatics but his best friend and bandmate is having none of it. “How dare you go traipsing off into the concrete jungle without me? We’re supposed to cause mayhem together and you left my ass in the middle of the night like I’m some side chick.”

“It’s really not this deep, Tae.”

“To you. Which is exactly why I snitched to Sejin.” Of course, Taehyung was the one to rat him out to their manager. He could be quite vengeful when he felt that he’d been wronged and obviously he took not being invited on his late night coffee hunt as a personal affront. The Capricorn energy coursing through his veins absolutely could not let that stand.

Jimin opens his mouth to respond when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it for the sake of pacifying Taehyung but when it vibrates twice more his curiosity gets the best of him.

[Unknown]: uhhhh hi?

[Unknown]: ew that was awkward as hell pls forgive me

[Unknown]: shit I didn’t even tell you who I am wow anyways this is the barista you tried to kill earlier also known as Amira

Jimin snorts at Amira’s messages which piques Taehyung’s interest in a major way. He can’t recall a time when his friend has ever looked so disgustingly happy over a text message from anybody. Just as he’s about to lean over to look at the screen, Jimin shoves the sleek iPhone right in his face. He’s babbling on and on about how funny and cute this Amira person is which only serves to further confuse Taehyung.

“I just want you to know that none of that made sense to me.”

Taehyung is almost sorry that he asked as Jimin launches into an impassioned retelling of the beautiful girl that made him a drink that is sure to keep him up until the end of time. A slow smile spreads across Taehyung’s face as he connects the dots. Jimin has a crush. A big one. He can’t wait to tell the other members that their precious Jiminie has finally found someone that meets his incredibly high standards. Out of all the idols back home, both male and female, that have practically thrown themselves at Jimin’s chelsea boots and it’s a random cafe employee that manages to make him totally enraptured.

“So let me get this straight,” Amira’s eyes follow her best friend Cameren as she paces back and forth across her living room. “It’s a regular degular night at work until some guy in a mask walks in and scares the shit outta you. Lo and behold that guy is fucking Park Jimin from BTS and you make him drink that god awful elixir of the damned you insist on serving to people and he actually liked it?”

“Not just that.” She fishes the napkin with Jimin’s number on it out of the pocket of her sweatshirt and carefully unfolds it so that Cameren can see the string of digits scratched into the napkin. The creative string of curses that fly out her mouth would make most people blush but after more than a decade of impassioned screaming, Amira doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes widen comically though when she notices Cameren reaching forward as if to snatch the napkin out of her hand. She thanks God for gifting her with reflexes quick enough to keep it out of Cameren’s reach.

“Bitch! Let me see it.”

“No! He gave me this because he obviously trusted me not to pass it around and I don’t plan to disappoint my future husband this early in the game.” She replies indignantly.

“Look at you. All delusional and shit but whatever I respect it.” Cameren declares as she props herself on the coffee table in front of her best friend. “So, did you text him?”

“Of course I did. Who do you think I am?” Cameren opens her mouth to respond with what is no doubt going to be some witty quip about exactly who she thinks Amira is, but she’s interrupted by the tell-tale ping of her phone receiving a text message. The shocked look on Cameren’s face is perfectly mirrored on Amira’s as she slowly picks her phone up from the couch cushion she’d sat it on.

[Kristoff Hater]: you’re too adorable to be awkward

Amira sits frozen in place as she reads and rereads his message. There’s no way he just said that. There is absolutely no way in hell that the Park Jimin himself just called her adorable. Have the heavens finally opened up? Did God decide that today is the day that she secures the biggest win of all? She’s in such a state of shock that Amira doesn’t even notice Cameren trying to get her attention until she starts physically shaking her shoulder. Amira’s voice box is still refusing to function so she simply hand over her phone to let Cameren see the message for herself. Her friend’s answering shriek perfectly voices Amira’s own feelings.

“He’s typing again!” Cameren thrusts the phone back into Amira’s hands just in time for another message to appear on the screen but she quickly close the conversation when Jimin starts typing once more. It takes longer than expected but the tell-tale ping from her phone makes Amira’s heart skip a beat at what he could possibly have said this time.

[Kristoff Hater]: speaking of you being adorable I need a contact picture so go ahead and hand one over and no one gets hurt

[Kristoff Hater]: or don’t because you’re an autonomous human being and that’s totally up to you but I would really appreciate a picture of your face because I think you’re you’re cute and wow I’m rambling over text which is super embarrassing so I’m going to stop typing now byeeeee

This time, Amira is the one screaming.

“It’s official. You scared her away.” Taehyung claps Jimin on the back from his spot behind him in the van. Jimin continues to stare dejectedly at the stagnant conversation with his mystery woman. It’s been hours since he’d went out on a limb and asked her for a picture with not even a hint of a response. He’d originally thought that he’d eventually get over it and go back to normal but now he’s not so sure.

“Leave him be, Tae.” Namjoon pipes up from Jimin’s left. “It’s important to fully feel and process your emotions no matter how depressing they are.”

“Oh, so now the wannabe philosopher is going to preach to me?”

“It was probably too good to be true any-she texted me back!”

[Coffee Almost Bae]: I’m so sorry 😭

[Coffee Almost Bae]: In the interest of total transparency I had a meltdown because you called me cute and I’ve spent the last fourteen hours trying to psych myself up to respond

Jimin nearly melts into puddle of feelings right where he sits. This girl is entirely too cute for her own good and she doesn’t even realize it. His fingers start flying in response, but his frantic typing is interrupted by another message.

[Coffee Almost Bae]: I believe you asked for this {image attached}

He’d thought that Amira was cute when he’d first met her at the coffee shop but seeing her in this picture is making his heart race. She’s clearly at dinner with friends judging from the crowded table full of food behind her. He’s incredibly appreciative of the way her jeans snugly hug the hourglass frame that her work uniform hides. His eyes are then drawn upwards to her face and he finds himself getting lost in the sheer brilliance of her smile. Eyes bright with a playful energy. Jimin is sure he’s never seen anyone more captivating.

“Yeah I’m definitely in love.” He proudly shows off Amira’s picture to the rest of the group, relishing in the comments about how pretty she are. Jimin chooses to ignore Yoongi’s comment about how he wasn’t sure that she actually existed until he saw the picture. His heart flutters in his chest as he stares fondly at the picture on his screen. He’s so caught up in her beauty that he forgets that you have to actually reply to the text messages in order to keep a conversation going. Until his phone vibrates in his hand.

[Coffee Almost Bae]: OH MY GOD YOU THINK I’M UGLY DON’T YOU I KNEW THIS WAS A MISTAKE I HATE IT HERE

Jimin’s eyes go wide as he realizes the unforeseen consequence that his awestruck staring has resulted in. The concerned questions from the other members roll off his back as he tries to fix the mess he made. The two extra concert tickets that he’d been holding for two of his friends suddenly come to mind. Frustrated with the way he keeps misspelling words in his haste, Jimin throws caution to the wind and hits the call button. He doesn’t know why he’s so desperate to fix this, especially since he just met this girl less than forty eight hours ago but he can’t deny the nerves coursing through him as he waits for Amira to answer the phone.

“Cameren, he thinks I’m ugly. I just know he does.” Amira whines and it’s nearly Cameren’s breaking point. She sighs frustratedly over the phone as she does her best not to yell at Amira for overthinking and sending herself into a panic.

“This man saw you in an unforgiving barista uniform, bare-faced, at three in the morning and still somehow thought you were cute.” Cameren can hear Amira inhale to interrupt her but she powers through, giving her no option but to listen. “If he saw you looking like that then there’s now way he thought the picture you sent him was ugly so stop overreacting. He’s a fucking international superstar someone probably stopped him for an autograph or something. Or maybe he thinks you’re insane for losing your shit because he took more than five minutes to respond.”

On a more rational level, Amira knows that Cameren is right, but it’s not every day that a girl actually gets to live out their fantasy like this. So naturally, she’s insecure and full of nervous energy that is near impossible to get rid of. What if his sleep deprivation made him delirious? What if fully awake Jimin thinks he made a mistake? Cameren is still ranting when Amira’s phone beeps with another phone call. She pull the device away from her ear to see who it is and nearly choke on her own spit.

“He’s calling me! I gotta go.” She ends the call with Cameren and answer Jimin’s before her overactive nerves can convince her not to. The second Amira accepts the call, all that can be heard is Jimin apologizing profusely. Somewhere in there he mentions something about concert tickets and soundcheck and her brain decides to finally kick in to get some clarification.

When he finally starts speaking slow enough for her to understand him, Amira is stunned even further into silence. Front row tickets to their next concert with a primo soundcheck position? Yeah, there’s no way she could pass that up, but there is one issue. Their next concert is in Toronto. As if he can sense what she’s thinking, Jimin immediately offers to fly Amira and whoever she wants to bring with her to Toronto. The sound of raucous laughter in the background drowns out his next sentence, so she can only assume the rest of the group is giving him shit for that.

“I can’t let you do that, Jimin.” Amira already knows that Cameren is going to kill her for this when she fills her in later, but she doesn’t want him to feel like she’s using him for free stuff. He tries his absolute best to change her mind but Amira doesn’t let up.

“At least promise me that last night won’t be the last time I see you.”

“I promise. Now go to sleep before I tell army you’re neglecting yourself because I can hear the exhaustion all in your voice.” Jimin laughs at her playful threat which makes her heart swell with pride at being the one to make him laugh like that. After being a fan for so long, Amira can perfectly picture the adorable way his eyes have probably scrunched closed as he laughs with his whole body. The reluctantly bid each other goodbye after Jimin makes her promise once more that they’ll meet again.

Months have passed since the day Jimin turned Amira’s life into a wattpad fanfiction and since then life has changed in numerous ways for both of them. Amira has gotten a new job. A new dog. A new house. Meanwhile, BTS has hopped from country to country playing to sold out stadiums. Broken fistfuls of records that established western acts admittedly balk at. And yet, despite all these changes, Jimin and Amira’s presence in each other’s lives has remained constant. Whether it be a funny meme he saw online, a FaceTime call at an indecent hour because time zones are weird, or even a postcard from whatever part of the globe BTS has ended up in. Despite their best efforts though, their late night conversation over coffee did not get the follow up that they’d promised to have.

Amira is on her way back to work after meeting up with Cameren for lunch when she gets a text from Jimin. It’s a picture of what looks like a schedule for the upcoming month and it looks pretty empty save for a flight to LA on the fifth. The image is accompanied with several eye emojis and Amira connects the dots immediately. The second she returns to the office, she submits a request for two weeks of leave time. After snapping a picture of her screen, her fingers fly across the screen with a quick message to Jimin.

Amira hasn’t seen Jimin in person since that night at the coffee shop and that thought keeps her up at night as the days fly by. No matter how much careful planning they put in to try and see each other something always seemed to come up and foil whatever plans the two of them had concocted, but this time feels different. Like everything might actually fall perfectly into place. That brings up the question about how Amira is going to handle being face to face with Jimin again. All of his flirting and little pet names have been hard to handle over text but to be in the same room with him and keep her cool is going to be a new kind of challenge. He’s been very direct about what his feelings are and though she feels the same, Amira has been hesitant to reciprocate his romantic sentiments in fear that what she feels is rooted in her love for BTS as a fan. Cameren has been Amira’s saving grace with her pep talks but nothing could ever truly prepare her for the force of nature that is Park Jimin spending two uninterrupted weeks in her house.

Jimin arrives in a whirlwind of designer luggage that he quickly tosses aside in favor of peppering kisses all over Amira’s face while she playfully attempts to fight him off. Her terrier Luna runs circles around the both of them in a frenzy at having a new friend to play with her. Amira’s heart is beating erratically in her chest as Jimin switches tactics, choosing to simply hold her close to him.

“Hello to you too, Ji-” His lips pressing against her own stops Amira’s sentence in its tracks.

She’s always admired how soft his lips looked but to find out just how soft they actually are sends a rush of endorphins coursing through her. All of the qualms she’d had about falling for him melt away like ice cream in the summer sun. Her insecurities suddenly seem so significant as his lips mold against her own like they were meant to be there. A deep groan rattles Jimin’s chest when she gets over her initial shock and reciprocates. He tastes of strawberries and the faintest hint of mint when he explores her mouth with his expert tongue. Amira decides then and there that she would gladly die of suffocation if it meant she could kiss Jimin till she croaked.

They could’ve remained locked together for an indefinite amount of time if not for Luna tugging on Jimin’s pant leg with her teeth, demanding her fair share of his attention. He doesn’t hesitate to scoop the energetic fur ball into his arms, scratching behind one of her ears as Luna practically vibrates in his arms.

“I think this is the part where I tell you I’m in love with you and want to be your boyfriend.” He lifts Luna next to his face and Amira knows she’s in trouble. “Don’t you want to wake up to us every morning? At least for the next two weeks?”

“Kiss me again and you’ve got a deal, boyfriend.”

#bts writers guild #park jimin #jimin fluff #jimin fanfiction #jimin scenario #bts #bts fluff #bts fanfiction #bts scenario #jimin x oc #jimin x poc oc #writing fluff is hard as hell #had to stop myself from making somebody whip out a tiddy #if this is trash mickey did it

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enchantedxrose · 5 years ago

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The Monster of West End: Chapter Three A Beauty and the Beast retelling set in 1837 London

The “Beauty” of this story is a young seamstress desperate for work to pay off her father’s debts. Her new employer, though Beastly in appearance, is coldly tolerated by society because he has money and status. She is quickly charmed by his warm heart and sense of humor, but his monstrous form isn’t the only obstacle to their budding relationship.

Mrs. Hutchinson led Viola up the servants’ staircase to a small garret bedroom at the top of the house.

“The upper-servants sleep on the upper floors,” she explained over her shoulder, “but I daresay the rooms off the kitchen for the cook and scullery maid are more comfortable. It gets rather drafty up here in the winter and stuffy in the summer.”

Viola surveyed the room with a satisfied sigh. It had creaky floorboards and a low sloping ceiling. The utilitarian furnishings consisted of a nightstand and a brass bed.

“I think this will do very nicely for me,” she told Mrs. Hutchinson without a trace of irony.

The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at Viola’s enthusiasm. “If you say so,” she muttered.

Viola did not pay Mrs. Hutchinson’s skepticism any heed. This room boasted one enormous advantage over her ten-square foot cell in the Marshalsea: a large window with a view.

The single narrow window in their Marshalsea ‘apartment’ faced only the discolored bricks of the prison wall. She could not see the sky, nor even the iron spikes atop the wall to deter escape artists. Her only occasional splash of color came from the laundry hanging on the line, the grey chemises that had once been white. There was nothing green to be seen all summer, save the bare spindly weeds between the paving-stones. They were on the second of four stories in their prison complex, and there was another building directly behind them, so that Viola felt constantly closed in by bricks on all sides.

Even when she was permitted to step outside the gates, the Marshalsea was always creeping up behind her, and she could not escape its shadow. Always trapped.

But here, in Mr. Carlyle’s house, she could breathe. She could see the slate-grey overcast sky above the rooftops; she could look down and see trees lining the cobblestone street, their branches glazed with frost. She could open the window and feel the fresh sting of the winter air.

Guilt gnawed on her, in the background of these hopeful observations, try though she might to wave it away. Was it so wrong of her, to want to leave her miserable circumstances behind? Was it selfish of her to escape like this, when she could not yet bring her father with her?

“Breakfast in the servants’ hall is served promptly at seven o’clock,” the housekeeper announced, abruptly cutting off Viola’s musing. “If you wish for a hot meal, do not be late.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hutchinson,” she replied with feeling, undeterred by her coworker’s sharp tone. “Before you retire, I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity you and Mr. Carlyle are giving me. I hope to prove myself worthy of his trust.”

The words were more deferential than she truly felt, but Viola could sense that Mrs. Hutchinson was suspicious of her in some way, and she wanted to be on better terms with her if they were to be working in close quarters. The housekeeper’s pursed lips relaxed a fraction as she continued to study Viola with that critical, piercing gaze.

“Mr. Carlyle has a partiality for waifs and strays,” Mrs. Hutchinson said at last in a clipped voice. “I need not explain why he feels a…kinship with those that society looks down upon. Therefore, it is incumbent on me to protect him from those that would take advantage of his sympathies.”

“I understand,” Viola said, swallowing hard.

“Do you?”

Of course she did. Viola had lost plenty of sleep over her too-trusting father over the years. But she decided to hold her tongue.

Once alone, Viola rapidly undressed to her chemise. The earlier she retired for bed, the earlier she could rise and return to her father.

She caught her reflection out of the corner of her eye and winced. She had no looking-glass in her cramped quarters at the Marshalsea and usually made do with checking her appearance in the reflection on the single windowpane—an image that was indistinct at best. But the garret room had a large oval mirror propped on the nightstand and she was face-to-face with herself.

Was she really that ashen-faced, or was it just the layer of dust over the mirror? Her linen shift hung so loosely on her, exposing a prominent collarbone and bony shoulder. The shadows were deep under her dark brown eyes.

Ugh, I look like a street urchin with consumption, she thought. No wonder Mr. Carlyle took pity on me tonight.

Viola had a rather square jaw set on a long, slender neck, which automatically gave her a waiflike appearance at the best of times—and now was decidedly not the best of times. Her hair was wispy and flaxen and did whatever it pleased.

She set the mirror face down.

The nightstand, she was pleased to discover, had been prepared for her stay: not only was there fresh water in the pitcher and a clean towel, but also a small cake of soap and a jar of tooth powder. She poured out a little water into the basin to wash her face, but found herself overcome. She had to brace herself on the nightstand and take a few deep breaths to swallow down a sob of incredulous relief.

The water was so clear and clean. It did not reek of rust. When was the last time she had used water without boiling it first? She couldn’t recall.

The garret room was chilly, as it had no fireplace, but when Viola pulled back the covers of the bed, she found a bed-warmer full of smoldering coals, which made the sheets invitingly warm. Exhausted and grateful, she fell asleep within minutes.

Viola went back to the Marshalsea early the next morning, to fetch her meager belongings and kiss her father goodbye. She was not expecting the scene she stepped into.

By the single narrow, grimy window stood Mr. Weston. Hardship had aged him prematurely—his hair was a solid iron grey, and sparse at the temples—and cataracts had taken almost all of his sight from him. He was speaking softly to his eldest daughter, Miranda, and had his hands soothingly upon her shoulders.

While Viola had inherited their father’s slight frame, Miranda took after their mother with her tall, commanding figure, made all the more striking by her wide straw bonnet and puffed gigot sleeves.

At the sound of Viola’s entrance, they both looked up—Mr. Weston’s face brightening with relief, Miranda’s contorting with outrage.

“Oh my dear, we have been so worried,” he said.

Miranda glowered at her. “Where have you been, Vi? We have been scouring the city for you. I hope you have a good explanation.”

Viola presumed the ‘we’ in this case meant Miranda and her husband Eustace, given that their father was not allowed further than the courtyard outside.

“I told the gatekeeper to send word that I’d gone back to Mr. Carlyle’s house for the night, because I missed the bell. Did he forget to pass along the message?”

Mr. Weston raised an eyebrow at Miranda. “There, now, what have I been telling you? I knew there must be a simple explanation—”

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Weston was much more softly spoken than his daughters and easily faded into the background during impassioned discussions. Miranda acted as if she had not heard him.

“Who in heaven’s name is Mr. Carlyle, and what do you mean by staying at his house?”

Viola took a deep breath to calm her temper. “He’s my employer, as of yesterday. I’m to serve in his household as a seamstress. I’m sorry to have caused such a fuss, but I thought you would know where I was.”

“We were about to start dragging the Thames for your lifeless body!” Miranda snapped. “For all we knew, you were frozen to death in the storm.”

Viola rolled her eyes. Her elder sister had once fancied herself a great actress, and even now always seemed to be auditioning for a Greek drama.

Miranda continued, gesturing to her heavily pregnant figure, “And I really ought not to be distressing myself so, not in my current condition.”

“I never asked you to distress yourself about me!”

“Well apparently someone has to, or you’ll gallivant about the city, staying at the houses of strange men!”

Before Viola could muster an angry retort, their father intervened.

“That’s quite enough from both of you,” he said, a note of pleading in his tone. “The important thing is that Viola is, in fact, safe and all is well. There is no need to quarrel over what is already past.”

He stood between the sisters for a long moment, waiting for their petty anger to deflate. Viola’s cheeks burned; their father had a way of making them feel like children caught misbehaving.

“I’m sorry for causing you to worry,” Viola said grudgingly. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m sorry for getting so cross about it,” Miranda mumbled, picking at a loose thread on her coat.

“There, now,” Mr. Weston said briskly. “Was that so terribly painful?”

The sisters avoided each other’s eyes. Mr. Weston ignored their sullen silence and carried on as if the quarrel had never taken place.

“So, Viola, I take it you have accepted the position you interviewed for. Tell me about the house. Where does your employer live?”

“Near Covent Garden.”

“Oh dear.” Mr. Weston wrung his hands, troubled. “Is that a suitable neighborhood for you to be walking by yourself? It’s got rather an unsavory reputation.”

“That was true in your day, Papa,” said Miranda, “but it’s changed a good deal in recent years. They’ve rebuilt most of the houses. Now it’s considered quite a fashionable place to live.”

“Ah.”

Viola’s heart twisted painfully. Their father had been locked away for so long, and London was rapidly changing without him—when he was finally at liberty to walk the streets again, would he even recognize it?

“I’ll return every Sunday afternoon for dinner,” she promised him. “Mr. Carlyle has given me leave to visit you the entire day.”

Miranda cut in sharply. “You mean to say this will be a live-in position? How can you leave our father alone all week? How is he to manage by himself?”

Viola felt a renewed flicker of annoyance. Their father was still quite capable and independent; he did not deserve to be treated like a child or like a doddering old fool. But before she could speak up for him, he did it himself.

“Miranda, my dear,” he soothed her, “I may be blind as a bat, but I am not hopelessly infirm. I know this apartment well enough to get about without stumbling.”

Viola squeezed his hand. “Just promise me that you will ask Mr. Wilkins down the hall to help you light the stove fire in the mornings. I’m sure he won’t object.”

“I promise. I do still have some sense, after all.” He gave her a wry smile.

As Viola predicted, Miranda seemed mollified at the notion of his fellow-inmates checking in on him daily. “Well,” she said briskly, “it seems I am overruled. Gather your things, Vi. Eustace and I can take you in the cab. You are not walking all that way carrying luggage.”

Viola had few personal belongings worth bringing; they fit neatly into a single carpetbag. She owned exactly three dresses at present: two sturdy, practical wool dresses of brown and navy blue, and one finer black gown reserved for holidays and funerals. She didn’t like wearing dark colors, but they lasted much longer against wear and tear and stains. A working woman ought not to wear pink or yellow, if she was at all sensible.

The dour colors did make her look so grim and severe, she reflected morosely. She dreamed of a day when she had spare money enough for a gown pale as springtime, in rosebud or lilac or buttercup. What a luxury that would be!

Underneath the faded chemises and shabby stockings, she tucked her one real treasure: a well-worn collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets, in the margins of which her mother had scribbled her own annotations.

In farewell, Viola took both her father’s hands and kissed them. “I don’t want you to worry about me, Father. This is going to be good for our family, I promise.”

“I know that, my dear,” he said gently. “It’s been clear to me for a long time that you would have to forge your own path.” He leaned over to murmur in her ear, soft enough that Miranda was unlikely to hear. “Try to have a little more patience with your sister. She’s only looking out for you.”

Even though he could not see Viola purse her lips, he must have heard the irritation in her sigh.

“Viola,” he chided. “Be kind to your sister. For my sake, if for no other reason.”

“I’ll try. And now I really must be going; Mr. Carlyle expects my return before noon.”

#my fiction #monster of west end #beauty and the beast #victorian era #chapter four won't be far behind!#i'm about halfway done with it

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