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stopeatingwhales · 4 years ago

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particles x damon albarn

the lyrics to this song are genuinely so beautiful, like i honestly cannot describe enough how much i adore this song my goodness

Pairing: present day damon x reader

Warnings: none :D

Word count: 1.881

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

It had been two months since I had last seen him. Two whole months since he had set foot in our home; two whole months since he said goodbye to leave for tour. The home that we shared had began to inhabit a sense of eeriness, some nights the walls began to feel as if they were closing in on me, trapping me from any interaction with the outside world, as if to hold me hostage by my own insanity, although other nights the space felt extremely large, almost too big for one person to be able to waste their nights alone in, encapsulating my mind in a constant conflict of obstructive thoughts, forcing me to overthink every tiny detail that was conveyed on the pale stained walls, the wooden floorboards, the arrangement of the furniture, resulting in many a time of me moving around heavy tables and chairs until the image of the room settled my mind’s anxiety. Allowing distance to get in the lines of mine and Damon’s relationship, it was simply uncanny that I was going to miss him; he was the carcass that kept me sane, the being that granted me peace in myself, ease on my mind to prevent such mania from enrapturing my brain, the person that engulfed me into a stupor of adoration and affection that one could never understand the authentic strength until felt - what some perceive as paramour, true love, something so overstimulating that once separated such thing desperation beguiles you to surround yourself with, only a mere sensation of emptiness is all that is felt inside, as if your limbs are damaged, your insides constantly in a state of sickness that you are convinced you’re in need of some form of professional assistance, but it is simply the alchemy, the poison of the apprehension that captivates you from the estrangement from your significant other. Though that wasn’t to say that wasn’t proud of Damon; I embraced fondness and admiration for everything that he did and was so dedicated in doing, his talent and immense knowledge for the art form that speaks to you demonstrated his ability to move millions of people, uniting as one in concerts, all touched from the same, simple string of melodies, proving his true gift and genius that is inside his brain.

I tried to pry my thoughts away from the excitement that had been seeping into my veins from the fact that he was returning home today, in an attempt to focus my mind on whatever had been showing on the television, but there was no use. To be cradled in his arms was all that I had longed, the thought clouding my brain almost every single night that I had thrown my body onto the linen sheets, trying to wrap my body around the duvet to replicate the specific warmth that had enveloped my body when in his arms, his body completely dominating mine, his hands running through my hair gently, apologising with a kiss on the top of my head when he accidentally pulled too roughly, my face buried in his chest as a blush would suddenly creep onto my cheeks, our embrace fulfilling me with a nest of blooming butterflies in my body, a poignant sensation of nervousness and reverence for the man that had me cooped up in his arms, the same feelings that would embody you whilst walking past your first crush during primary school, accidentally brushing your hands against one another’s, sending your mind into overdrive as if to think that the person was the love of your life. Such emotions never left, and I doubted that they ever would; supposing that is true love, he could make me feel like a little girl squealing over her teenage idol because of how perfect he was, just from being himself.

“I’m home, love,” I heard a voice call out in the hallway, accompanied by the soft slam of the front door, the tone of voice lacing a certain amount of raspiness, perhaps from a cigarette that had just been inhaled. My head instantly turned to the door of the living room, eyes settling upon the sight of Damon, who had a small grin curved on his lips, his gaze captured with joy and desire, perhaps from gratification towards the understanding that the tour had finally ended, as well as the fact that he was able to finally see me once again - my expression equally reciprocating his happiness. Instantly jumping from my seat on the couch, I rushed over to him as I threw my arms around him, resting my ear against his chest, listening to the soft pattern of his heartbeat. As usual, his arms wrapped around my figure, tightly embracing my body, the swarm of butterflies breaking out of their cocoons, my limbs growing weak from the recognisable thrill of affection that I had desired for far too long, and had sadly not received. Feeling his lips grazing against the top of my head made my mind go fuzzy, my cheeks flushing a heat that made me feel as if I was under the beating warmth of the sun during the summer months. This is what he does to me. “How’ve you been darling? I see you’ve rearranged the place, again.” he mumbled into my head of hair, my mind still relishing in the pleasure of being in his arms again.

“I’ve missed you,” I replied, reluctantly pulling my arms away from the embrace, in order to gawk at him. A gentle chuckle rumbled from his throat, though his features accentuated pity, understanding how I must’ve felt being away from him for so long. Lightly taking hold of one of his hands, I dragged his arm, guiding him to the sofa, where both of us sat next to each other. “You were gone for so long!”

“I know love, I’ve missed you so much,” he replied, squeezing my hand in reassurance. “At least I’m not gone for any longer though.” he added, his lips curving slightly as I nodded, a similar grin planted on my lips.

“How was the tour then?” I asked, pulling his arm to wrap it around my shoulders, my body already aching for more attachment to him. “The videos I’ve seen online made it look very good.”

“It was great, honestly. Loved every bit of it.” he replied, the grip on my shoulder tightening as he attempted to haul me closer to him. Humming in agreement, I placed my head on his shoulder, cradling the moment we shared together, the moment that I had imagined and adorned each and every night he was absent, cherishing every single time that he was able to be in my presence. I depended on him greatly, as did he, and though that may be a toxic strand which can only result in turmoil; our appreciation for one another held such poise that it would draw us closer together each and every time we had conjoined together after months of being separated. “I’ve actually got something to show you.” he added, shifting from our hug and slowly stepping to his feet, taking his hand in mine, his soft but coarse palms gripping onto mine ever so slightly, urging me to stand up too. “Come with me.”

Following him closely, we headed towards his studio. I had forgotten the last time that I had set foot in it; usually I would leave Damon to work on his craft alone, since having me prance around messing with all sorts of instruments and controls wasn’t going to provide much assistance. As well as that, sitting in the room, knowing that he was away and would be for many days on, would only make me yearn for his presence more, which is the last of what I would need when not being able to fall asleep. Though whenever he would call me into the room, he would always show me the most beautifully crafted symphony, in which he would perform it so effortlessly, as if it was simply created from the top of his head at that moment. Talent like his was so scarce; it would only prove to me that it’s something you are gifted with at birth, like an extremely high intelligence quotient - he always had ideas running through his mind, melodies that would be formed from a simple tap of the table in front of him. It was a wonder in the fact that he seemingly never got burned out with creating music, it was evidently his passion, and it touched me that he would constantly ask me for my opinion on his music, as it always resonated with him, always held such importance.

When we walked inside the studio, I followed him to the grand piano that was standing by the corner of the room. I kept my body upright, behind him, as he pulled out the black stool underneath, moving it back slightly in order for him to sit on it. “Over the tour, I had some free time, so I wrote this song, it’s called Particles,” he began, his voice quiet, as if it were intertwined with a certain anxiousness about what he was about to perform. “It’s still a work in progress, but I wanted to know what you thought of it.”

As I admired his fingers softly grazing the elegant, pale keys of the piano, the melody that in which played forth me instantaneously sufficed me in a trance, bewilderment encompassing my my mind as I listened to the sounds of the alluring chords echo throughout the room, bounce off the walls, the waves of noise crafting mountainous regions of goosebumps to prickle on the bare skin exposed from my forearms. Sculpted with such elegance and formality, my mouth fell agape as he played with such ease - in that significant moment, I was subdued to his music, hypnotised into his magnificence; I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, except admire the grace that fell from his lips once he started singing. As I allowed my gaze to drift onto his face, I gawked at his demeanour, his eyes almost screwed shut, his face almost frozen in place as his body rocked back and forth to the melody that was omitted from the piano. Every word, every string of lines carried a lugubrious essence to it, a tone laced with such beautification; obvious that there were deeper implications behind said lyrics. Each line that escaped his throat exemplified the nature of what earnest fervour, authentic devotion and expertise can embody. Such melody, paired with his voice embodied with pure ethereality, as if I was being greeted by a herd of the most quaint angels, welcoming my soul into the seven heavens. A beam crawled onto my lips, my heart thumping at a million miles per hour from the amount of love I carried in my body for the man in front of me.

Once the song ended, a moment was held in the atmosphere of mere silence, as if to take in all that was felt, all that had vibrated through the sound waves and blessed my ears. Shifting his body so he could connect eyes with me, a gentle, welcoming smile tugged on his lips. “That’s for you.”

#thank u anon <3333333 #damon albarn x reader #damon albarn #blur #blur band #90s #britpop #gorillaz #my imagines #my writing #fanfic #fluff #fan fiction

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mylkys · 4 years ago

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ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ʟɪᴇ

nanami kento x f!reader

MAJOR SPOILER WARNING. do not proceed if you’re not up-to-date in the manga.

a request from @daikon-dishes. hope you all enjoy.

word count: 1,841

warnings: major spoilers for chapter 120. character death. angst.

Everything hurts.

Every part of his being ached and for release, and the only thing that could cross his mind was is this was she felt, in her last moments? Did it feel like her bones were seconds away from ripping out of her skin? Could she feel her heart pound uselessly in her chest?

An image of your smiling face came to his mind's eye. The sunlight filtered through the trees, the golden rays illuminating your shining eyes. The apples of your cheeks were sunkissed, and the gentle wind tousling your hair.

It was the day Nanami proposed to you. He could almost feel the weight of the ring box in his pocket, or how his heart was close to exploding in his chest as he watched you laugh at your own joke. Nanami didn't understand it, but he didn't mind. Your childishness was one of the things that drew him to you.

Nanami pulled the box from his pant pocket, and he could see you watch him with bated breath. You'd asked him what he was doing, but he simply answered by opening the box, revealing the ring.

It was simple- a thin band with a single diamond- but it suited you. The simplistic design matched your simplistic beauty. Your eyes lit up as you slapped a hand over your mouth. You told Nanami that if it was a joke, it was a shitty one, to which he chuckled.

"Am I the type to pull pranks, dear?"

You cried as you lept onto him. Your arms held him in a chokehold as your bawled your eyes out, weeping a loud and shaky yes. Yes, I'll marry you.

Nanami guided you away from his chest and enveloped you in a kiss. But, he couldn't feel you. There was no pressure of your lips on his, no taste of your tongue.

Nanami broke the kiss and looked at your face. He could see tears streaming from your crystal eyes, your kiss-swollen lips. You were beautiful.

Yet, it was... off. Unclear. Nanami could see you, but your face was lacking details. Like how one side of your smile was higher than the other, how one eyebrow was arched while the other was rounded. You were there but washed out. Your skin was off, your clothes were off, you were off.

He was forgetting.

Nanami couldn't remember the shape of your hands, the slope of your nose, the part of your hair. He remembered how you'd say your left side was your good side, and he remembered how he never understood. Now, he realized he couldn't, because he couldn't even remember what you looked like.

The scene changed, fading away to a dim phone screen. Nanami scrolled through the different necklaces, but none were catching his eye.

A hand clasped on his shoulder, and Nanami turned to see Gojo smiling at him.

"Gift shopping for the missus?"

"Leave me alone."

Gojo pouted as he complained about Nanami being so mean to him. Nanami's chest ached when he noticed that Gojo's face was crisp, clear. How could he forget the face of the love of his life, but not his? Why would his mind let the details of you wash away, but let Gojo's remain?

Gojo bent over Nanami's shoulder and poked to the screen. "If I know Missus Nanami, which, I do, she'd like that one."

It was a thin silver chain, with a small starfish charm. It was simple, not too long or flashy. It reminded him of you.

Nanami remembered how you hated him calling you simple, how you would take it as an insult. You thought he was calling your ordinary or boring, but he disagreed. Though there was nothing wrong with extravagance, it was also complex and complicated. It took effort.

But with simplicity, the need for detail washes away. The additions and improvements are gone, and what's left bare is true and raw. Simplicity ignores the unneeded aspects, allowing one to just exist. That's how Nanami felt when he was with you.

Any time with you wrapped in his arms, all thoughts and worries of work and curses just... drifted away. In those moments, Nanami wasn't a sorcerer.

He was a man in love.

Nanami remembered Gojo's smug grin when he added the necklace to his chart, and he remembered ignoring it. When it came in, your face lit up like thousands of stars, and Nanami had to console you as you sobbed.

"It not even our anniversary!"

"It doesn't need to be a significant date for me to give you a gift."

Any time Gojo saw you wear the necklace- which was every time he saw you since you wore it every day- he would smirk knowingly at Nanami and would tease him about knowing his wife more than he did.

But that stopped after you died.

One thing that is guaranteed when you're a sorcerer, is dying with regrets. Nanami's was losing you.

By most standards, it had been a normal day. You had kissed him goodbye as he left for work, and he called you during his lunch break. If Nanami had known that would be the last time he spoke to you, he would have told you how much he loved you.

But, it wasn't a normal day. When he came home, he could tell something was wrong. Your house was reeking of cursed energy, and he could see the residue of a curse creature trail to the front door.

His heart pounded in his chest as dread bubbled in his stomach as he drew his weapon. He opened the front door, and the strong heady scent of blood overwhelmed him.

Nanami screamed out your name, panic freezing his blood. He was frantic as he tore apart the house, looking for you.

Maybe you fled, maybe you got away, he chanted in his head over, and over, and over again. You weren't a sorcerer- hell, you could barely even see curses- so there was no chance you could have defended yourself. Nanami prayed that your instincts protected you, got you away from the curse, got you safe.

His world crashed around him as he bolted into your shared bedroom. The smell of blood was strongest there, and when he pushed open the door, he almost gagged. The stench of blood and cursed energy was so thick, it made it hard to breathe, but what took his breath away was you.

You were lying upon the bed, curled up tightly on Nanami's side, your head buried deep in his pillow. The right side of your body was heavily mutilated, wounds and malformations bleeding profusely.

Nanami cried out your name as he ran to your side. He shook you violently, screaming at you to Wake up! Please, wake up!

He hated how stiff your bod- no, not your body- how still you were. How cold you were.

Nanami could barely see through the tears, but he noticed how you had your hands cradled near your neck. He choked as he pried away your fingers to see what you were holding, and what little control he had left crashed when he saw that even in death, you protected the necklace he gave you.

While the rest of your body was drenched with drying blood, your necklace had remained clean and beautiful.

Nanami looked to your face and saw the soft yet pained smile on your lips. He had pressed his mouth to yours and prayed he would feel your lips move against his, feel your hands cup his face as you deepened the kiss.

You never did.

Gojo found Nanami cradling you in his arms later that night.

They held a funeral two days later.

The casket was closed.

Gojo didn't joke about your necklace anymore.

A new memory, one with Itadori, came to mind. He had the necklace and a photo of you that he kept in his wallet.

"Who's that?" he had asked.

Nanami could feel his throat tighten. He had planned on scolding Itadori on snooping, but instead of doing so, he indulged him.

"That was my wife."

"Whoa! You're married? I didn't know you were married!"

"I'm not anymore."

Itadori paused. "Was? Did you get divorced?"

"No."

Itadori looked at Nanami, confused. "Then how...?"

Nanami felt tears burn his eyes, so he turned away. "She's," his throat closed a little as he choked back a sob, "she's no longer with us."

"Oh." Itadori wouldn't look at Nanami. The pair sat in silence for a few minutes as Nanami fought away his tears.

"What was she like?"

Nanami's eyes widened a bit, and he turned to Itadori.

"Kind. Gentle. Playful." He paused, trying to think of how to describe you. "Simple."

"She sounds like a good person," Itadori said. Nanami could see that he felt uncomfortable- not because he didn't like talking about you, but because he didn't know what to say.

"She was perfect," Nanami whispered to himself. Itadori heard him but didn't say anything.

Nanami turned to him once more. "She would have liked you."

Nanami could feel his body begin to fail him. He couldn't hear, and his sight was beginning to wither away. With what little will he had left, Nanami pulled his wallet from his pant pocket and took out the dainty necklace and photo.

He could barely see your beautifully simple face or the shining necklace, but he could feel then. As his world faded to black, the last thing he wanted to see was you.

Everything became dark as pain enveloped him, yet he clutched the necklace and photo tight. He refused to let go.

It was hard to breathe, and Nanami began to panic. His chest ached for relief, for relaxation, and when that pain increased in intensity, he began to panic. Hot flames burned at his body, and if he could still hear, he would have heard his cries of pain.

It was unbearable now, and as Nanami walked the line of unconsciousness, he heard a small noise. It was far off, muffled, faint, he almost wasn't sure if he had heard anything at all when he heard it again, but loud this time.

"Kento!"

Nanami could hear it now, and the voice was so painstakingly familiar, he was confident he would recognize it anywhere.

It was you.

He tried to call out, but his voice wouldn't let him. The panic from the pain melted to the panic of you not finding him.

"Ken!" you cried. Nanami was never fond of nicknames, but he adored anything you would call him. "Kentooooooo!"

A soft touch caressed his shoulder, and the pain washed away like the waves at sea. Nanami found himself able to move again, and he whipped around to see you standing behind him.

You were dressed in the same sundress you wore when he proposed, ring on your finger. Around your throat was the dainty chain of your necklace.

Nanami whispered your name, to which you smiled.

"Hey, you," you giggled.

"I missed you."

#major spoilers #nanami kento x reader #Nanami x Reader #nanami kento #sfw #angst #jjk #Jujutsu Kaisen #oneshot #fluff #marriage #i cannot stress spoilers enough #request #nanami kento jjk #gojo jjk (mentioned)#when i tell you i CRIED #have a good day #don't worry i'm writing fluff soon

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ddarker-dreams · 5 years ago

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Bride in White. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

When you had fantasized about this day in your youth, this is not what you had desired.

In those days, you pictured how you would count down the days until your wedding. Mulling over a dress you wanted to wear, one that was within your budget but pretty nonetheless. Maybe an outdoor venue, friends and family alike joining together to witness your union. There’d be butterflies in your stomach as you held onto your bouquet, breath hitched. Most important of all, the one who would be waiting for you at the end of the aisle.

A person you truly loved.

Eerily, certain lavish elements align with what you would’ve wanted. Almost as if he peeked in your mind and stole it for himself. The venue you were to be wed reminded you of a whimsical fairy tale, indulging you in its architectural beauty. A cathedral with warm, earth tone colors with tall ceilings that reached to the heavens. Colored sunlight shone through broad, mosaic windows, illuminating aisles of wooden pews.

“I’m not a pious man,” Giorno had claimed, as he monitored you with his eyes. He must have mistaken your wide eye look for acceptance of the situation. “But it feels right.”

But it feels right.

Those four words haunted you the moment they left his roseate lips. He couldn’t have expressed the gravity of your situation, the living nightmare of your life more perfectly if he had tried. Every freedom he readily plucked from you like a flower petal, all the undesirable parts of you that he trimmed away, planting you wherever he saw fit to soak in your beauty. The single difference you can find is a flower will eventually wither away to nothing and wilt.

Whereas Giorno, your ever dutiful lover, cruelly refuses to let you meet the same fate.

All of this was thrusted upon you because it felt right to him. He’s assured that this is what love is and you’d be a fool to think otherwise. What happened in his past to delude him into believing this sick parody of love is right? Questions like this will remain unanswered, Giorno skillfully dodging them with ease when presented with your numerous concerns.

Freedoms you were generously given did little for you. Giorno took care of a majority of the planning, considering what minuscule input you offered. Whether it’s because he envisioned your union in a particular way -- or he was tired of your lackadaisical responses to wedding detail questions -- he stopped asking. The illusion of choice he presented you with was insulting in your eyes.

You don’t want to choose the flavor of cake, what orchestral arrangements are to be played during the reception, or what kind of veil you’ll wear. It’s as macabre as preparing for your own funeral down to the letter, you concluded. No, none of those frivolous things will bring you the true desire of your heart.

Living your life as you did before meeting the Don of Passione.

“I-is it to your liking?”

A young woman around your age asks, pulling back to allow you to see your own reflection. The person working on your hair continues in silence, the pair only speaking to you when absolutely necessary. It’s not like you can blame them, you think bitterly. Treading carefully and minding your mannerisms is an all too familiar dance.

“Yes, thank you.” you offer in response after brief deliberation, to which she lets out a shaky sigh of relief. A fluffy brush dances across your face as she continues her work, blending together your foundation or making small touch ups when necessary. Seeing your own somber reflection being dolled up stirs unknown emotions within you, almost prompting you to laugh humorlessly.

Your hair has been pulled back into a loose braid. Woven into your hair are flowers, likely created by Gold Experience. From light pink juliet roses to white hydrangeas, all stunningly beautiful despite your inner hatred for what they represent. It’s not that Giorno can’t afford to obtain flowers from other sources. The act of claiming you is what this represents.

Highlight that compliments your skin color is set upon your cheekbones and lightly dusted onto your nose, cheeks subtly rosy from blush. The color of your eyes is brought out by smokey eye shadow, eyelids covered in flecks of gold then finished with dark winged eyeliner. Lastly, in the color that Giorno had picked out himself, your lips plump and covered in a deep pink.

As for the dress, Giorno considered your minimal input when deciding on it. Weeks of fittings and measurements in his private villa come flooding back to your mind, the irritating experience bestowing upon you an extravagant dress. A sweetheart neckline, with a mermaid silhouette that extended past your feet. It has a bare back, with a long cathedral chain behind you. The fabric clings to your curves beautifully, made of lace and tulle.

It’s hard to justify messing up their work, as much as you’d love to. As innocent bystanders in this entangling mess, you loathe the thought of them getting in trouble for your tantrum. Knuckles tightening by your sides until your nails press painfully to your skin, you stop only to realize how it’d displeasure Giorno to see your beautiful skin tainted by crimson.

A door opens behind you, the sound of fine orchestral accompaniments growing louder. In the mirror, you’re able to see one of your bodyguards, Fugo. His normal outfit riddled with holes replaced by a coal black tux, gaze serious as ever.

“She walks out in five minutes. Is everything done by now?” he asks in a way that leaves room for little argument. Fugo has always been a no nonsense type of man, the stress from keeping a monumental event like this safe and moving along weighing down on him. Your hairdresser doesn’t look back while she responds, adding final flourishes while time allows.

“It will be. We’re just wrapping up now.”

Fugo runs a hand through his hair, sighing but nodding his head. For privacy he closes the door, likely standing by it for added security. The comfort of this room will soon be left behind you, as much as you want to stay hidden away forever. All you can think is this aspect will be over after today, though a much crueler fate awaits you with open arms.

After what feels like a too short amount of time, they begin prompting you to stand, handing you your bouquet of expensive and vibrant flowers. Your grip on which is weak, hands shaking too much to gain a proper grasp. Taking in a deep breath and closing your eyes, you do everything within your power to quench this stifling anxiety.

With no rest for the weary, Fugo once again opens the door. He meets your gaze, lips set in a tight frown but not commenting on your aghast expression; likely in an act of mercy towards you. He silently offers you his arm to steady your teetering figure, to which you shake your head. You’ve made it this far on your lonesome, the rest of the world failing you at every opportunity.

It’s more of a symbolic act now since you’ll have to take his arm later, Fugo being the one to give you away in the stead of your father. This is one of the conditions you presented to Giorno in return for your full compliance, that he leaves your family alone from all mafia related circumstances, this included. He seemed more than pleased at the time to accept his beloved’s request.

Wedding veil gingerly placed atop you, all the preparations steps have been completed. There’s no other acceptable excuses you can present at this moment, the calling before you beckoning. Fugo prompts you to walk out with him, a hallway not long enough for your liking in front of you.

Each step takes every ounce of your willpower. All you can hear, like a mantra within your own mind, is that you need to get yourself together. That’s the deal you made with him, the one that you need to stick by in spite of yourself. For the safety of those you care about, you must present yourself as a perfect and overjoyed bride.

Two intimidating looking men dressed for the occasion stand on either side of the large doors, ready to open the gates of your own personal hell. Fugo nods to them, his authority within the organization prompting them to open the doors to the chapel. At the very second of doing so, the orchestra changes their song to the bridal chorus.

Rich sounds of the organ flood your ears, lips quivering at the crushing sound reverberating within these tightly packed walls. The sensation of hundreds of faceless strangers staring at you makes your knees go weak, all of them now standing out of respect for your soon-to-be husband. None of them mean anything to you, but you’d be a fool to not acknowledge their importance. From politicians to fellow mafiosos, all eyes are on you.

Sensing your hesitation to continue walking, Fugo gently nudges you forward. The act breaks you from your momentary stupor, allowing you to continue down the aisle with faux grace. Running out of other sights to look at, your gaze hesitantly falls onto Giorno, who grows closer by the second.

He’s composed, as you’ve come to expect from him. There’s an image of rigidness that needs to be maintained with being a Don. His lips curl into a content smile when your eyes meet. Every ounce of your being screaming, pleading, for you to look away. To run away. Yet you can’t, the logical side of your brain being won over by the intensity of his presence.

Your body moves in a trance-like state towards him, drawn to his serene expression and loving eyes. Otherworldly is how you describe him in this moment, sunlight shining against his golden hair which is loose from the normal braid. No expenses were cut on his own outfit, wearing a luxurious navy blue Givenchy suit.

There’s no denying that the devil incarnate is nothing short of beautiful.

Fugo goes to shake Giorno’s hand, instead of your real father. He gives you one last look before descending down the stairs and taking his seat in the front row. Now feeling all on your own, you feel the anxiety from before returning in full force. What frightens you the most now is how gentle Giorno’s emerald eyes are, how much heartfelt love shines within them for you. It feels like his gaze pierces through your being, capable of reading every thought.

Offering him a smile that you pray he finds satisfactory, Giorno lifts the veil over your face.

“I’ve never seen someone so breathtaking.” he mutters under his breath, only for you to hear. Goosebumps dot your skin at his affectionate proclamation.

He then turns to look to the altar. You mirror this action, seeing an eldery man who must be the priest. Seeing his lips move, you faintly process that he’s addressing the two of you. All the world slows down as your fate is sealed, head growing dizzier by the second. This stifling atmosphere all but grabs you by the neck, suffocating you. Body on autopilot, you respond only when prompted to do so.

Now time for rings to be exchanged, Giorno grabs your hand with utmost care. He smiles at you, one that’s different than normal. One that doesn’t have hidden intentions behind it, an agenda to manipulate your feelings. No, this comes from the depths of his soul. From his overflowing love for you, that drowns out any other sensations.

He places the ring on your finger, expensive diamonds and gold band sliding on with shackles. “With this ring I, Giorno Giovanna, take you, [First], to be my own. To have you by side and support you until I draw my final breath, to love you with everything that I am and more. Let this be a symbol of our union that will last until the end of time itself.”

Words flow from his mouth with practiced ease, silver tongue threatening to draw you in. Your heart rate hammers away as you realize it’s your turn to speak your own vows, no longer protected by having to repeat someone else’s words. Giorno required of you to write it yourself, one of the cruelest things he could’ve had you do.

To speak of an abundance of love for someone you have nothing but deep abhorrence for.

Giorno’s eyes flicker at your lack of response, muscles of his jaw taut. A darkness momentarily seeps within his expression, one that you recognize all too well. This is the Giorno that you know. Lightly clearing your throat in mock sentiment, you pass it off as being choked up. Placing Giorno’s ring onto his ring finger, you shiver as your skin brushes against his.

Recalling the dishonest words, you speak them through a forced smile. “With this ring I, [First], take you, my dearest Giorno, to stand by you through the trials of life. The joys of my life are brought to me by you, and now I wish to return the favor. Allow me to repay you by being yours, and may nothing stand between us.”

Any signs of malice have melted away, a beaming expression taking their place on his countenance. Every word brought bile to your throat, numerous lies spilling from you like sweet venom. Your impeccable acting goes unnoticed, as he draws closer to you. Or maybe he does notice it but wants to delude himself into believing you’re being honest.

“By the power vested in me by God and man, I pronounce you wife and husband. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. You may kiss your bride.”

Warm hands on both sides of your face caress you, the pads of his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. What’s meant to be a tender moment causes your blood to run cold, hairs on the back of your neck standing at the realization of what this next action means. Giorno leans forward, long eyelashes fluttering shut. Soft lips mold against your own in a chaste kiss, your body tingling and scent of his rich cologne enveloping you.

He lingers for a second longer, before pulling back a few inches. Golden locks tickle your skin, his warm breath fanning against your flustered face. Giorno greedily drinks in the unfolding events in front of him, wordlessly portraying to you the depths of his obsession. You can only imagine what he’s thinking, and what it means for you. He feels like he’s won, that this victory will cement your place with him.

Closing his eyes once more, he offers you his arm. Understanding the gesture, you take it without protest. The smile never leaves his face as he turns around to face those who have gathered to the ceremony with you at his side.

Meaningless cheers erupt behind you, a once in a lifetime event of witnessing the union of Passione’s Don filling the air with palpable electricity. As you assume he wants, you follow Giorno’s lead by walking out towards the large wooden doors. His grip on you is tight, both physically steadying and emotionally unsettling you.

Going through the motions, is what you decide this detached state of existence is. Pushing through the numbness that threatens to take hold, you smile your best dazzling smile. It all happens in a flurry, crowds parting to allow for your safe passage. Once you walk out the Cathedral doors, you’re met with grains of rice fluttering onto you from either side and more delight.

All the faces that go by you like a blur appear overjoyed, paling in comparison only to Giorno. In the time you’ve had to share with him, you’re incapable of recalling seeing him this thrilled. The day is long from over, an outdoor reception already set up for you to sludge through. At least for this aspect, you doubt anyone will speak to you directly. Or if they do, it’ll be a predictable conversation that you already have designated answers to give.

Their attention will mostly remain on Giorno, congratulating him on the union. You wonder if some poor soul learned through experience that it’s unwise to have their eyes linger on you for too long. Giorno is a walking contradiction, wanting to both present his beautiful lover yet setting boundaries to prevent people from getting too close for his liking.

As you predicted, congratulatory words are shared hundreds of times. Hours pass of the same, monotonous routine. The one aspect that causes you to subtly stiffen every time is when an individual addresses you as Mrs. Giovanna. It feels like a part of your identity has been stolen, among all the other things he has taken from you.

“Do you need to rest? We’ve been standing for some time.” Giorno whispers into your ear, after a mafioso expressed his regards to his Don. You shake your head, not wanting to be alone with him. With all these people around, you oddly feel safer. Though none of them would stand up for you as it’s a certified death wish.

“I’ll be alright,” you respond to him with a sigh, lowering your head to look at the tile underneath you. “It’s just been a lot.”

Giorno considers your words, searching for emotions that aren’t there. You distract yourself by looking around, feeling content that these people are having fun even if you’re not. Families speaking amongst themselves enjoying the fine catering, partners dancing and almost everyone holding a wine glass. Asking him never felt like a priority, but you do wonder how much this spectacle cost.

As the evening progresses, the sun lowers into the sky. Beams of orange and yellow mixing together enrapture everything in sight, the scent of delicacies and wine mixing together. Milan is an enrapturing city. All day you’ve had no appetite, Giorno having to convince you to eat something. Looking down at the plate that he brought you, a slice of buttered focaccia is what you settle on.

Speaking of Giorno, he left your side for the first time in hours to speak to some security. You feel like it’s easier to breathe outside of his presence, though the respite won’t last much longer. As expected, he returns to you and extends his hand. You hesitate before grabbing it, to which he helps you up.

“We’ll be heading to our hotel now.” he instructs you, leading you to the curb where a limousine awaits. Ever the gentleman, Giorno opens the door for you to take your seat before sitting next to you himself. A final group of cheers for the new couple break out, before the crowd is behind you.

Only the low drum of the engine fills your ears, your lap holding your interest. Feeling emotionally drained to the core, you don’t offer any resistance when Giorno lays his hand over your own. Working up the courage to look at him, you’re met with a serene expression. He loosens his tie some, upward curl of his lips never faltering.

“Cara… you looked troubled,” he squeezes your hand reassuringly. “Is something bothering you?”

“Ah. I’m not used to all that attention and socializing.” you admit in truth, a sheepish smile of your own creeping up. Giorno is the only person who you have contact with on a regular basis. You forgot what it was like to converse with strangers, even in passing. Giorno seems to understand, bright green eyes softening.

He reaches to a pen in his jacket, and before your very eyes, it turns into an impressive burgundy rose. Giorno’s ability is a mystifying one, no matter how many times you witness it. He quietly laughs at your wide eye look, before tucking it behind your ear.

“We’ll be alone soon enough.”

It’s a phrase meant to soothe you, yet it has the opposite effect. A hidden meaning glimmers underneath the surface, one that you anticipate.

Still in a dreamlike state, you eventually arrive in a luxurious suite. This is one of the finest hotels in Milan, with a vast view of the historic city. Placing your hand to the glass of the window, you hear footsteps approaching you from behind. Not feeling the need to turn around to greet your husband, Giorno makes up for it by wrapping his arms around your torso.

He presses himself against you, head lowering to the crux of your neck to take in your scent. A perfume that he chose for you. His lips ghost over your pulse, appreciating how it gains speed at his teasing touch. He knows this body well. This is a culmination of all he’s desired, the payoff of you before him. Giorno’s hands hover up to your shoulder, where he plays with the straps of your dress.

You close your eyes.

Lifting his head to your ears, you shiver at his low declaration. “Now, give all of yourself to me, mio bellissimo amore.”

#giorno #Giorno Giovanna #giovanna giorno #yandere giorno #giorno x reader #yandere giorno x reader #yandere giorno giovanna x reader #yandere #yandere jjba #jjba 5 #JoJo's Bizzare Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventures #yandere jojo's bizzare adventure #yandere imagine #yandere scenario #my stuff #commission #yandere commission #commissions

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irronstarkss · 5 years ago

Text

AS THE DRUMMERS DRUM ∞ E. MIKAELSON

wc | 6k (i’m sorry i got carried away)

warnings | violence, blood, death. but also fluff. it’s all in there.

masterlist

The cool morning air licked her bare, exposed shoulder, enticing a hiss from her as she slowly stepped into the waking world. Pulling the duvet closer to her chin, she reveled in the warmth that it provided, turning just slightly to reach out and place a soft palm on the opposite side of the bed. Her fingers came in contact with something just as warm as the covers, a chuckle hitting her ears moments later.

Reluctantly, but happily, she opened her eyes and gave him a lazy smile over her shoulder, turning fully to lay on her side and stare up at him. It was obvious enough to her that he’d been up already, likely trapped in his own world of thought. The smile he offered her in return told her that those thoughts were vacating his mind, though, and for that, she took solace.

Her hand found his on the top of the duvet, her bare chest meeting the brisk air he had already been sitting in, but she ignored it. Their fingers tangled together, her eyes tracing each and every scar, line, and knuckle. She adored his hands, adored what they could do, adored what they could hold, adored that, no matter what activity he’d previously participated in, they were always soft in the center. When she looked back up to his face, she saw that his eyes were locked on her own hand, that lazy smirk having made a home upon his lips.

“How’d you sleep?” She asked in a low whisper, shifting in her spot so that she could lean against him, her free hand resting on his bare chest.

“As well as could be expected,” he sighed, eyebrows furrowing for a moment before he looked at her with adoration painted across his irises. “You?”

“Well,” she laughed, her eyebrows twitching upward, “I had this crazy dream where,” she took in a breath, “it was crazy, Elijah.” Her joking smile had relieved him of any worry the moment her sentence began, and he was already beginning to laugh with her as she giggled through her next few words, “I had this dream where you,” she poked his chest, “made me a cup of my favorite tea, and then you made me your signature breakfast─ I know, it sounds crazy!”

He was laughing with her then, bringing her hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss on her knuckles, “That does sound quite… ludicrous, darling.”

The two of them chuckled quietly, staring at one another. Her eyes danced across his face, much like they had his hand, and she took in each part, each dimple, freckle, scar. She had never in her life loved a man such as she did Elijah, with so much passion, so much fervor it was hard for her to contain it all. How long it had been, at this point she wasn’t sure, nor was she sure of the exact moment she’d fallen in love with the man, but she was sure in saying that she’d never regret a day of it.

Leaning forward, her hand cupped Elijah’s face and she pulled him down to her level, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. His palm ran along her arm, fingertips pressing into her skin whenever she didn’t pull away and the kiss lasted a moment too long to be considered just a good-morning-kiss. He pushed forward, pressing into the kiss as much as he could.

She pulled herself down so that she rested on her back, head against the mess of pillows they slept on. A moment spared between their kisses, and then Elijah was meeting her again, on top of her and hands traveling anywhere they could reach. Her fingers tangled into the hair on the nape of his neck, tugging lightly whenever he’d touch a sweet spot on her bare skin. He pulled away from her with a sigh, hot breathing leaving a tingling path down her neck as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to every inch he possibly could. His teeth grazed against her skin, empty threats to pierce it hanging in the air between them.

“Elijah,” her voice was breathless, her neck tipped back and ever so exposed. She was taunting him, could feel his eyes focused on the vein that echoed with her heartbeat, knew just what she was doing. Usually, she would do this until she knew he couldn’t deny it anymore, couldn’t hold himself back, and then she would take the permission from him, to tease, to take pleasure in the denial of such pleasures to an Original vampire. But, now, as his fingers worked her skin, and his breath cascaded over her sensitive collarbone, she found that she couldn’t deny him this. “Don’t hold back.”

His hand came up from her ribcage, clutching the side of her neck he couldn’t see. He bit into her throat, a moan escaping his chest at the taste of her blood on his tongue. Any pain she’d felt at the initial bite was gone, replaced with only a feeling of almost sadistic pleasure paired with a sudden lightness she hadn’t felt beforehand. He stopped himself whenever an involuntary whimper echoed quietly, pulling back and kissing the puncture wounds, cleaning up the blood around it with his tongue.

His traced kisses all the way up to her ear, then down her cheekbone, to her lips, where he pushed harder into her. One hand grasped the back of his neck, the other sliding down his bare chest, over his ribs, as far as she could reach. He moaned at the feeling, forearms bracing himself around her head, hands tangling loosely into her hair. When he pulled away, his forehead rested on hers, his chest heaving just slightly for lack of breath.

She pushed him up and over, taking her own position above him as she sat on his abdomen. The adoration that flashed through his dark eyes, yet again, made her heart race and a smile light up her features. She was exposed to him, everything bared in front of him but neatly hidden to anyone that might walk in, and God, he loved it.

She was perfection to him, every bit of beautiful and worth every risk. He took the hands that rested on his chest in his own, looking up at her as he kissed each knuckle, a smile so clearly traced across his lips. He couldn’t begin to understand how he’d managed to become so enthralled in this woman, but he couldn’t seem to convince himself to give a damn. She was everything to him, and he let her in, and he was perfectly okay with that.

“I love you,” he said in a low tone, eyes narrowing as they danced between her own.

She bit her bottom lip, lowering herself down so that their chests were pressed together, “I love you, Elijah Mikaelson.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, to which he returned gratefully, and as she pulled away, he noticed the marks on her neck still angry and red.

He chuckled to himself, hand reaching up and lightly tracing the wounds, “Forgive me.” Biting his wrist, he offered to her, which she took without question, drinking just enough for her marks to fade with a quickness. His thumb traced away the remnant of blood left on her bottom lip and he smiled so genuinely, so softly, he was sure his thousand-year-old heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

────

Elijah had given her a kiss goodbye as he left the Compound, having to assist Niklaus in something he surely would garner no good will from. She wasn’t sure if assist was so much the right word as save the ass of, but she figured it would do her well to think of it as helping instead of the both of them being put in mortal danger. She was well acquainted with the idea that it came as part of the Mikaelson’s – pain, being shoved into life-threatening situations, disregard for personal health when faced with the doom of another member – but that didn’t mean she always saw it necessary for Elijah to be the one who picked up after his younger brother.

But as luck would have it, neither Rebekah, Freya, nor Kol, or Marcel for that matter, cared to give him much assistance in his endeavors, leaving the sole sibling to take care of it. With all of this in mind, she found herself quite alone at the Compound, traveling the halls and searching for things to do in her state of absolute boredom. She’d leave, but it simply required too much of her effort to want to get dressed and go out and talk with people, maybe even encounter those she’d rather not have anything to do with. So, with her almost egregious amount of time, she did absolutely nothing productive and busied herself with sweet nothings.

The past hour, she’d found herself in Elijah’s study, glossing over the books he kept on his shelf. She’d been with him for almost eight years now, traveled alongside him wherever Niklaus went, so she was more than aware of the literature he chose to indulge in, but these works were things she’d never seen him with before, let alone mention. They dated back to the earlier part of the fifteen hundreds, some even before that, and to imagine that he’d kept them so beautifully intact amazed her.

Her eyes found the trunk that sat at the corner of the room, just by the doorway, and without much thought, her feet took her to it. She sat down, opening the lid and pulling out the journal that had been tied and retied and retied a million times by none other than herself, as she always gave in to the guilty pleasure of reading what her Elijah wrote of in his times on the planet. He’d seen empires rise and fall, he’d seen countries burn, world wars, the likes, and yet he still managed to find a reason to love this place, to stay in it.

That fact amazed her almost as much as his fanatical-librarian alter ego that kept five-hundred-year-old books because maybe he might pick them up again someday.

A smile danced across her lips as she read the familiar handwriting, fingertips tracing over the paper and feeling the dips where his quill had pressed. Some words were deeper than others, scrawled in anger or sorrow, but others were barely a divot in the page, written with a light hand, happily, carefully. She could picture the very day he was describing in her mind’s eye, the look on his face as he gazed upon his siblings laughing, finally feeling as a family.

But the image was cut short by a rather loud thud from somewhere in the house, tearing her attention away from the words on the page and up to the doorway. Her eyes peered through the crack between the door and the frame, watching three figures clad in all back march through the levels, obviously looking for something and not giving a damn if they were caught. She closed the book softly, wrapping it up and tucking back in the trunk, letting the lid shut quietly.

Standing from her position on the floor, she padded over to the bookshelf, pulling two books that were too new, too vividly colored to match the rest of the old works. She set them on a lower shelf, grabbing the small dagger that was hidden behind them in case of emergency and tucking it behind her wrist.

Another thud startled her by its closeness, a sharp gasp leaving her mouth as she turned and looked to the doorway, where two of the three men stood. They were stocky, a mask covering their face and only adding to the element of wickedness the men held. There was barely a moment’s pause before one lunged at her, hands reaching for her throat. Fixing the dagger into her grip, she drove it into the side of his neck to the best of her ability, pulling it out and watching as he dropped, blood dripping from the black cloth that covered his body.

The other was quick to follow his lead, this time reaching for her wrist and pinning it against the bookshelf behind her. His thumb pressed on a pressure point, causing her fingers to relinquish the grip they had on the blade and a yell of pain to leave her. The dagger clattered to the ground, and the much bigger man subdued her with a quick strike across the jaw. She slumped against the bookshelf and the man picked her up by the waist, slinging her over his shoulder and shouting to the other assailant that he’d gotten what they came for.

––

She awoke with a start, pulling upward and being met with great resistance from her wrists and her stomach. She looked down, eyes tracing the tight rings of rope that bound her to the chair. Her stomach had been looped just the same, as well as her feet. A lingering coldness seeped through her nerves, and she noticed then that the bindings had been cutting off the circulation of blood to her extremities, and if she were to move, it would only make it tighter.

Chest heaving, she looked around wildly, trying to recollect the moments that lead up to this one in her racing mind. She remembered the men in the house, the dagger behind the bookshelf… the dead man on the floor, and then being struck. Her eyes became hooded as she realized there was likely no one aware that anything was wrong in the Mikaelson compound – she’d been the only one there, something she’d been rather unopposed to at the start of the day. Now, however, she found herself wishing she’d gone out somewhere; perhaps a drink could’ve stopped her and these… who were they? from crossing paths.

She could guess as much that they weren’t vampires – they didn’t speed when they came after her, and if she was any wise to how the blood-thirsty creatures were, any advantage they had they were sure to use. They could have been werewolves, but that would mean the wolves had even attempted to come out of the bayou and that just didn’t make any sense in her mind.

That left only the witches. Because of course, the witches would have something against her or the Mikaelson’s. She was not without her own guilts, this much was true, but they really did pale in comparison to the thousands of year’s worth of bloodshed that stained the hands of Niklaus, Elijah, the lot of them. An irritated tug to the ropes made her hiss in regret, her head hanging low when she realized she was practically powerless. She was not of the supernatural world – a choice she’d made when she first fell for the Original vampire. A life, she’s said, she wanted to have a life, and just the one would be quite enough for her.

A sinking feeling invaded her heart when she realized that life she’d so desperately wanted was going to end rather abruptly today, with none of her own say in the matter. Shaking her head, she let out a scoff, tears threatening to well up in her eyes, leaving a burning feeling in her head and the back of her throat.

Her gaze shot up as she heard the echo of footsteps, approaching her from somewhere she couldn’t see. She breathed angrily, her lip snarling upward as the person in question stepped into the light, a harsh shadow playing on his face.

“Y/n,” he grinned evilly, “so good for us to meet again.”

“I’m sorry?” She raised a brow, a bite to each word, “Am I supposed to know who you are?”

“I suppose not,” he gave a thoughtful nod, “but no matter. I know exactly who you are. And what you mean to the Mikaelson’s.”

The necklace that hung from his neck, something she’d seen tons of witches wear before, as well as the tan-colored pigment of his skin tone, sparked something of recognition in her mind, but she genuinely could not place where or when she’d seen him. Shaking her head, she let out a breath, “What do you want?”

“Answers,” he gave, as if it were simple.

“To,” she looked around, confusion written all over her features, “to what, exactly?”

“Well,” he smiled at her, walking over to the side of the room, shrouded in darkness. When he came back, he’d shrugged off his coat and stood in front of her, sleeves rolled up and palms clasped together. “You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

────

Elijah stepped into the compound, tugging at the ends of his dress shirt and overcoat, fixing his now bloodied suit to the best of his abilities. It had been torn in his small scrap with the vampire variety, so he would have to discard it, but that did not deter him from keeping up a false pretense of management. Niklaus was not far behind him, storming in with angry sneer, and completely shattering that management Elijah clung to.

“I am tired of this city thinking it can rule itself,” he growled, turning and facing his older brother as he pointed to the door. “Don’t they see that they’re all fools! Don’t they see there’s no sense in challenging me! I’m the King!”

Elijah stared at his brother with a blank expression on his face, waiting for his usual tirade to end before drawing in a breath and letting it out, mouth hanging open as he processed the words he was about to let out, “Brother, might I say, you may be King, but this city does not take well to self-pronounced royalty.”

“They’ll fear me, Elijah,” he said in a final statement, though it hardly counted as a response to what the elder Original had said. With nothing else remaining, he stormed off into a different area of the Compound.

A sigh left the elder brother, his hands tucking into his pockets as he stood in the courtyard, closing his eyes and taking in the moment of silence.

Absolute silence.

His eyes cracked open again, and he looked up at the second level, listening for anything other than Niklaus cracking open a bottle of bourbon from the cellar. But there was nothing. He clenched his jaw, walking toward the stairs and continuing to listen for something he was beginning to fear he would not find. His eyes narrowed as he looked about, waiting to see if she would pop out from a separate room, or perhaps from their own. But the door to their room was wide open, likely with little regard to closing it, and he took sudden notice to the lack of closed doors.

Swallowing, he walked into their room, saw nothing, and then raced to his study. If Y/n hadn’t been there, she’d be in his other area, reading his journal or perhaps sleeping on the couch. But as he looked in, his heart rose to his throat and his breath ceased. A man lay on the ground, blood pooled around him, and the dagger presumably used to take his life lay next to him. Pulling his hand from his pocket, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground, folded into a ball.

His gaze bounced between the corpse and the paper, and that dread that had been gripping his mind now took up home in his stomach. He squatted down, unfolding the paper and reading the messily scrawled words along the paper.

Give back what’s mine, I’ll give back what’s yours.

He crumpled the paper in his fist, anger flaring up in his body. Standing, he left the study and stood against the banister, “Niklaus!”

His brother rounded the corner, having rid himself of his coat, “Must you yell, Elijah?”

“They took her,” he said lowly, not fearing Niklaus’s ability to hear him.

“What?” The younger brother suddenly stood alert, looking up at Elijah with a clenched jaw that mirrored his own.

“The damned witches,” he threw the paper ball down to the courtyard, Niklaus racing to grab it before it hit the ground. He uncrinkled it, reading the note and shaking his head. Elijah fixed his suit jacket, the fabric still slightly damp from the blood. “We have to find her.”

Niklaus pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing no doubt their older sister’s number, and explaining the situation very briefly before hanging up, “Grab something of Y/n’s. We’re going to Freya.”

–

The brothers stood behind Freya as she cast the spell, chanting under her breath and then watching as the grey substance traced its way across the city of New Orleans all the way to the edge. It stopped at what seemed like nothing, but the siblings knew better – it was likely whatever they’d hidden her in was underground or unregistered with the city. A safe spot no one would think to look if no one knew of its existence.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Freya shook her head, hands braced on the table, “it shouldn’t have been that easy. If it was the witches like you say, they would have used a- a cloaking spell, something.”

“So it’s a trap?” Klaus spoke up.

“Likely,” Elijah nodded, tone calm. His hands were tucked in his suit pockets again, gaze trained on the slats of the window as he thought of the possibilities that could greet them in that place. “Is it possible the spell isn’t tracing Y/n directly?”

Freya thought for a moment before shaking her head, “No. The spell doesn’t chase remnants – it either finds them or it doesn’t. That’s where she is.”

“Then we’re wasting time,” Niklaus growled, turning heavily over his shoulder and stalking out of the tower.

Elijah went to follow, but Freya turned and grabbed his elbow, stopping him in his path. “Be aware, Elijah. They wanted her to be found for a reason.”

Elijah nodded, giving one last look to his sister before turning on his heel and following his younger brother out.

────

Her head hung low, aching with a dull pain starting at her crown and descending to her collarbone. She was sure if they struck her again her head would fly off – a mercy killing, at this point. The blood from her mouth pooled in her lap and she cringed at the look of it, wishing she could make this all stop.

He’d started with telling her who he was – a New Orleans witch with a vendetta against the Mikaelsons. “They stole something from me, you see,” he’d shrugged, running his fingers down the length of an impressively long dagger, “and I intend to get it back.”

Y/n had asked what it was, and he explained rather simply that it was an important family heirloom, passed down through his bloodline, that was meant to increase the power of the possessor tenfold. But, of course, if any witch possessed that kind of magic and wasn’t the reagent, there was surely an innumerable amount of ways they could defile and abuse it.

He, who had not given a name for whatever reason she wasn’t sure of, asked her first if she’d seen it. When she answered that she had no idea what it looked like, he smiled tightly and sighed, asking again. She shrugged in the chair, hands reflexively pulling up against the ropes. Setting the knife down, he walked so that he was crouched in front of her, fingers ghosting over her kneecap. “See, love, this is going to work in one of two ways. You’ll give me what I need, I wait for the Mikaelson’s to rescue their pitiful human,” he sneered a little at the word, as if he weren’t one himself, anyway, “and then all will be well. Or,” his hand clasped around her leg, a searing pain emitting from his fingertips as he burned into her thigh, “you deny me what I want and I leave your dead body for your beloved Elijah to find.”

She grimaced slightly at the mention of Elijah – if he found out that anything happened to her, she was sure he would not hold back the part of himself kept behind the door, away from the world. “He’s going to kill you,” she growled lowly, fingernails digging into her palms.

“Oh I know,” he chuckled, “I count on it.” He grabbed her palm, slicing it open and letting blood spill into a bowl. With a few words chanted quietly, he looked up at her through dark lashes and grinned, “Should I meet my demise, sweetheart, so will you. But fear not – anything done to you doesn’t affect me. Magic is a wonderful thing.”

After that, every answer she gave him that wasn’t the exact location of whatever heirloom he was talking about, he’d do something that hurt just a little more. Then he’d cast a spell, heal her of the wounds, and do it all over again. What felt like hours had passed, her throat was raw from screaming, her head pounding, her body consumed in searing pain.

Lifting her gaze, just slightly, she tried to see something, anything. A person, hopefully not that bastard of a witch, a door, another light, anything that could tell her where she was. But the harsh light above her shrouded the rest of her surroundings in a deep darkness she couldn’t see through. Her breath escaped shakily, her head dropping again while tears began to roll down her cheeks.

What if they weren’t coming? What if this was going to be her end? What was going to happen if… if Elijah found her dead? He’d undoubtedly blame himself, push himself so far into a corner of his mind, and he’d never be the same. And, Niklaus, the poor man, would lose his brother, lose his best friend. He cared for Y/n, too, but he cared for her because she brought a happiness to his brother that hadn’t been evident in over a century.

The fear of leaving Elijah alone was what gripped her most, and the idea that it was going to be over something so trivial as a trinket, it broke her. She wished, she really wished she could give the location to the witch, to make this stop, but she couldn’t because she didn’t know what, or where it was – both key factors in giving him the answer he wanted. This was a fact she’d given time and time again and was called a liar for.

She sputtered a small heap of blood into her lap, the feeling of it tickling the back of her throat. Hurried footsteps echoed through the dark, and she looked up, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowed, trying to see who it was that was coming back. Her mind told her it would be Elijah – he had found her, he was going to untie her, get her out of here. But her gut told her it would be the witch, coming back to do as much damage as he could.

Her gut had won out, and she screamed whenever he came into light, “No, please! Please!” Her voice broke and she sobbed, the rope around her stomach digging into her skin as she leaned forward, hyperventilating, “I don’t– I don’t know where, I don’t have it,” she murmured, shaking her head.

The witch said nothing, gripping the knife beside him and standing just in front of her, not even looking at her sorry heap in the chair. His gaze was hyperfocused on the darkness she couldn’t see past. A second and third set of footsteps, just as hurried as before, hit her ears, and she silenced her erratic sobbing, hoping to whatever god there was that it had been Elijah.

“Let her go,” she hissed inwardly, staring at the darkness with wide eyes, the ever recognizable voice of her beloved practically a melody. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, but she does,” the witch smirked, “in fact, she has everything to do with this.” Turning over his shoulder, he raised a hand in the air. The ropes around her loosened, and she lifted with his fingers, completely at the mercy of his magic. Any struggle she put up was quickly quelled by the power around her, so she was quick to simply give in to the force.

Elijah’s eyes widened as he looked on at her, stepping closer to the witch. Niklaus, who had been standing beside his brother, closed the distance further, coming right up to the witch’s face and asking with a growl, “What do you want?”

“My pendant,” he challenged the hybrid, staring him in the eye and snarling. His fist closed behind him, Y/n letting out sputtering noises as she choked on a magical force squeezing around her throat.

Klaus surged forward, holding the man up by his throat, hoping that would release his hold on Y/n. But, instead, his fist remained closed, pressing tighter and choking her more. Klaus clenched a tight palm around the witch’s throat, straining to fight against the magic that was protecting him. “We don’t have it!”

“Yes! You do!” The witch cried, pushing the knife into the hybrid’s chest then following with his free palm, sending him into a cement post behind them. Klaus sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily, angrily, gripping at the handle of the blade lodged in him.

Elijah sighed, stepping closer once more, “We don’t have it. We don’t care to take such trivial trinkets.” There was truth in every word he spoke, every syllable that passed his lips. They truly did not have it, had no idea of what he was talking about.

“I did a locator spell,” the witch growled, letting the grip he had on Y/n’s throat go just slightly, and she let out a breath, but nevertheless continued to claw at her throat, “it was at your home.”

“We have no care to know who you are,” Klaus said lowly, standing and letting the knife clatter to the ground, “why would we care to take something from you?”

Obviously, his words offended the witch, his brows furrowed and his eyes darkening. “You will care about who I am when I take something from you.” Looking to Y/n, he smiled and drew his thumbnail across his own throat, cutting hers in the process. She choked on the blood, holding her hands to her neck and trying to stop the bleeding. Elijah cried out, racing to her body as she dropped. He caught her, placing her on the concrete, and Niklaus raced forward, grabbing the witch by the collar and biting into his throat, ripping it out without a second thought.

The witch collapsed to the ground, and briefly, he wondered why he hadn’t done it earlier. But, he knew it was likely the witch had tied himself to her or made it so that if he died, she went with him. Klaus stared at the dead body a moment longer, then walked over to his brother.

Elijah cried into her shirt, gripping the back of her neck and pulling her as close to him as he could. A yell ripped through his throat, and Klaus clenched his jaw, ready to rip the entire coven to shreds for this. Placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder, he closed his eyes and listened for just a moment. There was no one else with them, they were quite alone in this warehouse. “She’s dead, Niklaus,” Elijah whimpered, looking up at him with lost, broken brown eyes. “She’s gone.”

Klaus’s jaw clenched, and he looked away a moment then returned his gaze back to his brother, “Let’s take her home.”

────

Freya had been the one to greet them at the door, a sorrowful look in her eyes whenever she saw Elijah cradling the love of his life against his chest, face absolutely stoic. Blood coated his already ruined suit, and from the ashen look of Y/n’s skin, it had been all of hers. Klaus said nothing as he walked up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door. Elijah looked at Freya, mouth open as he took a breath, eyebrows furrowed. Tears filled his eyes, but he just shook his head, walking past her and clutching Y/n as tightly as possible.

Laying her down on a couch in their room, he sat beside her and kissed her fingers, tears slipping down his face. This was never supposed to happen – she was never supposed to get hurt this way. He made her a promise, gave her his word that she would be safe as long as he loved her. He broke his promise. How could he do that to her?

His eyes trained themselves on the cut around her throat, and a shaky breath left his chest. He closed his eyes, shaking his head and wanting nothing more than to be back with her this morning, holding her, talking with her again. He remembered each moment of the morning with a vivid mind’s eye, smiling to himself at her jokes, at the feeling of her lips on his, her skin in his hands, the soft moan that left her whenever he’d bitten into her collarbone.

He stopped, stilling completely as he looked at her. His eyes widened and he looked down, eyes darting back and forth as he remembered seeing her atop him, drinking blood from his wrist to heal the bite he’d left on her neck. His sight was back on her, watching for any signs of movement, of something. But it would likely be hours before she came back – it wasn’t a quick resurrection.

She could’ve been drained completely of his blood, though; her state when they finally found her was battered, to say the least. Even so, the hope that she could come back to him made the tears dry and sudden desperation to kick in. Leaning forward, he whispered to her to come back to him, to wake up, and then pressed his lips into her cold forehead.

–

The Original hadn’t left the room the entire night, watching and waiting for her to wake. With each passing hour that she didn’t, that desperate hope vacated his much-too-old soul, and he briefly wondered if he’d be able to stomach life without her. At some point, he stood, making a trip to his study and pulling a book from his shelf that he’d read a thousand times over. A smile threatened this corner of his lips as he thought of what she might’ve said to see him picking up the ancient works again.

As he pulled back the cover, a gasp echoed in his ears, along with an erratic heartbeat. Dropping the book, he raced to his room to see Y/n sitting up straight, grasping at her throat with wide eyes and terrified expression. Elijah kneeled beside her, holding her face and letting her register that it was him before pulling her into his chest. His hands petted the back of her head, ragged breaths leaving the both of them.

“What happened?” She whispered.

“You died,” he answered simply, pulling away and looking at her with water-filled eyes, “you died, Y/n.”

“Then–” Her hands gripped his wrists, and for a moment she searched his face, looking for an answer to the question. Once she found it, she stilled beneath him for a moment, “I’m... I’m a–”

“Yes,” Elijah said, nodding to her and looking away for a moment, shame filling him. This isn’t what she wanted to be – she’d told him that from the beginning. “Forgive me.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, her head shaking, “Why?”

“This isn’t what you wanted, Y/n,” his voice was low, quiet, “you wanted a life. I took that from you.”

She waited a moment, letting out a breath and realizing that she didn’t care. She didn’t care if she no longer had that life to live – it had become plainly obvious to her she wasn’t going to have it if she loved a Mikaelson. Her eyes closed as she took in all the sounds around her, her thoughts slowly draining out of her mind and being replaced by hyper-awareness of her surroundings. She shook her head, “It’s too much. The sound– it’s too loud.”

“You need to feed, love,” Niklaus appeared in the doorway, surprising the both of them. Y/n looked at him, still holding Elijah’s arms. “That is if you want to.”

Her head ached, and from the look in Klaus’s eyes, she realized that he wasn’t really giving her a choice. “I don’t want to die.. again,” she cracked a joke with a shaky laugh, and Elijah’s mouth turned up just slightly before it fell again.

“Are you sure about this, Y/n?” His thumbs came up to her face, caressing her cheekbones.

“Yes. I’m sure,” she nodded, forehead falling against Elijah’s. She pushed a kiss to his lips and let out a breath, “If it means I never leave you again, I’ll do it.”

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing her forehead and letting her head fall into his collarbone. Klaus left to get the blood, and Elijah made a vow to himself then that he would never stop loving her. Never.

#elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson imagine #*e. mikaelson #the originals #the originals x reader #*to #**#ash #the originals imagine

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mcfreakin-bxtch · 5 years ago

Text

Langdon’s Got a Queen

Pairing: Michael Langdon x Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+ (some filth y’all, face riding, slight chocking, some dom/sub undertones, breeding kink, handjob), blood, language, deaths

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: I finally finished it. Some parts are a little different but that’s just for the story. I’m working on requests now but they are still open as are my taglist and prompts! I’m a multifandom blog so I’ll try my hand at anything.

*Also I have a picture of the dress at the bottom!

Langdon’s Got a Witch

“How long?”

Cordelia and the other witches, namely Zoe, Madison, Mallory, and Queenie, stood in front of Y/N.

They were at the Warlock’s coven now, and Michael had proven himself worthy of a supreme after passing the Seven Trials and even bringing back Misty Day from Hell. Y/N was proud of him and could feel how exhausted he was after the ordeal.

It took Mallory, whom Y/N couldn’t deny had a connection with, to figure out the relationship between Y/N and Michael.

“A while,” Y/N simply answered. They didn’t need to know more than what they already knew.

Cordelia took in a breath, eyes glittering with betrayal.

“And you didn’t think to tell me. Why?”

Maybe more of Michael was rubbing off on her. Maybe she was becoming more confident in who she was destined to be. Or maybe she just wanted to have a little bit of fun at their expense.

Either way her response, a short “You didn’t ask” followed by a smirk, resulted in a harsh slap that echoed the room.

“You are not a part of this coven,” Cordelia growled. “Not anymore. You have betrayed us all, and I will smile at the day he leaves you high and dry.”

Y/N squared her shoulders confidently. “We’ll see.”

The witches, other than Mallory, all exited the room with a shake of their heads. Mallory walked towards her, taking her hands into hers and squeezing.

“Y/N,” she started.

“Save it, Mallory,” Y/N sighed. “I don’t care what any of you think or say. I’m staying with him.”

Mallory gulped. “He’s evil Y/N. He’s going to kill Cordelia. And possibly the rest of us too. Don’t you care about her at all? Or any of us for that matter?”

It would be a lie if she said she didn’t. Though the same darkness that coursed through Michael Langdon was now seeping into her soul, Y/N was still Y/N Y/L/N, and that part of her loved Mallory and the others.

But her love and devotion to Michael was stronger. It was too late to back out now, and she found that she didn’t want to. What she felt when she was with him, caught in his embrace, entwined in his love, it was otherworldly. There were no words that could perfectly describe their love for each other, and no one else could possibly understand it.

“I do,” Y/N finally admitted. “But my love for Michael is stronger. If you just leave him alone-.”

“Leave him alone?” Mallory scoffed. She looked like she was about to argue some more, but then stopped herself.

“I guess there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.”

Y/N nodded. Mallory clenched her jaw and looked away, tears glittering in her eyes. She said nothing else as she walked towards the doors but did take one last look back at Y/N as she sat down in one of the chairs, eyes glazed over in thought. Her expression was unreadable, and Mallory sensed that she was having an internal argument with herself. Maybe there was hope for her.

…

“I have to get you out of here,” Michael panted, throwing piles of clothes in one of her suitcases.

Y/N watched as he moved swiftly. Michael had walked into her room in franticly after finding out that Cordelia knew about them. It was only a matter of time before they turned on her and used her against him. Michael was not going to let them touch her.

“Where? Are you coming with me? We can handle it, right?” The questions were flying out of her mouth, and Michael angrily turned towards her, zipping up her case with forceful tugs.

“The only thing you need to worry about is staying alive,” he hissed viciously at her.

Y/N knew that it was all the pent-up frustration and the fear of her death that was making Michael hostile. It still hurt her though.

Michael must have sensed this because his expression softened, still visibly tense, and cupped her face. The kiss was soft, and it left Y/N breathless when he pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed against her lips. “But your safety is the most important thing to me right now. They will stop at nothing to bring me down, and you are definitely one of them. If anything happened to you…”

He trailed off, as if just thinking about it was enough to kill him. Y/N grabbed his wrists, bumping her nose against his.

“I know,” Y/N whispered. “I just want you to be okay too, Michael.”

Michael nodded. He licked his lips, backing away from her and grabbing another bag for her to pack with.

“We have to hurry,” Michael reminded her. “We’ll figure everything else out later.”

Y/N nodded. Helping him pack the rest of her stuff. He transfigured them to her old neighborhood, and Y/N furrowed her brows in confusion.

“Why-.”

“That friend of yours, Christine,” Michael interrupted. “I put a cloak on her and her house. It’s temporary, but it’ll do for now. You’ll be staying there until I come back for you.”

She bit her lip. She didn’t like this one bit. Plus, what did Michael tell Christine and her family?

Y/N pressed a hard and dirty kiss to his lips, slightly surprising him. She reveled in the explicit moan she got out of him. She would take him right in the middle of the street in front of everyone and wouldn’t bat an eye.

Michael took her bottom lip between his teeth as he started to pull away, biting down hard enough to draw blood, making her whine. He ran his tongue over the cut, licking up the little droplets of blood. Y/N was breathing heavily when he back away with a smirk.

“I love you. Please be careful.”

Michael couldn’t help but get one more kiss in before whispering his love for her.

When Michael disappeared Y/N grabbed her bag and suitcase, eyes trailing over her once familiar home and met the neighbor across the street – who no doubt had watched Michael and Y/N’s make-out session – who met her eyes back with a look of disgust.

Y/N stuck her tongue out and smirked at her before walking up the steps of her temporary home.

Turns out Michael was very persuasive with Christine and her family. Their glazed eyes and dazed looks only answered her thoughts from early on that day. It was weird. Y/N adored Christine, she was the only friend she had left, and she wasn’t even Christine anymore.

“It really is lovely,” Christine blabbered to her in the middle of the night. “The time of change is coming. And your boyfriend is our savior!”

Her tone held light teasing but pure adoration. Sweet Christine, devoted to all things light and Godly, selling her soul to the devil himself. And it was her fault.

She only let a few tears escape her that night.

…

The witches burned Miriam Mead at the stake. They tried looking for Y/N, but not even a clairvoyant could find her. Michael didn’t realize they were on Miss Mead’s trail as well, which only fueled his guilt and his anger. And what was worse, he couldn’t even get her soul back.

Followed by his grief, Michael wanted desperately to get Y/N and hold her until the pain went away. Stumbling in the woods, he thought for sure he heard her voice calling out to him.

“Michael.”

His love was standing in the middle of a small open field. Dressed in white, hair braided with small little white flowers, she was the epiphany of beauty itself.

There were moments where Michael felt incredibly guilty for slowly stripping Y/N of her old self, the good side that constantly tried to hold on. He knew that Y/N had her own darkness, but he was the main reason behind her magic growing darker and more powerful, the reason why she had to abandon the witches she had grown fond of. A part of him hated himself for spoiling her to the point of rotten. She deserved better; a chance at life and an afterlife, whatever it may be.

But Michael was a selfish man and Y/N was a selfish woman. They would cause nothing but pain and suffering to others if it meant getting their way, their love being untouched and unquestioned.

He reached out to her, whimpering when she didn’t hold her arms out for him. He sobbed and let out a shriek when he realized it was just a hallucination.

“God loves you, Michael.”

Maybe, in his own sick and twisted way, God really did love him. The trials of his cruel life were only a simple test, coiled to form the perfect vision of good and evil. But Michael had a destiny, didn’t he? He was born to rule and destroy the very world God created himself, left to persuadable humans to shape in their own image as well. It was his birthright to create the ashes upon the earth and rebuild an honest haven of darkness.

Michael stuck to these conclusions after the church found him. He told Madelyn, the kind woman who took him in, to take him to Y/N before he was to see the robotics corporation – he caught the small gleam of jealously in her eyes at Y/N’s name.

It was time to stop pulling punches. But if Michael were to achieve any of this, he needed a queen by his side.

…

Cordelia gaped at the woman standing before her. Dressed in a black and red laced dress – not too short, just how Langdon liked it – beautifully elegant and dangerous. She was sure she had everything figured out, that they had found a way to finally defeat Michael Langdon. But they were unprepared for Y/N Y/L/N.

Y/N Y/L/N, the witch Langdon had fought so hard to keep well hidden, and succeeded in. The very same girl they thought to be dead, killed just before the massacre at Robichaux’s.

Y/N was proud of herself when her and Michael were able to create the perfect cloak and projection. It left her drained all the time and it couldn’t last for long, but all’s they needed was the start of the apocalypse. It was like a breath of fresh air after it happened, and Michael and Y/N celebrated in bloody fashion; it makes her stomach flip and her pussy throb when she thinks about the way Michael held her, crushed her with his weight on top of the Satanic symbol, covered in blood. Some days she can still feel the stickiness of the blood and his cum painted over her body.

Y/N had changed significantly since. No longer was she the small, insignificant girl who was just a small piece in the game of life. She had changed into something fiercer, more authoritative; feral, lethal, and coldly calculated.

“Y/N!” Mallory gasped.

She was so close to completing the spell. So close to defeating Michael once and for all and restoring the once lively earth. Y/N simply smiled at her.

“I do love you Mallory,” her voice was even different, more melodic and sinister in its nature. “But you have left me no choice.”

Mallory struggled for breath as she felt a force tightened around her neck. Gasping and thrashing in the bath, she started to see black dots surrounding her vision as Y/N only stared, hands behind her back. She decided to be merciful, however, and after a few moments of watching Mallory struggled for her life she snapped her neck; she felt Mallory’s life drift away, but still lit the bath aflame along with her body.

Now Y/N stood next to Michael in front of Cordelia, smiling at her gaping figure.

“She’s dead, Cordelia,” Y/N said.

Cordelia shook her head. “No that can –“

“They’re all dead,” Michael finished for her. “Every single one of your precious little witches.”

“Except her.” It came out vicious, but they paid no mind to it.

“Because I was never one of yours,” Y/N said as she started to walk towards her. “Don’t you see that now? This was always what I was meant to become. You thought you were slick. You thought you could destroy us.”

She was standing in front of her now, almost bumping noses with her. Cordelia could only stare.

“What happened to you?” Cordelia whispered.

Y/N could feel the pain with the question. She would’ve wavered before, would’ve considered the question with care. What did happen to her? But instead Y/N grinned, plunging the knife deep into her abdomen. Cordelia gasped, grabbing her hand before falling over the balcony to her death.

Michael strolled up to stand behind Y/N as they both watched from above the life disappear from Cordelia’s eyes. That last thing she saw as her soul faded away was them licking her blood off the knife and their lips, groaning at the taste of it.

“My little witch,” Michael hummed, hands splaying over the back of her dress to carefully unzip it – Y/N would kill him if he ripped the damn thing.

Y/N grinned, shrugging off the dress. Michael took a step back to admire her; lips plump and red, her breasts heaved with the growing arousal, nipples perk, and he inhaled deeply at the scent of her desire.

“My king,” Y/N cooed. “Please.” She whined, thighs rubbing against each other as she tried to soothe the growing ache between her legs.

Michael tooted. “Please what? Use your words, my queen.”

Y/N slithered up to him, taking off every piece of his clothing slowly, as if this was their first time all over again; fingers trailing over his beautiful smooth skin, covered in the blood of the witches, heart fluttering and her juices now visible on her thighs at each moan and hiss as her nails scraped over his body.

“I want to fuck you,” Y/N growled. “I want to show everyone whose side I’m fucking on. I want them to see you let me use you. I want them to feel the love I only have for you. To know that there was never any other way other than this.”

Michael grew painfully harder at her words, moaning loudly when she gave a forceful tug of his now long locks.

“Will you let me?” Y/N cooed as she nibbled on his neck, no doubt leaving trails of spit and bruises all around his neck, marking him as hers.

Michael could only moan and squirm in her arms, his cock brushing against her stomach every time he did. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s been inside her, tasted her; he could not and would never get enough.

“Use your words,” she said, using his words back at him.

“Fuck – yes.”

Y/N took him in her palm then, holding his shuddering form as she grasped up and down his length. She tightened her fist, making his hips stutter into her hand.

“Lay down,” Y/N whispered.

Michael complied quickly, bringing her down with him. Y/N straddled his stomach, running her fingers through his hair.

They didn’t need to communicate with words to know what the other wanted and what they were feeling. Michael smirked and gripped her thighs, pushing her up until her hot, wet cunt pulsed over his face. He didn’t waste any time in attaching his lips to her clit, making her close her eyes with a soft sigh at the feeling of his tongue and teeth scraping against her most sensitive part. His tongue lapped at her slit, tongue pulsing in and out of her leaking hole. He knew her body so well now, knew how to play her like a fine tune. One hand left the bruising grip on her thigh to curl two thick fingers into her core. Y/N cried out, struggling to keep her hips still. Michael moaned around her clit, and she couldn’t help but to start moving to the rhythm of his fingers, riding his face. He hummed in approval, sucking her clit.

It only took a few more thrusts of his fingers and one powerful suck on her clit for her to gush around his fingers and face. Michael licked up every slick of her orgasm, moaning at the taste of her sweet and tangy release.

Panting, Y/N moved down to hover over his red angry dick, wasting no time in sliding down on him. He let out a chocked groan, hands steadying her on her hips. She let out a groan at the taste of herself on his lips, starting a rough and fast pace.

“Shit,” Y/N hummed as she bounced on his cock. Every stretch of his impressive girth into her cunt left her sore but still always aching for more after. It was like he was made for her, and Michael felt the same way every time his length made itself home into her hungry warmth.

“You feel so good,” she continued. “I can feel you everywhere Michael.”

Michael grunted at her whine, planting his feet down to meet her thrusts.

“Yeah?” He placed a palm on her stomach, feeling his cock destroying her guts. “I can feel my cock right here,” he breathed. “You like having me there? Pretty soon our baby will be growing there. You’re going to look so perfect, round with my child.”

This was the first time they had ever discussed having kids together. Y/N never saw herself as a parent, but with Michael? She would carry a thousand of his babies if that’s what he wanted.

“Yes,” Y/N sighed. “Oh Michael, yes.”

They were nothing but a chorus of moans and groans as the audible sound of skin slapping grew louder and more frantic. Y/N wrapped her hand around his throat gently at first, only tightening when he gave a guttural whine of approval.

“Michael,” Y/N whined as she felt her orgasm seeping through her like a tidal wave. “I’m gonna cum!”

“Do it,” Michael ordered through clenched teeth. “I wanna feel you. Gonna fill you up. And then some. Until you’re flourished with my seed.”

Y/N cried out as she came, walls suffocating his length, her wetness gushing out of her. Michael cursed and rutted faster and harder into her until ropes of cum spilled into her, painting her fluttering walls.

She collapsed on top of him, head resting over his fluttering heart. Looking around at the massacre surrounding them, Y/N couldn’t help but let out a string of giggles, which earned a curious look from Michael underneath her.

Thinking back, Y/N never thought this was how her life would turn out. Sometimes it was strange to think about, how Michael came into her life. She had destiny to thank for that, as did Michael.

Now, pregnant with her first child, Y/N felt a new sense of hope she hadn’t felt in a long time. And only Michael and their growing family could give her that.

Michael Langdon looked at her with nothing but unwavering love and devotion, feeling the kick of their child against his palm.

Tags: @scarlett-berserker, @justlovetoreadfics, @lil-baby27, @mando-vibes, @beepbeepyabitch, @that-void-witch, @im-the-music-whore, @certifiedhunter, @outlawers, @hejahockey, @okaydacre, @lemongrove, @appreciating-chase-brody, @iwontforgettheapplepie, @mybabyboytony, @olyamoriarty, @pcrushinnerd, @elusive-ivory, @dizzydazed, @bluejeancntrygrl, @our-mrlangdon, @parody-the-emi, @evalynanne, @purplewaterbird

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #cody fern #michael langdon imagines #michael langdon smut #ahs #american horror story #american horror story apocalypse #ahs fx #cordelia goode #mallory #zoe benson #miriam mead

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solohux · 5 years ago

Note

Since we’re here may we get a thrilling conclusion to the Milo Saga pls ? Reunions, love, family, all that good stuff Thank you. Also you’re amazing keep up the good work 👍

Here it is! The third and final part of the Milo saga!

Part I & Part II

All three parts are also on AO3 as a full fic titled ‘searching through shadows and snow’

Read On AO3 ❤️

For the first time since his exile after Exegol, Ben has a dreamless night’s sleep. It’s strange to wake up without tears on his cheeks, without clutching his pillow like a lifeline as a dream of his beloved Hux burns itself onto the back of his eyelids. But there’s still an empty space beside him in his bed, inside of his heart, and Ben knows that nothing can ever fill those voids. He rolls over onto his side and faces the vacant side of the bed, running his hand over the cold sheets and trying to force himself to imagine that Hux has just risen early to make breakfast. Everything is fine, everything is fine—

Ben can’t repeat the mantra a third time. It hurts too much to tell such a lie.

Morning has broken on the little planetoid, illuminating Ben’s room in a familiar glow. It’s particularly cold this morning, making Ben wish he’d worn a long-sleeved shirt to bed instead of this short, white one.

“Dada!” Ben’s three year old son bounds into Ben’s bedroom and leaps onto the bed, scrambling to his father’s side. He looks as though he’s had a good night’s sleep, since his copper-coloured hair is messy and his blue pyjamas are twisted and wrinkled. As usual, Milo’s favourite vulptex plush is in his arms. “It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”

Ben smiles at Milo’s excitement, his brown eyes alight with childlike wonder. Their planet experiences snow a few times a year but the landscape of beautiful white never fails to make Milo want to rush out in it before Ben has had a chance to dress him properly.

“Snow!” Ben smiles, hiding his sadness from his beloved boy and sitting up in bed to take Milo into his arms. “And I guess you want to go outside to play?”

“Yeah, Dada! Now!”

“Breakfast first, sweetheart,” Ben stands up with the boy in his arms, carrying him around his bedroom as he opens the drapes and sees the white wonderland that covers the entirity of the fields that surround their solemn home. Even the beds of white poppies have disappeared underneath the inches of snowfall.

“Awwwwww. But ‘m not hungry, Dada.” Milo wriggles in Ben’s hold, tugging at his father’s dark hair as he tries to climb onto his shoulders, making Ben laugh. “Go outside now! Pwease!”

“Alright, Milo,” Ben says, never being able to deny his son once he gets a certain expression on his face—the very same one that Hux used to give Kylo whenever he wanted to get his own way. “We’ll get dressed and then go out, hm? Build a snow-droid?”

“Yeah! A BB!”

“A snow-BB. Let’s go, sweetheart.”

In less than five minutes, Ben and Milo are dressed for the snow in thick clothes and warm coats. Utilising the ways of mind manipulation, Ben has easily kept his existence a secret, wiping the minds of the market traders who operate in the small town almost fifty miles away from Ben’s quaint countryside cottage. And it also means that Ben can steal without being caught. Whilst he tries to remain in a neutral state of mind when it comes to the light and dark side of the Force, Ben struggles. Truly, Kylo Ren has never left his veins—possibly kept alive by his love for Hux.

As the pair stand on the porch in the morning sun, Milo is practically buzzing with excitement whilst Ben tries to calm him enough to put his woolly hat and gloves on but the boy is jumping up and down, stomping his little black boots on the wooden decking whilst giggling.

“Hold on, starbright,” Ben smiles, making sure Milo’s ginger hair is dry under his hat and his adorably large ears are tucked warmly away too. “We don’t want you to be too cold, do we?”

“Dadaaaa, I wanna play!”

Ben smiles, amused by Milo’s impatience.

“Come on,” and Ben takes his son’s hand as they jump off the porch together, the snow swallowing Milo up to his little knees but instead of being scared by it, the boy pulls free of Ben’s hold and trudges off as fast as he can through the thick snow as more begins to fall upon the pair in a light flurry.

Ben follows closely behind his son, watching him run and play and pick up snow to throw it above himself, only for it to cover his little head.

Milo laughs, tumbling over and landing on his bum in the snow. Ben would give anything for Hux to see how happy their beloved son is right now.

Ben. Ben! The Force calls out to Ben, piercing his mind like a cold needle. He stands up quickly, looking to the clouded skies for the source of the disturbance. It’s been a long time since he’s sensed something as monumental as this, something that is making his hands shake and his stomach twist with worry. It feels familiar, though, which is somewhat comforting but Ben’s maternal instincts run haywire as the Force won’t let him smile.

“Milo, sweetheart,” Ben says, his voice low, but his heart stops when he sees a figure in the distance, one that is staring at him and Milo, and one that has the boy frozen on the spot.

Ben’s fingers twitch, wishing he’d kept a lightsaber with him in his exile for moments such as this.

“Milo,” Ben says sternly, standing behind his son. “We’re going inside.”

But the boy doesn’t move. Ben’s knees tremble; it this the Shadow Man who has been haunting Milo’s dreams? Is it another Snoke come to turn the newest Solo against his family just as he did with Ben? No. Never. Ben would die before he allowed anything to ever hurt his son. He owes it to Hux to love and defend their precious boy with everything he has.

But the man in the distance is getting closer. Ben skids to his knees in the freezing snow in front of Milo, finding his face looking anything but afraid as one would expect a child to look when staring down the man of his nightmares.

“Milo? Milo, look at Daddy,” Ben says, putting his hands on the boy’s cold, blushing cheeks in a vain attempt to draw his gaze away from the approaching menace. “What is it? Starbright, talk to me.”

Milo blinks but his brown eyes don’t stray from their path. He raises his mitten-clad hand and tries to point at the figure, uttering one word that sends Ben’s heart into overdrive, “Papa.”

It can’t be. Ben frowns, turning around to look back over his shoulder, seeing the man that doesn’t look like a monster at all.

He looks like an angel, gliding across the snow-covered ground with a copper halo around his head, his skin so ethereally pale and familiar that Ben can’t find any words to describe the man’s beautiful presence.

“No…” Ben whispers, taking hold of Milo and standing up with the boy sitting on his hip, his feet walking forwards of their own accord towards the snow-angel.

It’s Hux. It’s his Armitage Hux, here and present and so very alive. Ben chokes on his words.

Even when they’re within arm’s reach of each other, Ben still can’t permit himself to believe it. He’s already been blessed with a second chance at life, bearing such a beautifully bright baby boy, for his lover to be back too.

“Daddy,” Milo says, patting Ben’s cheek. “It’s Papa?”

Ben can’t take his eyes from Hux. He still looks the same as he did almost four years to the day since they last saw one another, sharing a kiss goodbye as Kylo Ren departed for Kef Bir, both unaware of what would transpire once their hands left each other’s and their destines diverged. The Hux in front of Ben’s tear-filled eyes is still as handsome as ever, his pale eyes just as piercing and his body just as tall and lithe. Even without the greatcoat and uniform, he’s still the image of power to Ben’s eyes, he’s still the only constant that has ever blessed Ben’s messy and lonely life.

He’s saved.

“Yeah, Milo,” Ben sighs. “It’s Papa.”

Hux’s shoulders shake as the tears fall, no doubt hurting his cheeks as they fall from his eyes and onto his freezing cold skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He takes another step closer as Ben sets Milo down in the snow, the boy bringing his thumb up to nibble on the soft material of his mitten whilst his other hand is held in Ben’s.

“Milo,” Hux says, beaming as he utters his son’s name for the first time. Ben’s chest clenches, watching Hux kneel down to Milo’s level; Ben knew that their son looked most like Hux but seeing the two together now, Ben can’t believe just how much of Hux is in their son. “My clever, brave boy. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“When I’m asleep,” Milo nods. “You said you would be here soon.”

“And here I am, darling,” Hux says. He looks up to Ben, smiling. “Here I am.”

“Hux…” Ben sobs, but Hux is standing and leaping in to catch him in an embrace before his knees give way beneath the weight of shock and relief that have fallen upon his shoulders like a collapsing building. It’s immense, it’s overwhelming but it’s the happiest that Ben has ever felt.

“Ren,” Hux whispers Ben’s once-name into his ear as they hug so tightly that nothing can get between them, and Ben feels his soul soar; Kylo Ren was never truly dead anyway. “My darling. I love you, I love you so much.”

“I-I love you,” Ben—Ren—cries. “Y-you were killed.”

“Death would never keep us apart, my darling. I’ve travelled across the galaxy in search of you. And it’s because of our son’s power with the Force that I was able to find you.”

“Don’t cry, Dada,” Milo tugs at Ben’s trouser leg and makes them pull apart. “It’s happy!”

“I know, starbright,” Ben sniffles, picking his son up and holding him between his parents, embraced by them both for the first time in his life. “I’m so happy. So happy.”

“I want to know everything,” Hux says, wrapping his arms around Ben and hugging both his lover and their son at the same time. “Everything, Ren.”

“It’s…uh. Ben.”

“Ben,” Hux repeats, raising his eyebrows but the smile doesn’t fade from his face. “As you wish. I want to hear everything about you and our son, Ben.”

“Can Papa stay for breakfast, Daddy?” Milo asks excitedly.

Ben takes Hux’s hand, leading him back to his house, “Papa is going to stay forever.”

Home was never a place for Ben Solo or for Kylo Ren; it was always Armitage Hux.

#kylux #kylux babies #post tros #post mpreg #m:writing

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iwriteaboutkpopsometimes · 4 years ago

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Hyunjin "Play With Fire (Feat. Yacht Money)" (원곡 : Sam Tinnesz) | [Stray Kids : SKZ-PLAYER] ~A Love Letter~

I talk about why I love this video so much and deliver an excruciatingly detailed play by play of it, but why read a two thousand word, five page essay on a three minute video when you can just go watch the aforementioned three minute video? Forget me spending hours writing this, why are you here, seriously, it would take you significantly less time to watch the actual video. Regardless, enjoy my attempt to refrain from saying the same three things, “he's so cool”, “I love him”, and “this is so good”, in exchange for a more, hopefully, academically professional sound.

Watching him perform never fails to put me in a trance, it’s incredibly captivating how precise and sharp while simultaneously lively and energy-filled his movements are. This video feels reminiscent of enjoying a movie I’ve seen countless times, memorized every line of dialogue from, and genuinely think of every part as the best it has to offer. I greatly missed seeing him dance and having this as his grand welcome back into the spotlight is nothing less of a gift. Every second leaves my heart pounding and as excited as the last, as he continuously tops himself the longer I watch. I feel that revisiting the video is the least I can do, for giving it only one view doesn’t feel morally acceptable if I intend to truly appreciate it for that art that it is. Dramatic of me? Perhaps, but I can’t help but perceive it as more than just this one video that was uploaded onto their YouTube channel. It isn’t just about all of the work he and others put into the making of this particular video, his choreography for the song was a result of years upon years of practice and learning different techniques. A performance this good doesn’t only involve technical skill though, but also skill in regards to one’s inner mind. To have confidence in one’s self, to hit every move powerfully, to know what you’re doing and be unapologetic about it, that is skill. Sure, the performer is at the focus of any performance, but don’t forget that it’s also about the audience, it is after all for the enjoyment of the viewer. If the audience senses your doubt and insecurity and uncertainty, it will make your stage that much less enjoyable. Whatever you feel, they can feel too. When I watch him, I don’t feel any of that. In fact, I feel the exact opposite, I feel inspired, motivated, confident, excited to advance in my own endeavors. The emotion that this video evokes from me goes beyond anything Stray Kids or K-Pop or even dance itself, it makes me want to be a better person, be kinder to myself and work harder. That might sound like a lot for one video to do for someone, but it’s the truth. All of the details, even down to the individual frames, it all works together to create the most gratifying viewing experience. At the time of writing this, the video has just hit five million views and has over one million likes, only a mere three days after its initial upload.

The first shot of his footsteps alone, as he goes to stand in front of the mirror, I already feel this sense of importance coming from him, delicate, yet powerful. The setting, cold and empty, yet inviting, it makes room for him and gives him just enough light to be seen, for he doesn’t need all that much help to surely shine. The credits that pop up use a dark shade of pink-red for it’s background color and white text that acknowledges the same deep red imagery and text associated with the material of the original work. His outfit is neat and pristine with some sparkle, resembling one a prince would seem fit. He stares at his reflection, holding a sheer white ribbon in his mouth, gathers a section of hair behind his head and proceeds to tie it with said ribbon. The music starts as he finishes tying and lets his arms fall down at his sides. The over the shoulder shot looking into the mirror, shows that his expression is neutral, almost calm. This can most certainly be described as “the calm before the storm”, except the storm itself is antonymous to a tragedy, because when the singing starts, it’s as if his performance persona was turned on by a switch, a charismatic possession that took place in a matter of seconds that sends chills down your spine in the best way. His previously neutral, calm-like expression and gently resting arms are quickly replaced by the sudden placement of his right hand around his neck and a look that resembles more of a vengeful, hesitant, and somehow playful one. Similar to what I’d imagine a villain would look like right before being bested during an epic fight sequence at the climax of a film. It’s satisfying to see him popping to the beat’s rhythm, his arms, wrists, and head smoothly illustrating the flow of the words, his focus and the secure angles he’s able to form before even fully utilizing his lower body. On the line “Got secrets I can’t tell”, he delicately places his pointer finger in between his teeth, as he turns back to meet the camera with his eyes, the shot now semi-closely focusing on both Hyunjin and his reflection as opposed to just one or the other. He extends his right arm, his hand forming a fist, and the camera movement making it as if I’ve been punched and sent flying. He stumbles to the middle of the room, does an opening gesture with his arms, like a proud baker showing off their completed wedding cake, along with a dramatic spin incorporating his thin, white, flowy cape. Reaching the pre-chorus, we get to see the room more clearly, like the stone pillars and the contrast of the small, warm lights on the walls to the grand grayness radiating from the large window that makes him appear as a near silhouette. There’s a certain holiness about him spending a count with his head down and arms out, much like the Crucifixion of Christ, before showcasing more of a demonic energy when he faces the window with his body, but bends backward and looks to the camera upside down. He rips off the cape, tosses it behind him, to his right. This could symbolize a transformation, an abandonment of a particularly purer image of oneself, a liberation. The music picks up, and the manner in which he dances is like a visual representation of one’s inner turmoil combined with an agenda to seduce those watching, wanting to dance for himself while taking us along for the ride. Now that the first minute of the video is out of the way, let’s continue.

The music fades into the background and the video takes on a sudden widescreen and grayscale appearance as he falls back on his right hand, flings his left hand over to his right shoulder, as though he’s been shot, and is being supported by his knees. He leans forward, places his right hand on the ground in front of him, uses his left hand to push his right knee over to achieve ideal balance, setting up his body roll. He extends his right leg back, getting close to the ground, and there’s something quite feral, yet intimate about the way he traces the length of his arm with his face and left hand. It looks like he’s taking out his frustrations through his moves while never sacrificing the detailed quality of the performance as a whole. It reminds me of how it’s more than common for artists to use their pain in their art, whether it be a point of well-intentioned expression with a specific purpose or simply an outlet for them to channel into. Hyunjin is the definition of aggressive elegance. The fullscreen, colorful display and music entirely return when he spins and lands on the ground in a Spider- Man esc pose, the room a lot warmer than even before the stylistic grayscale section. There’s hints of red, acting as a match that’s set to illuminate and ignite the puddle of gasoline that is him and his performance, that replaces the once colder, icy blue that previously enveloped his silhouette. He bounces to the beat showing off his proud, devilish smile that, instead of striking fear, makes me feel proud, as I’m essentially rooting for the villain in the movie. If the transition to the grayscale widescreen was him getting shot, then the transition back to fullscreen color is him emerging from his grave, an awakening. His shirt is no longer neatly tucked into his pants, but rather, hanging very loosely and mostly unbuttoned. He covers his face with his left hand, pulling it down for just a second before revealing his expression that has swiftly reverted to a roughly indifferent one. The inner conflict has greatly subsided, and focuses on the hesitant-free embracing of his newly discovered self, one of immense confidence and sex-appeal. Although, something about the flow of how he averts his gaze, looking to the left and not the lense, while pointing and doing body rolls at the camera, covers his eyes with crossed arms, and then allows for his hair to cover his eyes as well, makes me feel like he doesn’t want the viewer to know he is still at least a little bit shy. He quickly makes you forget though, because the next and final minute exaggerates everything he’s shown us up until this point, taking it to a whole new, spectacular level.

The bridge of the song creates a slower, softer atmosphere, which is beautifully interpreted with how Hyunjin carries himself during this part. Bigger gestures that blend into each other seamlessly, centering on really taking up the space he’s in. He gently and precisely lowers his body to the floor, collecting a white rose between his teeth. As soon as he returns to his upright stature, the setting changes dramatically. His hair now completely down, he’s under a spotlight in an otherwise pitch black and foggy room. There’s blue and red light reflecting off of his white top and his skin as he dances. This part feels more humane compared to the rest, with more of an obvious balance between sharp, impactful moves and tender, compassionate ones. He draws attention to his shoulders, brings his hands and feet close to his body, and showcases his red lit back. I particularly enjoy when he flicks his wrists and twists his ankles to the right in unison on the second syllable of “unstoppable”. For the “legendary animal” part of that line, his arms create a cage-like structure by doing a climbing motion and carrying it over all the way to the left. A cage in which he destroys the walls and breaks out of, shown by him punching downward on beat. From holding the rose in his mouth to holding it in his hand, he brings it over his head to his left shoulder, and raises his heels. He carries the rose down and around his left arm, his left arm momentarily resting at his waist, his right arm extended downward, he raises his heels again. His whole body lowers as a rigid wave starts at his up flicked wrists and subsequently elbows and shoulders. This collection of gestures results in petals falling off of the rose. He then inevitably throws it into the void, out of the reach of the lovely spotlight. I see this spotlight dance as a danse macabre, or dance of death. The white ribbon, white shirt, and white rose all coming together to illustrate this innocent and pure quality to him, that through this dance, he finalizes the renouncement of. He is more than ready to embrace a new and different side of him, but especially to get rid of the older and repetitive side that felt restrictive more than anything. The spotlight dance ends with Hyunjin looking directly into the camera, tracing his right hand down his chest and to his side, and the camera backing away. The last chorus of the song brings us back to the oh so familiar main room, Hyunjin’s hair back to being tied up, the lighting is the same, but there’s something that stands out. His shirt is on the verge of being completely unbuttoned and that allows for something alluringly shiny to be fully in view compared to before. The video comes full circle with Hyunjin’s hand around his neck, he stands in the hallway, and walks away a new man as the screen fades to black.

As I wrap up this essay on Hyunjin’s “Play With Fire (Feat. Yacht Money)”, original song by Sam Tinnesz, Stray Kids: SKZ-PLAYER, the video has reached six million views, a million more than when I first started writing this, and I feel proud to have spent a day simply pouring my heart and mind out on this wordy display of my appreciation. Don’t be fooled though, for my necessary research, I guess you could call it, for this project may no longer be so necessary, I shall continue to watch and applaud the masterpiece and experience that is this video for my own personal enjoyment, much like how this whole piece was written for my own personal enjoyment. It was an interesting challenge to properly voice not only the contents of the video but also my thoughts and feelings on it. Hyunjin is a highly valued dancer, member of Stray Kids, and person and five pages isn’t ever going to be enough to fully explain the respect and admiration I feel for him and his various projects. I think he’s really cool, I experience all sorts of fiery euphoria watching him dance, his rap and singing alike are addictive as hell, and he’s pretty, haha. I missed him a lot while he was inactive, and I’m so happy to have him back and doing great things as per usual. I’m excited to see what he and the rest of the group have left to show us this year. I advise you to watch the video if you haven’t, but somehow ended up reading an essay on it first, and if you’ve already seen it, watch it again, yeah. I’ll leave you with lovely thoughts and lovely vibes and I hope you too can appreciate the work he’s put into the video, as well as my work on this essay. Thank you for taking the time to read my love letter, essentially, and bye for now ^ ^

#straykids #stay #hyunjin #skzplayer #lovestay #kpop

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xbellaxcarolinax · 5 years ago

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Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 5- Replaceable

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 2154

Warnings: Light dream violence?

4- Distaste

...

She could hear herself breathing, her heart rate accelerating at inhuman speed. Her eyes were closed. She was afraid to open them in fear of seeing the horrors of a living hell.

She felt a wetness about her bare feet that seeped between her toes, warm and sticky. The scent of iron was strong in the air. Glancing down she opened her eyes slowly, gagging at the sight of the pools of rich blood surrounding her, as well as the bodies of the holy men thrown about with arrows embedded into them. She stared wide eyed at the massacre, lifting up the hem of her white dress to see it covered in the red of the monks.

The pristine walls of the monestary were covered in the blood of its men that worshipped within its walls. The statues of the saints melt away into the bloody mess on the marble floors, and the gold she had welded with her own two hands were gone.

Artemis let's out a sob, willing the screams in the distance to stop, for the madness to stop...and then there was silence.

Somehow the silence was worse than the screams.

"It is beautiful, don't you agree?" She whipped around quickly, staring into eyes of endless blue oceans that would surely drown her.

Ivar stood tall, looming over her like a great oak tree, a long bow in his hands. Blood streamed down his face and into his eyes, but he didn't seem to care.

To see him at his full height and not crawling about on the ground set a fear in her heart. Before she could do anything, he stretches the bow string as far as he could with a wild grin, releasing the arrow with lightning speed, and then, she saw nothing.

...

"Wake up, you lazy cunt, you're dreaming again!" The hits of the wooden spoon were enough to jolt Artemis into conscienceness. Sweat rolled down her brow and her breathing was erratic. It was still dark out, not yet sunrise.

"There she is, now get up, the Prince's should be waking soon and the hall must be spotless. Wouldn't want Ivar to cut that pretty little face of yours, hmm?"

Artemis rubbed the sleep from her eyes, doing her best to ignore Edda, the head thrall of the household. She was a feisty older woman with an unpleasant tone who had worked under Queen Asluag in the days when the boys were young. She was round, with a build as large as her personality. They must have fed her well these past years. Edda was quite fond of her late Queen and had resented Lagertha, but those were the old days, and a new era was upon them. Perhaps the murder had affected her just as it did the sons.

The main hall had been empty that morning, except for the few slaves that lingered about. Edda, that old hag, had sent her to clean up mess after mess. Artemis supposed that was her main purpose there, besides tending to the crippled prince. Cleaning up messes was tedious, but at least she wasn't forced upon the fortifications of the wall. The monks of Crete served that purpose.

Artemis blinked tiredly, slowly dragging her feet to the hall. It was to her surprise that not much needed to be cleaned and tended to. The brothers had thrown a small feast among themselves, and the remainders of last night hung in the air and draped over Artemis' shoulders like a cloak. Articles of clothing were thrown about, and horns of ale sat untouched on the table. She collected the clothing and cups, passing them off to one of the kitchen maids and the laundress.

She sighs, tending to the hearth before going over to wipe spilled ale off the large table. On the center of the table was what looked like a lute. It was a beautifully crafted instrument, the wood carved to perfection. Patterns were etched on its front with the same strategic lines she had seen carved on the rocks and boulders around the village.

She tossed the cleaning rag to the side, momentarily forgetting her task and letting her fingers brush atop the smooth wooden surface. The wood was soomth to the touch upon her heated fingers, just as she expected. She then passed her fingers over the thin strings that were rough to the touch. She plucked one of them, and the resonating sound made her smile. The sound was a comfort to her, a nostalgic ringing in her ears that made her want to pluck another string just to bring the feeling back.

"Do you play?"

Artemis turned quickly, suppressing a shriek of surprise. Behind her stood one of the princes, Sigurd, who bore a tired smile. When she remained quiet, he stepped forward slowly, ignoring the look she gave him.

"Do you play?" He asked again, this time a bit slower, assuming she didn't understand. He points at the lute. He gave no air of a threat, but Artemis could not be too sure, so she didn't let her guard down. She didn't know this prince as well as the others. Ubbe was sensible and kind, Hvitserk was extremely playful, and Ivar crazy, so where did Sigurd fit into?

She realizes he was waiting for an answer, and she quickly cleared her throat before putting her hands behind her back and setting her gaze to the floor.

"I'm not very skilled, Prince," She spoke quietly but firmly, and almost jerked back when he gently grasped her chin, pushing her face up towards him. Her eyes bore into his odd blue ones and his smile could be described as blinding.

"Your eyes," He begins, "Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?"

"No." She replies flatly, shaking herself from his grip.

Sigurd wasn't angry.

He stepped past her, grabbing the lute and plucking a few strings to create a tune. He smiled at her again before handing her the instrument.

"You try,"

She looks at him with uncertainty before grasping the lute, cradling it softly within her arms like a child. She plucked one string, then another, bringing back a tune from deep within her memory.

She remembered her mother was a skilled musician, trying her best to pass on the knowledge to her, but Artemis never really cared for it. She always gravitated towards the work of her father and brother. Her mother always joked that she bore two sons. The thought made Artemis smile as she continued to play, just as her mother had taught her, a lullaby played to her when she was a little girl. It had been so long since she'd heard it, yet somehow it remained fresh in her mind.

She stopped abruptly, fingers hooking over the strings as mixed emotions ran through her. She felt angry hot tears swell in her eyes, blurring her vision. She choked back a sob that threatened to spill from her lips. The memories of her old life resurfaced and hit her like a crashing wave. She fought so hard to keep them at bay.

Overwhelmed, Artemis placed the lute back on the table with shaking hands. She spared a glance at Sigurd, wet eyes revealing the resentment swimming within. It wasn't his fault she was there, but he was associated with the ones who did, and that was enough for her soul to be gripped with animosity.

"Why do you cry?" Sigurd seemed genuinely confused. The idiot. He steps closer, raising a hand in an attempt to dry her tears, but right before she made a move to shift away from his touch again, they were interrupted by a growl all too familiar.

It had grown silent, even the crackling embers of the building fire had grown silent as if fearful.

"Ivar," Sigurd says his name with an annoyed sigh, not bothering to turn around. He knew his youngest brother had the eyes of a vulture.

"What can I do for you, little brother?"

Ivar had the habit of appearing from the shadows unnoticed despite the scraping of the metal buckles round his legs, but he quite liked it that way. He crawls across the floors in an eerie manner as he slowly approached the pair with eyes that was nothing short of murder.

"I just wonder brother," He began softly, continuing to drag himself ever so slowly until he reached Sigurds boots, "I wonder who gave you the authority to touch my thrall, if it was not I who gave the order?" Ivar feigned confusion, lifting himself up to sit at the table. He watched Artemis intently, noticing how rigid her posture was, as if ready to pounce on the defense if need be. Sigurd held his ground as he always did.

"Must I ask permission to command a slave, Ivar?" Ivar hums in response, drumming his fingers harshly against the table that resonated throughout the hall. Sigurd was never a good liar, even now, Ivar could see how his brow twitched, a sign of Sigurd's obvious dishonesty. He had fooled Ivar as a child many times, but he wouldn't be misguided as easily as before.

"Command? This isnt an ordinary slave, dear Sigurd, this is my slave. Would you like it if someone else were trying to toy with your property, hmm?" His tone was condescending, a ploy to bring Sigurd to his boiling point. It had almost worked, and the youngest brother watched with glee as Sigurd moved to react, hands turning to fists, but it was Ivar's slave that reacted first.

"I was never a man's property, not in my homeland, and certainly not here," Artemis growled, hands bawling into fists at her sides. Whatever ounce of fear she had of Ivar had disappeared, as rage clouded her vision. All thoughts of potential punishment had ceased from her mind, nose flaring and eyebrows arched.

She faces Ivar with a hardness in her eyes, shining like pearls ready to be plucked from the sea. Perhaps it was her nightmare that ignited the fire, the image of Ivar ready to kill her was implanted in her mind. Ivar grinned madly, a reaction he was not expecting from her, but a reaction he enjoyed nonetheless.

Sigurd watches on with wide eyes, speechless at her outburst. It was only moments ago in which she almost appeared as a mute. Leave it to Ivar to make even the most silent of persons angry.

"My, how your vocabulary has expanded!" Ivar taunts, "I'm impressed, really," He slams his hand against the table with a loud smack, and the force of the hit sent the lute crashing to the ground, forgotten in the tense silence of the hall. Then he gets deadly serious.

"The fact of the matter is that you are now a slave! To hel with your past life, it does not matter anymore. Here you are nothing but a slave under my command. Relinquish your thoughts of your homeland, you have no use for it here,"

"You are much too cruel, brother." Sigurd sighs, glancing at Artemis before taking a seat across from Ivar. He was in no mood to argue.

"The truth can be quite cruel," Ivar says, glaring at his brother before turning his gaze to Artemis. He brings a dagger between his fingers, the same one he put to her throat only days ago. It seemed to glitter in the light of the fire, as if mocking her mortality.

"Well? Will you not fetch us food? It is nearly time for breakfast," Ivar smiled, quickly driving the dagger into the wood of the table with a hard stab. Artemis, fuming with anger, remains silent. Her hands shook and she felt the heat rising to her cheeks. Sigurd sent her a sorrowful look, but she ignored it, snatching the rag in a tight grip and turning on her heel to exit the hall. How infuriating Ivar was, to constantly express his superiority. He compensates weak legs with extreme pride, and uses fear as a way to control.

Hvitserk and Ubbe walked past to meet their youngest with Margarthe in tow. Hvitserk winks at her as he usually did at but Ubbe's eyes were hard. He grabbed her forearm tightly, succeeding in emiting a squeal from her.

"Obey him, Artemis," She blinked. It was the first time he'd given her some form of scolding, "You may have never been a slave before, but that is what you are now, and that is the path the gods have chosen for you. If you value your life, obey him. You are replaceable."

With that, Ubbe leaves as if no words have been exchanged at all. Margarthe sends her a look as if warning her, but disappeared with her husband and lover into the hall.

Angry tears escape her eyes and she wipes them away furiously. Tears wouldn't help her.

...

@heavenly1927

#ivarxofc #ivarfanfiction #ivar imagine #ivar lothbrok #ivar #ivar x oc #vikings #ubbe #hvitserk #sigurd

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ms-march · 5 years ago

Note

#2 (Pre-Relationship) for Thaddeus and Adrienne?

“What was their first impression of each other?”

So here from Chapters 1-3 is Adrienne’s ‘first’ impression:

“She extended her hand to the stately man, who, in turn, brought it to his lips.... “I have heard of your beauty from the Lieutenant Colonel, but I believed him blasphemous,” the silver-tongued Colonel, who still held her hand near his lips... There at the mahogany table in the center of the room sat the Marquis — who was engaged in a conversation with the handsome European Colonel... the Colonel who seemed to occupy her thoughts quite often for having met the man last night” (chapter 1)

“She had received a letter from the dashing Polish Colonel.... to a man whose letter makes her heartbeat speed up after only one interaction.” (Chapter 2)

“More importantly, it came with the arrival of a very handsome Colonel at the porch... She trailed her gaze upon him, using the same analytical glance any lady in high society might befit to a gentleman they sized up, but there was no malice nor judgment in her intent this time. Adrienne studied his face, somehow more defined in the brighter lighting of the hall. Soon she realized that the lighting that night at the valley had not done the man nearly enough justice. His well-toned frame stood much more handsome in his well-tailored suit of fine silk rather than the wool of the officer’s coat. His hair too, she realized, was slicked back with pomade to frame his face, but let his dark curls hand free behind him, free of their military regulated queue. His face, more unshaven than she remembered, but in the most dashing way possible. Perhaps that was just Adrienne’s lack of alternate experience showing, for she was not used to such rugged-looking men wearing such fine clothing, interacting with higher society. ‘If he had been charming that night in the Potts’ small and dimly lit home, he was heart-stopping now.”

Meanwhile in chapter 13, Thaddeus describes his first impression as follows:

“Adrienne was beautiful, an angel on earth. Her image burned itself into the memory of each person who laid eyes on the heavenly figure. The way her blonde hair shone in the light of the fireplace entranced all those present, shining more spectacularly than any precious gem, more cherished than any sum of gold. Her sweet voice captured every man lucky enough to be spared a word by the heiress.

Helen of Troy was who Thaddeus thought he had laid eyes on that night in the dining room of Washington’s headquarters when he complimented her perhaps more boldly than he should have with John by his side. The blonde had told him in an accent that sounded far too European to belong to a South Carolinan that the girl he was promised to was if a bit boring, incredibly pleasing to the eye. He did not describe the beautiful blonde locks, the soft bluish-grey eyes that held exceptional amounts of intelligence for a lady of her age. Nor the poise with which she carried herself, the way she analyzed the room, deciding who was and who was not worthy of her time based on a million factors all at once. When he had heard that she was to dine at the Rush house, Thaddeus’ brash behavior took over once again, writing Benjamin Rush begging for an invitation on the same night.....”

So the thing I would like to point out is how each of them approached eachother. They were very different in their methods and reasoning, with Adrienne taking a far more physical and practical approach while Thaddeus took a more poetic approach. I do think that says a lot about them becuase they both came to the exact same conclusion at the very same moments, but they didn’t have the same train of thought at all. Thaddeus compares her to the ladies of ancient myths and adores all the smallest details as they play into her sense of being and personality, that is why he falls in love with her. Adrienne, who was raised to be ever practical, doesn’t even consider that his personality and character could be the reason she warms up to him so quickly. She notices the whole picture, and treats it as a puzzle. Each piece may be beautifully painted, but it cannot be fully appreaciated until it is whole. He isn’t perfect at Avery stage, but he somehow takes this combination he has and makes this beautiful picture that is literally 1 in a million, that is why she falls in love with him.

#I LOVE these #I really love these #anyways he’s a POET #I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again #clair rambles #lbl #luck be a lady #thadrienne #thaddeus kosciuszko #adrienne fairfax

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lovecomedy · 6 years ago

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Fanfic recommendations nobody asked for

Those are my favorite wincest fic ever, just because. They are all complete. I’ll add the summaries together with my own two cents.

Consider the Hairpin Turn by cherie_morte. 27K Words

AU of 6x22: Sam's wall has shattered and the memories in his mind have splintered. When the Sam who remembers Hell tells him to go find Jess and be happy, Sam knows he can't stay while Dean needs him. But when the Sam from Hell says that Dean is already there looking for him, Sam leaves his memories of the pit behind to find him.

What he finds is a life he doesn't remember: a house that he shares with his brother (and has for years), a law career he thought he'd left behind at Stanford, and a relationship with Dean he never dreamed he could have. Life is almost too good to be true, at least until Sam begins to hear his brother's voice calling to him, begging him to wake up.

This is my favorite fic of all times. It’s beautifuly written. The way that it narrates Sam’s trauma of Hell is what keeps me coming back for more . Honestly it should be published as a book. Don’t worry, it has very happy scenes and there’s a happy ending

Welcome to the Neighborhood by ImogenPortchester. 2K Words

Dean thinks the new neighbors are interesting, but all is not what it seems.

Super short. Super heartbreaking.

Fics by leonidaslion

I mean first off, just read everything written by leonidaslion

Sing Your Hymns Like Angels In Defeat. 32K Words.

And Lucifer Fell for a second time with the burning brilliance of a star. The Flare shone in his wake, and darkness fell upon the land ...

Dean goes blind, and I love how it describes Dean’s stuggles with it. You feel like you’re blind with him. Really, really, REALLY well written. Should probably also be a book

Fumbling in the Dark: Love Advice For the Romantically Impaired. 72K

True Love really is blind...

It’s basically a character study of every single episode of the first 5 seasons, with a wincest twist. Slow burn. Holy shit, is it a slow burn.

Just Say My Name. 3K Words

Dean turns into a complete and utter nympho. It takes Sam a while to notice the difference.

Funny, lighthearted and porny

Hush. 2K Words

Motel walls are thin...

Discovery!kink. Sam and Dean try to have quiet sex while John is in the other room. At least, Dean is trying

Sam Winchester and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. 15K Words

Sometimes, you just shouldn't get out of bed in the morning ...

Fics by fleshflutter

Dark Side of the Moon. 20K Words

Cursed!Dean is deaf and blind. Sam deals.

The incestuous courtship of the antichrist's bride. 48K Words

Sam is trying to become the Antichrist in order to save the world. He has a small army of angels and demons, he has an adoring cult, he has a work of prophecy by Jack Kerouac, and he has Dean. Things are going pretty well until he accidentally signs Dean up as his Beloved Consort, a role that requires sex with the Antichrist on an altar. And that's when things stop going pretty well. Also, the soundtrack to the Apocalypse sucks.

I don’t like crack fics, but goddamn this one is FUNNY. You can tell a lot of thought was put into this freaking masterpiece

Captured by the Game by rivkat. 54K Words

AU. Azazel has given his favorite son a task: worm his way into the confidence of a hunter. It sounds simple, but Dean Winchester just might be more than Sam can handle.

It wasn’t real by NaughtyPastryChef. 1K Words

Sam is trying to explain to Dean where he was when Dean was stuck in purgatory. It starts with "I hit a dog" and then, suddenly, inexplicably, they both know exactly where Sam was.

Wonderful explanation for that arc in season 8 nobody can stand. Plus, time travel, which I’m always a sucker for

Backseat of My Brother's 67 Chevy by NaughtyPastryChef. 1K Words

Extended scene from "Baby". Dean's feeling proud of Sam's hookup until he hears that Sam tried to give that waitress his number. Uncharacteristically, he lets Sam force him to talk about it.

Bury My Old Soul, and Dance on its Grave by dreamlittleyo. 2K Words

Dean knows how far he can push Sam.

Antichrist!Sam and Consort!Dean. Codependent winchesters. Yeah

Graveside Blues by hunenka. 3K Words

He uses his body like a blanket, like a shield.

I like how protective Sam is of Dean here, and it deals with something I don’t see a lot such as the jealousy he would have of Dean’s bond with Amara

own it by orphan_account. 6K Words

But he's never going to be able to burn the image of Sam cradling one hand around the perfect curve of Dean's face, dropping the other to the cut of Dean's hip (made for fingers and tongues to trail down, to taste), walking Dean backward until Dean is flush against the wall and Sam is flush against him. This is something that can't be denied.

John finds out. Explores the wonderful trope of both Sam and his father being possessive of Dean, and being very antagonistical to each other. Dysfunctional family yay. Also very porny

Fics by astolat

Punxsutawney. 9K Words

* astolat thinks any plot worth doing is worth doing TWICE

This is the Mistery Spot plot, but a little different. Sam AND Dean wake up to the same day over and over again. So they talk.

Kings and Queens and Jokers, Too. 4K Words

"Yeah, you boys nailed that trickster real good," Bobby said, dry as dust.

People are acting weird around the brothers. Can’t really say anything else without spoiling it. Listen just do yourself a favor and read it.

options. 500 Words

Decisions, decisions.

Short and funny. Little bit porny

Desired. 2K Words

He hadn't even known about any of this himself until Sam found it, figured it out for him. He hadn't known how it was going to be.

So, smut. They have a better time when Dean is the one who asks for it

Rockabye Sammy... by AnotherWorld3111. 1K Words

Sam can’t sleep, so Dean tries to help.

Sam keeps hallucinating Lucifer. Dean is worried and protective of him. Porny

We Know Each Other As We Always Were by mickeym. 45K Words

In 1941, while the world is at war, Sam Winchester falls in love with his brother. They're young, they're in love, and in spite of the hardships of life around them, the world is a pretty good one for them. Until Dec. 7th, 1941, when Japan launches an air attack on Pearl Harbor, sending the US to war against Japan. Dean Winchester feels he needs to join the Army; needs to help fight the good fight and help save lives. He promises he'll return, but can he keep that promise?

GAH this is so romantic! It’s an AU, but I feel like they’re very in character. It feels like a novel

For The End of My Broken Heart by Wickedtruth. 59K Words

Dad's disappeared and Sam's left to pick up the pieces of his broken brother. Post Devil's Trap AU.

Very codependent Winchesters. Also John finds out.

here at the end of all things by remy (iamremy). 40K Words

AU from Season 12 onwards. The British Men of Letters win in the USA, and slowly manage to establish their bases and authority over the whole country. They also capture Sam Winchester and keep him prisoner for eleven months, experimenting on him regularly before wiping his memories so that he has no idea what has been done to him.

Even after Dean rescues him and they begin planning to get revenge once and for all, the niggling doubt at the back of Sam's head remains -- what did they do to him? Why won't his anxiety get better? And what is it that he's missing?

Ok you got me, this is gen. But the whole fic feels like a (good) Supernatural episode, it’s so realistic and canon-like. The relationship between the brothers is just like the one we see on the show, meaning desperately codependent and wincest in every subtext.

Fics by deadlybride / zmediaoutlet

What I like about @zmediaoutlet is that she takes the time to write everyone in character. It’s always as canonical as possible and it feels real

femme. 4K Words

Rummaging around the internet, Dean finds a kink he hadn't seen before; Sam explains, and demonstrates.

I love feminization, but unfourtunately there’s only one fic that does it right, and it’s this one

gratification. 2K Words

It's not a compulsion. Dean just likes it.

breña. 1K Words

Sam and Dean wait, knowing what's coming.

The night before Sam jumps in the box

not the good things, nor the bad. 20K

Dean wavers in a grey area between being taken and giving in.

Part of it started with the kinks series, but you can read this just fine without the other parts. It deals very beautifully with Dean’s thoughts regarding his bond with Amara and his sexuality

DeMille Has Nothing On Us by HandsAcrossTheSea. 13K Words

"Hey Dean - wanna film it?"

This is part of the Those Hazy Days I Do Remember series, but you can 100% read it as a stand-alone, no problem. Sam and Dean film each other and this has that season 1 vibe, of just two brothers on the road. It’s slightly OOC, just because of how touchy-feely they are. But that’s something I sometimes wish we could have on the show, anyway

How many floors to realize by Lazy Daze. 26K Words

AU from the end of It’s A Terrible Life, in which Zachariah decides to keep stringing them along a little while longer, because damn if they aren’t somewhat entertaining, right?”

Rabid by i-am-therefore-i-fight

Beautiful!! I love @i-am-therefore-i-fight‘s take on demon!dean. It’s different to what we’re used to. This fic is very angsty but has a happy ending

Bitten by a True Believer by kermiethefrog. 3K Words

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says. Flashes him a wicked grin, charcoal-eyes. The way he spreads out on Sam’s mattress, bare and offering himself up like Holy fucking Communion, drums heat under Sam’s skin, and he’s never sure if it’s arousal or anger when he’s faced with the demon. “Show me a good time, big guy.”

Another demon!dean fic. I like how even as he is a demon, he is still desperate for Sam’s attention

The Time Traveler's Brother by AmyPond45. 54K Words

Dean's life is turned upside down the night his mother dies. But that's also the night a mysterious grown-up version of Dean's brother first appears in his life. While Dean grows up, "Old Sam" is often there, especially when Dean's father isn't. As Dean learns what the future holds, he begins to question everything his father has taught him about who he is and what he is supposed to become. Can Dean find a way to save his little brother from his own future?

This is based on The Time Traveler’s Wife, which is my favorite book. Don’t worry, you don’t have to have read it to understand this fic

need against need against need by dollylux. 5K Words

Jack spends his first night in the bunker with Sam and Dean. (Jack POV)

Don’t worry, Jack just watches and ponders about the Winchester’ realationship

the centre cannot hold by orphan_account. 6K Words

Sam does not remember; Dean does. All Dean can do is watch, and mourn.

But then Castiel becomes God, and the world starts to break at the edges (and maybe that isn't a bad thing.)

It kinda becomes a character study, while the brothers deal with what happened during the Soulless!Sam period

The Last Temptation by bccalling. 1K Words

When Sam tells Mary about all the things he and Dean get up to in the dark, Mary wants in, and Sam sees his opportunity to make Dean’s every fantasy come true.

Mary shows up. Porny and very sweet

Angels and Demons by OhWilloTheWisp. 9K Words

AU angels and demons are animals. Sam was not happy when his owner, Ruby, left him boarded at a kennel. He was even less happy when he discovered an angel in the same facility. But his encounter with the angel will end much differently than anyone would have guessed. He may have never expected his mate to be angel, but now that's found him he won't let anyone keep them apart.

Sam and Dean are kinda like animals here but there’s nothing sexual. It’s very sweet and romantic. Anna/Ruby in here as well

#wincest #fic rec #leonidaslion #fleshflutter #astolat #full house of wincest #bottom!dean #zmediaoutlet

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fayewonglibrary · 5 years ago

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A Cantopop Dream Girl’s First Film Reverie (2019)

By Oliver Wang

If you weren’t a devotee of the Cantopop world in the early 1990s, the casting of Faye Wong in Wong Kar-wai’s Chungking Express (1994) may not have caught your attention. Starring in her first major role, the singer looked much the fresh ingenue, cropped coif, tinted sunglasses, and all. Her character—also named Faye—was played with such a frenetic, awkward energy that she may well have been the blueprint for the “manic pixie dream girl” trope.

In Asia, though, Wong had already become one of the region’s biggest pop stars by 1994, and the movie premiered a month after Wong had released Random Thoughts, her eighth album in six years. To put her casting in contemporary terms: imagine a promising but still unproven art-house filmmaker convincing Ariana Grande to star in a low-budget indie film that happened to come out weeks after the release of her chart-topping Thank U, Next. For Wong Kar-wai (WKW), Chungking Express was a breakout international hit, but for Faye Wong, it was one highlight in an already meteoric career.

Landing a genuine pop star was a kind of capstone for a director whose previous films had already shown a deep love for the power of pop songs. A key scene in WKW’s debut film, As Tears Go By (1988), is built around a jukebox playing Sandy Lam’s Cantonese cover of Berlin’s “Take My Breath Away.” The mysterious, mesmerizing title scene in Days of Being Wild (1990), set amid jungle foliage, makes use of the minor 1964 instrumental hit “Always in My Heart,” by the Brazilian guitar duo Los Indios Tabajaras. One wonders if, in an alternate timeline, WKW would have made a great, taste-making DJ.

Chungking Express is WKW’s greatest “jukebox” film for many reasons, including its casting of Faye Wong and its prominent placement of pop tracks, plus the fact that the director uses not one but two different jukeboxes in pivotal scenes. The actual number of songs isn’t as extensive as in Scorsese or Tarantino films of the same era, but the four tunes used most strategically in Chungking Express are each repeated at least twice. In the film’s first half (which features a young Takeshi Kaneshiro alongside the legendary Brigitte Lin in her final film role), Dennis Brown’s somber 1973 reggae single “Things in Life” plays four times. In the second half, which focuses on the unconventional relationship between Faye Wong’s Faye and Tony Leung’s Cop 663, we hear Dinah Washington’s 1959 version of “What a Diff’rence a Day Makes” twice and the Mamas and the Papas’ iconic 1966 single “California Dreamin’” a staggering nine times.

Most of these uses are diegetic, played on jukeboxes, CD players, or stereos. As we, the audience, listen to the music, we’re also watching people on-screen listening to music. Because of this, the songs in Chungking Express don’t just enhance ambiance, they also craft character, and these two streams flow together sublimely with “Dream Lover,” the Cantopop cover of an alternative rock hit by the Cranberries from 1992, performed by none other than Faye Wong.

Born Wang Fei in mainland China, Wong moved with her family from Beijing to Hong Kong in the eighties to pursue a performing career. Her first record label, trying to avoid associations with the mainland, gave her the generic, Anglicized stage name “Shirley Wong.” Her early albums sold, but after a few years, frustrated with her lack of creative control, she took a hiatus and relocated to New York City in 1991 as a gesture of escape and self-discovery. We can only assume she was also immersing herself in the trans-Atlantic pop scene of that time.

We don’t know if Wong heard the original “Dreams” in New York, but by the time she covered the song on Random Thoughts, the Cranberries’ song had become a signature hit twice over. It was the Irish band’s debut single from the fall of 1992, but they also rereleased it in the spring of 1994, after the massive success of their follow-up single, “Linger.” My friend, music writer Ned Raggett, described it as “a brisk, charging number combining low-key tension and full-on rock,” which is to say it’s a song filled with a sense of taut control but also giddy release. It’s easy to imagine how Wong, seeking to reclaim her artistic autonomy, might have been drawn to it.

Upon returning to Hong Kong in 1992, Wong reclaimed her birth name by changing her stage name to Faye Wong, and she immediately began to score a string of best-selling albums, many featuring covers of alternative rock hits. “Dream Lover” isn’t the only example to appear on Random Thoughts; the album also includes a pair of Cocteau Twins’ covers.

Showcasing “Dream Lover” in Chungking Express so close to Random Thoughts’ release was surely a savvy marketing move, common in the Hong Kong entertainment industry. However, the use of the song—alongside Wong’s real-life stardom—also works beautifully with the narrative and logic of the movie. From the moment Faye is introduced at the start of the second half, she’s already living in a dream of sorts. When we first meet both her and Cop 663 (Tony Leung), she’s working at her cousin’s food stand and blasting “California Dreamin’” out of a kitchen stereo. It’s so loud that 663 has to awkwardly shout at Faye just to put in his order, but Faye seems unfazed by the volume. With each repeated playing of the song, we’re meant to hear it as a commentary on Faye’s dissatisfaction with the drudgery of work and her weariness of Hong Kong’s gloomy, wet climate. California—“safe and warm”—represents a fantasy to escape to, first in her imagination, later in reality.

“Dream Lover” obviously extends the same “dream” theme, but as it’s also performed by Wong the singer, in scenes featuring Faye the character, there’s a rich meta-text at play. In “Dreams,” the Cranberries’ Dolores O’Riordan sings of trying to grapple with her sense of fantasy and reality in the context of an existing relationship. Wong’s “Dream Lover” has different lyrics that seem to recast the song as one about a lover who may be real or may be imagined. That ambiguity echoes Faye’s infatuation with 663, which she goes out of her way to avoid making explicit. 663 may be the lover in her dreams but not one she is keen to pursue in reality. As if to stress this point, we first hear “Dream Lover” after Faye has stolen his apartment keys in order to sneak in to dust his shelves, swap labels on his pantry cans, even drug his water bottle so she can continue her clandestine cleaning while he’s passed out. (This probably seemed more quirky and charming in 1994. Today, it’d likely be cause for a restraining order and psych eval.) Faye wants to be in 663’s presence, but only indirectly. She has more of a relationship with his domicile than with him.

That first use of “Dream Lover” is played under a montage of an extended cleaning session, and cinematographer Christopher Doyle shoots Wong with a handheld camera, adding to the already off-balance feeling of the scene. My colleague Brian Hu has astutely noted in a video essay that this shooting style seems to deliberately mirror the aesthetics of Wong’s music videos of the time. Hu’s analysis posits both the movie and music videos were shot in such a way to present Wong/Faye as a “whimsical dreamer,” “a free spirit,” “inquisitive and mysterious.” Moreover, in real life, Wong left Hong Kong to “find herself” in the U.S., and that story would have been well-known to any Cantopop fan watching Chungking Express. Film Faye is so tightly interwoven with Faye Wong that one wonders, if Wong had been unavailable or uninterested in the role, would WKW have abandoned the character or storyline completely?

When I first sat in a Bay Area theater to watch Chungking Express in the mid-nineties, I knew absolutely none of Wong’s backstory, and yet I still found the song immensely affecting, especially when it returns a second time, forming a coup de grace moment during the film’s final scene.

To recap: the last chapter in Chungking Express occurs a year after Faye has decided that, rather than meet with 663 at the California Bar, she’s going to travel to the actual California instead to see if it lives up to her dream. Now a stewardess, Faye drops by her cousin’s food stand only to find 663 there, no longer a police officer but now the stand’s owner. Before, Faye was the one infatuated with “California Dreamin’,” but now it’s 663 playing the song, also loudly, on the kitchen stereo. He is surprised but clearly pleased to see her. She, however, is nervous about having her “dream lover” in front of her and begins to make excuses to leave. At this point, the will-they/won’t-they tension from earlier in the film returns, and as viewers invested in their potential pairing, we’re left anxious that this moment too will end without resolution.

But 663 then retrieves the letter Faye had left him the night she departed. It’s a hand-drawn boarding pass but rainwater has blurred out the destination, and Faye offers to write him a new one. When asked where he wants to go, 663 replies, “Wherever you want to take me,” and the last we see of the pair is Faye inking a new pass on a napkin while 663 stares with affectionate intensity. One final moment flashes back to the stereo, where “California Dreamin’” had been playing just before. This time, it’s “Dream Lover” that swells up and kicks in before the end credits flash on.

Ending with a song as robust as “Dream Lover” doesn’t just reinforce the movie’s unique, unpredictable energy, it also captures something of how we often experience dreams themselves: as intense but disjointed bursts of images and emotion that we wake from, momentarily disoriented yet filled with feeling. The exuberance of the song offers a form of musical catharsis for all the deliciously confusing tension that’s built up over the past hour. We don’t know for certain what will happen to Faye and 663 after this scene, but what the sound of “Dream Lover” offers in the moment is a rousing sense of possibility. The song’s sonic verve—with its “low-key tension” and energetic release—fuels hope that our lovers may not be so star-crossed after all, as they pursue their romantic dreams, wherever those may take them.

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SOURCE: THE CRITERION COLLECTION

#2019

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h3adcarsbending · 6 years ago

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pity party • matty healy x reader

Pity Party - M.H.

wc- 2856 or smth like that

The reader, in the midst of a particularly bad day, is dragged along to a party by her boyfriend Matty. But she really doesn’t want to be a burden or ruin his night.

It was a stressful day for poor Y/N, and being dragged along to a party by her boyfriend didn’t help much either. Not like she’d ever let Matty know what was up - she hated burdening him with her problems. She didn’t want to scare him off, now did she? Her curly haired rockstar was the best thing that had ever happened to her. If she lost Matty, who knows what she’d do.

But, anything for him. She would go to the party, pretend to have a good time, and hope for the best, because let’s be honest for a moment… not much could go wrong. Or could it? Oh, shut up with the cliches, will you!

“Love, are you almost ready?” called the boyfriend in question from the living room of their shared Manchester flat.

Y/N sighed apologetically, attempting to quickly gain at least some composure before having to face Matty. “Y-yeah. Just one second, babe…”

With that, she took a final glance in the mirror and confirmed she looked alright. She didn’t feel too hot today. But there wasn’t much she could do to tend to her overwhelming insecurities at this very moment. Turning the knob with shaky, but freshly manicured hands, she exited the bathroom - her favourite place to cry - and greeted the beautiful, curly haired man in front of her, a fake smile a stark contrast to his genuine one. She felt somewhat guilty, but she’d feel guiltier if she let him know what was wrong. Letting him have a lovely time at George’s carouse was all she wanted. She knew firsthand how hard Matty and the boys worked, and how little rest they got… frankly, it amazed her. How he could do everything he did seldom any breaks was perplexing to the Y/H/C girl.

Matty looked at her up and down, practically tearing off her beautiful sequined black dress with his gorgeous chocolate (ha) brown eyes alone. He snaked a pale, inked arm around her waist, planting a soft, heartfelt kiss on her cheek. “You look breathtaking, love!” he exclaimed, a look of pure and utter adoration on his lovely face. Oh, how lucky she was. She didn’t think she deserved him - but then again, he didn’t think he deserved her, either. Again with the guilt.

She averted her gaze to the floor at an alarming speed, biting back a flood of tears in an attempt to do two things; save both her dignity and the glittery smokey eye she’d spent an unreasonable amount of time on. “Thank you. You look quite fit yourself, Matty,” she squeaked, trying to hide the burning of oncoming tears at the back of her throat that often resulted in a rather telling voice crack which made her sound like a twelve year old boy. She did not succeed. “Sorry. Eyeshadow in my eye. That stuff hurts,” she chuckled, giving her all to play it off. She felt terrible lying to him but it was all she could do right then and there, hm?

Matty looked concerned. He suspected she was upset - but for both her and the night’s sake decided not to make a big deal of it, raising his thick eyebrows worriedly. “I’d imagine it does, love,” he replied, squeezing her hand affectionately. “You sure you’re alright? We can tell George we can’t come--”

“No! No, no, no, don’t do that!” she pleaded, cutting him off. “I’m okay. It’s fine, babe, it’s nothing. Promise!”

“Alright,” he sighed, pulling her in for a hug. Y/N melted into the embrace, her head lying on his comfortable (albeit bony) chest. Listening to his heartbeat was quite therapeutic for her, and he knew that. “Let’s go.”

She nodded, and off they went.

To say the car ride was tense was a bit of an understatement. Y/N chewed at her glossy, made up lips, and Matty’s elegant free hand diverged from its usual spot at his girlfriend’s thigh and instead rested on the wheel of the car, bouncing up and down in coordination with his thigh. She didn’t dare gaze anywhere but outside the window, meanwhile he routinely checked up on her. For what reason, he wasn’t sure. It vaguely reminded them of the aftermath of their arguments -- but even then there was less… silence. It was deafening. Matty quickly turned on the radio (conveniently playing some sad, mainstream pop tune by the latest one-hit wonder) to elevate the mood and diminish the awkwardness. He wanted to talk, he just wasn’t sure how to go about doing so.

For the first time, Y/N looked away from the window and instead at her thighs. And her stomach. She cringed inwardly upon the sight, regretting giving in to the hearty lunch Matty had fixed for the two of them - it tasted surprisingly good, but she was quite bloated, even after a good five or so hours, which made her pretty anxious. Her soft, thick thighs, which he liked, weren’t to her liking. Not even close. Subconsciously, she tugged at her hair, threatening to rip it all out and scream, once again holding back a waterfall of tears. Then, back to staring at the cars passing by.

Eventually, they made it to George’s place. They could hear the music blaring from the opposite end of the block -- it was loud. Impossibly tumultuous. That by itself was already stressing Y/N out, to the point where she didn’t even realize Matty had stopped the car until he opened her door and helped her out. She thanked him, clinging onto his hand as if it was her last breath; his other hand rubbed her back in a soothing matter. They got to the door and were greeted by none other than Adam Hann after a brief sequence of knocks, his beautifully angled eyebrows sitting at an even higher angle once his eyes met with the pair’s own. “Y/N! Matty! A bit late, but come in! We’ve been waiting for ages,” he chirped, a slight slur to his words, especially when he emphasized ‘ages’.

Matty gave his close friend a slight chuckle, you instinctively following suit. “Yeah, sorry about that, mate. My love-” he ruffled your curled hair with his free hand, pulling you in a bit closer to him and kissing your forehead “-here is just so distractingly beautiful!” A very, very, embarrassingly bright blush crept onto your cheeks, and you let out the first genuine giggle you had all day. It was those small, yet memorable moments of pure cuteness that really made you fall in love with him. You cherished those memories -- you remembered every single time he’d done something like that. It was a mix of hilarity and endearment that you felt every time Matty shed his bad boy, rock star demeanour and replaced his it with a soft, loving one. One that secretly preferred being the little spoon sometimes. One that was surprisingly vulnerable. It was a side of Matty most people didn’t get to experience - and boy, was she grateful she got to.

“Not as pretty as you, Matthew,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck (which was covered in a mop of dark brown ringlets). He looked at you with a face that could only be described as an odd mix of amusement, adoration, and disgust.

“Don’t ever call me Matthew again, for the love of God.” Matty laughed, even harder as Adam faked a gag. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Hann! S’not like you and Carly are any different.”

“Not publicly. That’s gross.”

“Shut your trap,” he quipped as he jokingly shoved the blonde guitarist away so he could enter George’s not-so-humble abode (though he was quite humble about it nevertheless) with his girlfriend in tow.

The lights were bright. They flashed a lot, too (they flashed even more than those God-awful ‘groupies’ at literally every show the boys played), and they were far from pleasant; Y/N felt slightly queasy but, not like she herself would throw up… rather like her mind would. It seemed to be a combination of stress, body image, and an unexpectedly onset depressive episode. She felt herself stumble, almost as if she was as intoxicated as the vast majority of people attending this event, but she caught herself before Matty noticed. He was talking to some old friend he hadn’t seen since high school, which made her job easier as he assumed she was just being lovey-dovey when she gripped his arm - his obliviousness was a gift at times. This being one of them.

The friend - Y/N gathered her name was Tiera - was stunning. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Model material. Her bone structure was immaculate, and her platinum blonde box braids contrasted beautifully with her glowing dark skin. Her body was just as, if not more perfect than her face. She was fit in every sense of the word, with curves that would be the death of any woman or man who laid eyes on them… and YN’s brain insisted that this mesmerizing lady was going to be the end of her Matty too, and taking in the sight of them innocently catching up was when she lost it.

You see, she wasn’t normally a very jealous person; but the pure self loathing she had felt towards her own body that day, and then seeing how flawless Tiera’s was and how friendly her and Matty were especially compared to the distance they kept on the way to George’s, was just too much. She let go of Matty’s long, thin arm, pushing it away as hard as she could, and wriggled out of his grasp as if he was some sort of rat who was going to give her the Bubonic plague. Shocked, he looked back at her - his arrestingly ravishing girlfriend, the apple of his eye (dare I say - I do apologize for the cheesiness), her Y/H/C hair and black dress swaying in sync as she bolted towards his best friend’s restroom. What the fuck? He thought, his mouth agape just as it had been the first time he laid eyes on her. Except, rather than admiration, he stared in confusion.

Remember when I said that their bathroom was Y/N’s favourite place to cry? Well, I wasn’t lying. She found George’s to have the same pleasant, calming atmosphere that screamed “I AM HERE FOR YOU”, just as Matty wanted to earlier - unbeknownst to her.

She locked the door behind her as fast as she could, finding the light to be already on. She paced towards the mirror, recoiling in shock - she didn’t remember being that hideous at home. Maybe that’s because she hadn’t yet seen Tiera or any of the beautiful faces and bodies that peppered the gathering.

After inspecting her face and looking as hard as she could, she managed to scavenge every single little ‘flaw’ in existence. She rushed to smash the lightswitch back off with every ounce of rage in her body, hurting her delicate palms in the process, which made the tears she didn’t even realize were there spill out even harder. Great, now she hurt physically and mentally.

She slumped in the corner beside the sink, but not before pulling a fluffy green bathmat underneath her for a little bit of cushioning. Last time she cried in George’s bathroom, she split her palm open and thus felt as though she had every right to bawl her eyes out, considering the depth of the cut and her shockingly low pain tolerance - her and Matty were on the cold marble tile, hugging in intervals before her bandage was soaked through and needed to be replaced again--

Oh dear. Matty. Thinking of him again made her sobs grow in volume and frequency, and she could’ve sworn that by now she looked like some sort of raccoon. And although she trusted him with her heart and soul and deep down knew he would never, she couldn’t help but think that he was probably making out with some thotty little twerp. She put her head in her hands, numerous thoughts flooding her mind as she cried and cried. The room was spinning. Just like out in the main room. It was spinning, it was blurry, she was hyperventilating, and although she knew she would have to leave the bathroom and face Matty eventually, she continued to hide, sulking in solitude.

Suddenly, knocks boomed throughout the echoey room, and Y/N hoarsely got out a small confirmation that the room was in use.

“Y/N, we know it’s in use,” a gentle yet profoundly low voice replied. The voice was familiar - because, well, it belonged to the owner of the bathroom. “Could you come out, please? We’re worried sick.”

She cried harder. She hated being a burden - that’s why she came here - but she’d made it ten times worse. Like always. “W-who’s w-we?”

“Matty and me. Adam and Ross would be too, but we don’t know what they’ve gotten into.”

“I’m not coming out.”

“Please?”

Y/N dragged her quivering body to the door and unlocked it, guilt and shame apparent on her features as she faced the two men in front of her. Matty scooped her up, tears in his eyes, holding her as close as he possibly could. He thanked George for having him over and bid his goodbyes before making his way to their shared car and buckling her into the passenger’s seat. He’d had an amaretto or two and knew he probably shouldn’t have been driving, but whatever; he could pay for whatever fine they gave him. Y/N was worth a DUI and a ticket.

“What happened out there, love?” Matty inquired, sad brown gaze trying to read into her Y/E/C one.

She shook her head, face and hair still caked with the salty liquid that wouldn’t dare stop seeping out of her eyes.

He pursed his soft lips, before moving his hand too caress her wet cheek. “You have to tell me so I can help you, babe. I love you. How about we talk about it in bed?” He didn’t mean it sexually, at least not right now.

She nodded. That was really all he needed, leaning in to place a heartfelt kiss on her lips, grinning as he saw a small smile form. He offered his hand, and she took it, and they stayed like that for the rest of their journey home.

As soon as they got back, Matty made sure to tend to her every need - he tied her hair back, removed her rodent-like mess of makeup, and helped her get into more comfortable attire (his shirt, which secretly made him swoon). He frowned upon her refusal of chicken noodle soup - her favourite, especially when he made it. He carried her to their bed and decided to take charge and be the big spoon this time. “Alright, love. What’s up?”

She bit the inside of her cheek anxiously. She’d stopped crying, however she was still on the verge of tears. “I think I had a panic attack in George’s bathroom. But that’s not th-the point. This week has been terrible. I’ve been getting a ton of hate, you’ve had interviews, which is good and all, but… bad timing, I guess? Ah, I don’t know. And you know that… that lunch that you made for us? It was good, really good, but, I was pretty bloated after that which never fails to get me down! And then we had to go to that party, and I felt ugly and disgusting, and it just… wouldn’t stop. At the party, I felt even worse. Sick. And everyone there was gorgeous, especially… what’s her name? Tia? Tyra? Tiera. Yes. And I thought you liked her because I’m a mess. And…” she paused, a tear falling down her cheek. “I think that’s it?”

It hurt Matty’s heart to hear her pour hers out to him in such a melancholy way. He’d known of her insecurities -- it’s why she was usually quite hesitant about any intimacy whatsoever, even a simple hug -- and every single one of his attempts to comfort her, restore her self esteem, assure her she was the most gorgeous girl he’d ever laid eyes on (hence why they were dating). He sighed, pulling her into a warm embrace. “You’re breathtaking. Don’t ever think otherwise. And by the way,” he began, pausing as she cocked her head to the side. “I’ve got worry about her more than you do. She told me you were quite fit before you ran off.” They shared warm laughs, before Y/N looked into his eyes once again.

“I love you, rockstar.”

“I love you too.”

And with that, both my hands and the star-crossed lovers got some rest. Writing six pages is not easy on the wrist.

#the 1975 #adam hann #matty healy x reader #matty healy #george daniel #ross macdonald #abiior #iliwysfyasbysuoi #drive like i do #imagines #imagine #fanfic

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afterourhearts · 5 years ago

Text

Eyeliner Tears

Why are Asian eyes so ugly? I thought to myself as I outlined their shape with the blackest liner I could dig out from the free Lancôme makeup samples Mom never used. This was my daily routine since I first discovered the beautiful black pencil when I was 12 alongside lip gloss, mascara, and blush. But eyeliner was my favorite – changing most dramatically what I hated most passionately. • Monolids are ugly because they make eyes look like slits. • Double lids are ‘mutant’ because, as my white medical professor once so aptly described, “Epicanthic folds are a prominent feature of Down Syndrome. If you don’t know what they are, Asians commonly have this feature.” Let’s face it: we can’t win, at least not in the beauty arena. But with my eyeliner adding the illusion of a larger eye, I felt halfway there. Not everyone, however, appreciated my foray into adolescent self-transformation. The Chinese beauty culture operates very differently than American beauty culture: pale skin, small mouths, soft bodies, and youthful innocence are prized over glowing tans, wide smiles, athletic frames, and sultry seductiveness. To achieve the Chinese beauty ideal of youthful innocence, heavy makeup such as eyeliner is unacceptable, and makeup at all is frowned upon for younger girls. Mom called them “raccoon eyes” and told me I looked uglier with it on but I never heeded her advice. She also said respectable girls did not waste their time on vanities like makeup, but rather immersed themselves in their studies. She especially hated when I wore makeup to church, a place where teenage girls are supposed to look extra pure. I rolled my raccoon eyes. One year, I met a new girl at our Chinese Christian Church. She was talkative, witty, similarly loved makeup and rebellion, and we became fast friends. This same year, a new youth pastor arrived at our church. He was funny, fluent, and finally our first youth pastor who wasn’t middle-aged. So how do they tie back to eyeliner? Prior to their arrival, I dreaded attending church, paranoid that the judgmental eyes of multitudes of Chinese parents hated my appearance and shared the Chinese cultural views held by my mother. Was it paranoia, or was I just observant? Adults would enthusiastically praise my younger brother’s handsome features and say nothing about my appearance other than, “She is tall!” Their smiles seemed disingenuous and their attitudes towards me distant. Or maybe I was just overly sensitive. Regardless, much of that paranoia melted away with the arrival of a new friend and youth pastor – two characters who seemed more attuned than the other members to the Asian-American dichotomy that was my life. I began to loosen up at church, smile more, and even happily greet the adults. I felt … safe. Maybe not enthusiastically accepted, but also not frowned upon with disdain. One might wonder why I was so concerned for approval from within my Chinese church. When you live in a country spearheaded by people who don’t view you as truly American, you cling onto the safe spaces that still might take you in and consider you a member. I wasn’t aware of how shaky my walls of comfort had been built, though, until one sentence caused them to tumble back down again. “He said he doesn’t like you because you wear so much eyeliner.” She told me. She being my new best friend and he being the cool and young youth pastor we both adored. “How do you know this?” I asked, disbelief and doubt at each other’s throats in the battleground that was now my mind. “Because he told my mom. And my mom told me that it’s not just him who thinks this way, but a lot of other parents. They tell their kids to stay away from you because you are a bad influence.” Bad influence. Me, the introvert who rarely speaks, a bad influence? I let that sink in. That night, I considered giving up my eyeliner. I thought all my fears about being hated by my friends’ parents were unfounded and paranoid. I thought my youth pastor would especially not judge me by something so exterior – actually, why would he judge me at all? Why would a grown ass man concern himself so heavily with whether a teenage girl wears eyeliner? Anger and sadness bubbled up around me. How did one of my greatest fears, one I thought had been pushed away and laid to rest for good, one which only my new friend knew so intimately, suddenly come to surface all over again? And that’s when it hit me: maybe she lied. The seed of thought that this supposed best friend might not actually like me at all was planted. And over the next few months, it thirstily drank up water and sunlight. I befriended other girls and began to uncover bits and pieces of the horrifying truth: she did hate me, and they had evidence. Screen captures and chat conversations were forwarded to my inbox. Not only did she tell others about how terrible I supposedly was, she also told them I disliked all of them and fabricated statements I had never uttered nor so much as thought. I could not believe it – why did she want to destroy my life and capitalize on my insecurities? What did I ever do but consider her my friend? Sometimes, you never get answers. Not too many months after, she moved again. We stumbled across each other’s Instagram accounts a few years later. She had dyed hair, tattoos, piercings all over, eyeliner wings bolder than I had ever applied, false lashes nearly reaching her thickly painted eyebrows, the same deceptively sweet smile as when we first met, and was surrounded by other Asian girls. I once burned with the anger of her betrayal, but all I could think about now was her new embodiment of the criticisms she claimed were the reasons for my rejection from our community and how ironic our appearances were now – me being the studious medical student who sometimes forgets to wear eyeliner and she being the girl who refuses to be seen in public without it - the pictorial epitome of the bad influence she once used to mark me for social abandonment from our only remaining community. Irony, Karma, or Hypocrisy? Today, I won’t know if sprinkled between her lies were grains of truth, and if her comment about my reputation was one of them. I won’t know if my eventual submission to certain Asian cultural values drew its main roots from my teenage experience of potential two-fold community rejection. I won’t know if she ever realized the extent to which she hurt me or if she continues to hurt in similarly sneaky ways our other Asian sisters struggling to find acceptance and self-love in a land which has subjected them to unwarranted rejection. What I do know is this: We All Cry The Same Eyeliner Tears Yes, we do. They trickle down from our unmistakably Asian eyes, glide along our sunscreen laden faces, and leave smudgy black streaks to remind us of both our perceived physical imperfections as well as our efforts to conceal the ugliness we feel inside.

Feeling ugly is not just some manifestation of low self-esteem as these American schools/media/counselors might tell us in order to erase from our mutual history and from their responsibility the ‘chink’ comments that we heard or the fingers-pulling-eyes-upward-to-mimic-us that we saw.

Our damaged self-esteem is not some personal mental and emotional disorder or a reflection of our weakness but a collective experience caused largely in part by the pervasive belief that some belong here but we don’t and that some are beautiful but we aren’t. Don’t think that just because dating apps are now asserting, “Asian girls are the most desired race!” that the girls who come after us are protected from the less-than we endured. The American dating scene did not just become more “accepting” of us – we changed to look more like them. But underneath the beautifully and extravagantly drawn eyeliner wings, the perfectly filled in eyebrows, the time-consuming application of fake lashes, the hours spent at the gym to avoid ‘Asian flat butt’ stereotypes, and the sharp cut of the surgery knife on our eyelids, we still cannot help but wonder: is this beautiful yet? And when he says, “Yes”, we still worry, was I not beautiful before? Do we really want to be with the ones who only want what is made-to-order, and overlook the ones who saw the original, in all its imperfections, as worth discovering? So while I have every right to be mad at my Asian sister for the hurtful actions she made against me as a result of her wanting to be more accepted by our community than I was, I cannot lose sight of the more formidable barrier to our collective inability to self-love: not the lies she told before, but the lies they still tell today. Why are my Asian eyes so ugly? I used to think to myself constantly. And if you’ve read this until the end, I think you know the answer.

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Comments: Friends who have read this far or read my shared thoughts at all, I know my experiences are not isolated. My past shared posts related to familial pressures and relationships have shown me just how overlapping our experiences can be. The feelings of low self-esteem and self-image at some time or another in your life is probably a universal one. Experiences of betrayal are sadly quite common. Hopefully you enjoyed this short piece - it’s a bit different from the other posts I’ve written (a little more cleaned up and narrative when compared to my usual frenetic ranting) ... anyways, I wanted to share that I’ve been working on putting together some more shorts + poems in my free time (this is how I destress from school haha) and something I hope to achieve through writing with this project (and since day one) is unfiltered and unapologetic storytelling highlighting the Asian voice that is so often completely ignored in discussions of race and discrimination. I’m not saying our experiences are to be equated to the experiences of other minorities because noo, but I am saying we should at least be included in the discussion.

This brings me to my next point: I want to continue to share your stories too. If you have experiences you want to share related in any way to your identity as an Asian-American female, I want to hear them and with your permission, try to make prose or poetry of it. Text me, message me, or call me and let’s get in touch :) Thank you for being a part of this whether as a reader or direct contributor. Let’s shape our collective voice!!!

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