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favoniuscodex · 3 years

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thanatos . chapter one [zhongli x reader]

summary: in which you seek refuge from the cruel archons that wage war on teyvat in the murky depths of the underworld below you, in the protection of the god of death, rex lapis. nearly forgotten by all and feared by those who haven’t, morax provides safety, yet dangers lurk within the touch of his skin, embittered with cold by the souls of the damned. pairing: god of death!zhongli x minor deity!f!reader warnings: chapter is sfw, series will eventually not be. chapter warnings include minor descriptions of injuries, death, and blood. word count: 3.8k

[ prologue ] - [ 1 / 8 ] - [ next ] a/n: i finally got part one done :) enjoy! time to go work on my other series now that i got this part posted. the persephone/hades vibes are a lot stronger in this than the prologue, but zhongli isn’t as hot in this chapter :( it’s okay he’ll get there in the next two

chapter one: the beginning, wherein which lies the end.

your bare feet slam themselves into the bare earth as you tumble ungracefully from the ledge above. the shock runs up your bones, through your shins and to your knees, but you cannot dwell on such a feeling. you hear shouts in the distance and the crackle of electricity overhead. you grip the shears of the object in your hand tightly, the cold metal crackling into your skin as you sprint once more.

a thunderclap sounds out around you, shaking the earth around you and ricocheting through your brain. with it, a torrential rain begins, pelting you with fierce droplets of water the sky has no longer decided it wants to hold in its possession. your hair mats against your skull, your robes are soaked, yet you carry on nonetheless.

dirt clings to your feet as your soles try to suction themselves to the ground, leaving behind marks in the freshly formed mud of the earth. your godly lungs burn as your feet trail along the ground and you whisper prayers to the long-since-fallen god of hermes for ease of transportation in hopes of arriving at your destination safely.

you dive into the thick thrush of the forest, weeds whipping at your skin and harsh branches biting at your flesh as you race by. your feet ache and burn from the rough terrain, but you carry on nonetheless. the fate of the world, your world, depends on your escape. you spot the markers you had left days prior, strings of vivid red tied around tree branches. the heat of adrenaline coursing through your skin combats with the harsh winds that whip at your skin, the bitter chill that threatens to consume you whole.

as you arrive at your destination, you hesitate. it’s a hole in the ground, covered haphazardly by a dying bush. beneath lies your fate, but first you must look above. you do, peering up above you, and you spot the amaranthine fruit hanging from the tree above you. it is perfectly ripened and the raindrops that coat its rind glisten in the moonlight that filters between the trees.

despite the storm that rages overhead, everything slows to a still in your mind. the fruit adorns the tree like an ornament and the serpent of sin wraps around your throat, your mind, urging you to tear its flesh apart and take a bite. your mouth waters in your transfixation, but another clap of thunder grounds you to your situation and reminds you of where you are. you hastily enclose the shears in your hand within the folds of your robe, securing it tightly.

to enter the earth, you must take flight first. ignoring the screams of your overexerted muscles, the groans of your skin adorned in shallow cuts, and your naked feet that threaten to slip on the wet ground below, you crouch down. you inhale sharply and, as you push yourself up, you charge forward and take flight. such a voyage remains brief, yet you grasp the forbidden fruit in your palm, yanking it off the tree branch. as the earth’s pull decides that your flight can continue no longer, you extend your legs forward, cradle the fruit close to your chest, and plummet into the hole of the earth that threatens to consume you whole.

your fall from the land above is not one of grace. legs slamming into the ground, followed by the rest of your body tumbling forward and over them, rolling down the incline of the ground below, your robes are almost certainly ruined. mud and rocks have made a home in your hair and you look as if you had just walked through hell and back. the fierceness of pain seeps throughout your bones, but you can only bring yourself to hold the fruit in your hand out in front of you. in your fall, the object of your desires had been bruised and dirtied, but was in far better shape than you were. a soft sigh of relief escapes your lips at the sight.

you push yourself off the ground and begin to look around the cavern you had elected to land in. a soft, golden flame is lit a few meters away and you walk over to it, thanking celestia that you were still capable of doing so. behind the flame sits an idol made of cor lapis, a symbol of the power of the earth, floating midair as an almost imperceptible orange hue is emitted from it.

you break open the fruit as you sit in front of the divine object. your legs are folded beneath you and, you balance the half of the pomegranate between your thumb and your forefinger on your right hand. the other three skim across the earth in front of you until you manage to find a decently sized rock. tucking it behind the half of the pomegranate, you let out a soft sigh before beginning your prayer.

“oh holy morax,” you pray to the object in front of you, eyes fluttering closed. “i bring you this humble offering as i seek your protection from the forces above.”

upon finishing your invocation, your eyes snap open as you rush to take some of the pomegranate seeds and smear them hastily upon the geo insignia that floats in the center of the cor lapis structure. in response to your offering, the cavern begins to shake and the flame in front of you extinguishes. the earth beneath you groans and you place the pomegranate half in your right hand upon your lap. as the ground begins to split open beneath you, you take aim and hurl the rock at the cor lapis object in front of you.

it shatters the center of the last geoculus of the god morax, its enchanted pieces now devoid of magic and falling to the ground unceremoniously. as you rush to fit the pomegranate half back into your hand, the earth beneath you opens up.

in your attempt to save yourself, you ensure your death.

you close your eyes and let the ground swallow you whole.

---

“your journey was an arduous one,” the god rumbles as you enter the tea room. the oak door slides open in silence and, as you enter the room, closes in such a manner as well. within the seal of the archon’s castle, the howls of the undead cease in their woes and the churning of the tumultuous, accursed waters of the styx and acheron are no louder than a dehydrated stream devoid of any lifeforce. in the eerie halls of the castle, silence prevails, as if designed for any visitor to hear the dying breaths of any unwelcome guest who dare trespass in the acropolis of hell.

the tea chamber, however, provides solace from the harrowing quiet that rages in the palace surrounding it. the room’s dark mahogany walls are illuminated by veins of liquified cor lapis, a glow reminiscent of magma at the center of the earth. its amber hue distinguishes itself from being such a volatile substance. as you glance at the tree-like designs of the cor lapis embedded into the wall, you can’t help but wonder how the god of death managed to liquify the gemstone to create the pulsing art installation.

“i would presume that you do not desire for the journey here to be simple,” you ask as you take off your slippers and pad over to the center of the room where zhongli sits. upon your tense arrival to the underworld, the god had found your defiant disposition to be intriguing. you were unsure when such blatant disrespect would eventually lead to you joining the ranks of the dead he watched over, but you failed to show restraint in your words.

“ah, in principle, those who enter this domain are often dying to arrive,” zhongli responds, but his words are so stoic that you can’t discern if he is joking. the god gestures for you to sit upon the cushion across from him and, for once, you obey. despite the reprieve it provides your aching muscles, the plush cushion makes you shift in discomfort as the cold fabric demands the warmth from your skin.

the frigidity of zhongli’s dominion would likely result in death to those who dared loiter in such conditions overhead. however, underneath the inky charcoal clouds that mottle the dark sky of hell, the bitter chill ingrained within all phenomena lacks lethality. such a feeling is designed as a punishment for the souls contained within the citadel of the god of death and inadvertently extends to those who remain living within.

you briefly wonder if the archon before you is afflicted by the same chill that desires to seep in your bones and sap you of energy, but as his amber eyes blink at you, awaiting a response, you realize that the source of the cold is likely the god before you.

“the journey to your realm is not one i underwent without injury,” you begin, pausing to reflect on your words. “however, i am deeply grateful for your hospitality.” conceding your brusque manner of speaking, you elect to instead be thankful to the man who sits before you. you can only bite the hand that feeds you for so long before it rejects your presence. as you adjust your legs, the fabric of the clean silk chiton that zhongli had graciously provided you to change into shifts, revealing parts of your calves.

your skin of your legs is mottled with bruises and adorned with gashes from your journey. if the archon disapproves of your informal sitting position, he does not comment on it. his amber gaze flickers to your exposed skin and he stares at it intently. the god’s eyes pierce into your skin, yet you remain still. the subtle furrowing of his eyebrows indicates that his actions are not one of a predator, but rather an analysis of your condition.

“you destroyed the last geoculus,” zhongli muses as the door opens once more. despite your back being to the entrance, the god before you shows no sign of alarm at the intrusion. you are determined to meet the archon’s gaze head on and the apparition that enters the room wordlessly. it deposits a tea tray on the table before exiting, soundless as it floats above the ground. such apparitions are those who lived wretched mortal lives and thus face retribution in the underworld in the form of eternal servitude to the god of death himself.

you wonder how taxing of a job that can be. zhongli does not seem to do much, considering he has the time to personally host your company.

“not only that, but you arrive with no more than a humble oblation. you pray for protection that only i, the god of death, can seemingly provide you. for a fragile, warm-blooded, undesignated goddess such as yourself… i cannot help but to wonder…” the god leans forward, resting folded fingers upon his lips. you note the way his revealed abdominal muscles curl with his back and the ripple that passes over them as he readjusts his weight.

his posture is domineering, like a lion crouching in the savannah, preparing to strike its prey. rex lapis is an archon, one of the most powerful of the gods that inhabit celestia and roam teyvat, able to annihilate entire legions of soldiers with a single sweep of his arms, a mere flick of his wrist. yet, despite him giving you every reason to quake in fear at the sheer power the archon possesses, you can’t help but be amused as your gaze returns to his narrowed eyes.

he, unlike every other god you encountered, had decided that not wearing a tunic to cover his chest upon meeting his first guest in countless years was an appropriate course of action. of course he is the source of cold. if he was freezing, he would wear appropriate clothing. you think to yourself, forcing yourself not to smirk at the thought. zhongli notices the subtle change in your expression with a slight furrow of his brow, but dares not say so.

the god had rid himself of his cowl in your earlier absence, revealing a chiseled jawline, cinnamon hair, and a face with the pallor of the spirits that floated around his realm. now, the only article of clothing that remained on morax’s figure were the dark silks wrapped around his waist, resting low on his hips and swishing with every movement he made.

“you appealed to me not as the ‘zhongli’ you say you seek, but as morax. such a name is used as a holy utterance within funeral rites of your dead.” the god reaches forward and pours the tea for both of you. it’s a vibrant blue raspberry color and thick steam rolls off the surface of the now-filled teacups in waves. you hold the cup.

the tea is cold. it both smells and tastes of nothing. even the water that falls from the skies on the earth above has more flavor than such a beverage. zhongli takes a sip of his teacup and looks at you expectantly.

you say nothing.

“i can’t help but wonder if you yearned to join the ranks of the dead i preside over when you called for my assistance,” zhongli’s words are not a question, but they implore you for an answer nonetheless.

upon entering the underworld, you had expected to be slain by the archon before you. entering his domain was a death wish, but such a fate was better than what celestia had planned for you. his touch would have been merciful, an instantaneous death, better than a death at the wretched hands of the goddess who sought to spill your blood across her holy altar as a symbol of victory. what you had not expected, however, was for the god to find your tempestuous, blasphemous aura to be amusing, to the point where you were now an esteemed guest for tea.

you set the delicate teacup down on its designated plate. “i am an undesignated goddess, that is correct. i have yet to have the world decide what my fate will be. yet, such a thing does not make me inferior.” of all of the objects, concepts, and elements on the earth, celestia had not yet decided which you would preside over. therefore, you were merely a goddess. you were not a goddess of earth, fire, nor water. even nothingness had a god which presided over it, but you?

you were a bastard born to the goddess who sought to kill you, an archon crafted of the same dust that zhongli had been molded out of. siblings are what the humans of teyvat call the archons, yet such a myth had only been created in an attempt to apply the beauty of human connection between two creatures formed from the chalk of the earth. such a bond between them lies not in the love that connects each human, but a distaste and bitter hatred towards the others for infringing upon the earth’s limited resources.

“of all my musings, that is what you wish to focus on?” zhongli rumbles in response, setting his teacup down. “very well. i cannot demand answers of the psyche from one who is unaware of the answers herself. what is your name and lineage?”

you let out a soft sigh, “(y/n), illegitimate daughter of baal.” you fold your arms over your chest in both an indignant and protective measure, as if such a topic wounded you to discuss.

“ah,” zhongli lets out a huff of amusement. “the raiden shogun herself having an illegitimate child? how... hypocritical.” his eyes look away from you, lost in thought. his next words are distracted.

“i would assume that you are familiar with her… haughty demeanor in the same way i am,” you respond, fingers ghosting along the indentations on the teacup in front of you.

“yes, i am quite familiar with baal,” zhongli responds, before taking another sip of his tea.

“such unbridled arrogance is found within the actions of the raiden shogun. i have little to no respect for her,” you prod zhongli with your words, hoping for a reaction, yet you receive none. “despite having been derived from her flesh and birthed into the world by her, she prefers to be perceived as an infallible, omniscient goddess rather than a mother.”

“i take it that you are not fond of her,” zhongli ruminates and you stare directly at the god, your intense hues perforating his amber ones. your pleasant expression drops.

“i despise no other creature, both within the realm of the dead or walking amongst the living, more than how i loathe baal.” you respond with honesty, tone seething with all of the years of anger you have from dealing with the soddy excuse of a parent that is the raiden shogun.

upon your words, zhongli’s steely expression falters as a smirk consumes his expression, amusement twinkling in his irises. objectively, the god before you is beautiful, yet such a fact of the world had yet to fully register in your consciousness until now, in which you face the slender upward curve of his lips. you ignore the way your heart speeds up at the sight, contributing such a reaction to the fear you should have felt long ago.

“is she who you are fleeing from?” the archon questions. the silence that ensues gives the god his answer he desires and a soft hum of thought escapes his lips. “for all her… vanity, baal is not the type to murder senselessly, even if it is an unwanted offspring who may sully her reputation.”

once again, you are unsure if the god is joking or if he truly thinks that lowly of you. nonetheless, you ignore it.

“i stole a prized possession of her creation,” you explain, before inhaling deeply. after mustering up the courage, you reach past the collarbone of your dress and pull the shears out from where you had tucked them into the band of your undergarments. you slowly place them on the table, wishing for the archon to not take such a movement as a threat. retreating your hand, you look up at the archon to see all amusement drained from his expression. fury rages in his eyes as he stares down at the shears, the blades of which emit a soft ochre glow in his presence.

“she wishes to traverse into a domain that is not her own,” zhongli bristles. “her insolence and respect for others knows no bounds.” he holds up the scissors by their looped handles, closely analyzing the blades.

“she has spent years perfecting such a design and researching the proper enchantments,” you explain. the archon offers no response. “she desires to be able to cut the strings of fate which tie us all to life.”

the words go unspoken. the raiden shogun, with the scissors that now lie in your possession, wishes to seize the exclusive power reserved to the underworld in order to end the lives of anyone that stands in her way. each living creature is woven a string by the underworld upon their birth, which can only be cut upon their death. once their string is cut, they die and their soul is retrieved by the underworld. such a power has led to the other archons retreating in fear from zhongli, even if they generally remain invulnerable to such an action.

for archons, their strings remain unbreakable if they remain in their designated domains and within celestia. while the strings did pose a threat, strings of archons will inevitably repair themselves if cut. however, for lesser gods, such as yourself, and mortals, those not crafted of chalk but of flesh, they remained at complete and utter mercy to the underworld’s decision as to when to cut their string. if one dies not of the underworld’s decision, but of the decisions of someone upon the surface, their string snaps and they join the underworld nonetheless.

“she has been working on plans for a loom to create replica strings as well,” you elaborate and zhongli’s stoic expression morphs into one of pure rage, but he quickly contains himself as he looks up at you.

“were these the only pair within her possession?” he questions and you nod. relief shines in his eyes, but his amber irises harden once more. “she has created this first pair, therefore she knows how to craft a second set.”

“the process is not yet perfected,” you add in a soft tone, hoping to soothe the fire that rages within the eyes of the archon before you. it provides no relief to the inferno of emotion that swirls in the god of death’s eyes. “it will likely take two years for her to construct another pair of this caliber.”

“and the loom?” zhongli demands a response, but you are more than willing to provide one. you made it this far, you do not wish to be smited now.

“such an object will also be crafted within the same time period as the shears, if not longer. despite having top scholars and alchemists working on it, she has not yet harnessed the energy to create the working fabric of life,” you say, staring at zhongli who has set the shears down beside his teacup.

“i shall provide you amnesty for this time period. you will be able to reside within the palace of the underworld under the condition that you provide me with as much information about the raiden shogun’s heresy against the laws of nature that you can.” zhongli’s golden eyes meet yours and your heartbeat quickens once more. “make no mistake, i do not view you as an equal. i view you as an asset. should you agree this contract, i will ensure your safety, but we are not friends, nor will i owe you anything beyond shelter, clothing, and the basic necessities of life. you will have two years to assist me. should you fail or deceive me in any manner, you will die. knowing these terms, do you still wish to remain within my dominion?”

you inhale softly.

after all, lying by omission is not necessarily deception. what the archon does not know about the lies infused into your words will hurt him upon discovery. at least, that is what you reassure yourself. you cannot help this god if you are not being truthful to him, yet you smile nonetheless. the shogun desires not to take the archon’s powers for herself, but maybe your own plans will work out better if the archon believes that she wishes to consume the underworld for her own exploitation.

you exhale.

“i agree to the terms of your contract.”

#zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #zhongli headcanons #zhongli scenarios #genshin impact scenarios #zhongli #//writing #*writing #//zhongli #*zhongli #//thanatos #*thanatos #*fic #//fic

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serosgirl · 3 years

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Hi! you're stuff is so comforting and I'd like to give it a shot! umm may I have sero and the insecuity would be not being good enough for anyone? Make sure you eat and drink water and have a nice day !

angst. w/cute ending (i don’t think what i did counts as reconciliation bye)

gender neutral reader

sorry it took so long!

chilled breeze cast from the wings of an overhead ceiling fan ghost the blanketed cocoon where your head spilled from the soothing duvet. your knees feebly caged about your aching heart and loosely suspended towards the dips of your chest as to mindlessly protect the steady thump of your pattering heart. the pads of your fingertips idly fiddled with one another as you sluggishly fluttered your drooping eyelids, lashes obscuring what visual had previously been the object of your focus.

vibrant crimson flickered and displayed systematic guttering in the consecutive motion of a flaring pattern. from the mahogany wood of your bedside desk, flashes of red continued to light the room in three second intervals. the scarlet flares shroud your expression of turmoil in a glaze of fiery vermillion.

prominently wedged between the furrow of your brows resided deep creases that accompanied the tense pucker of your lips, a pout divulging the conflicted state of which you presently lie.

rampant speculation teetered throughout your cranium. vile impressions of yourself brought swells of water to flood the cursed well of your glassy optics. furious blinks quelled the buildup of tears, but the effort caved and sobs began to shake your shoulders. the whimpers were quiet, tiny squeaks resounding before an everlasting crescendo of melancholy deluged its midnight tune.

remnants of the cold droplets stained your cheeks, but as the lot of them continued to descend upon your moonlit countenance, rubbing them away would be pointless. your frown was heavy with woe, and your internal aggravation did little to alleviate your influx of emotion.

your back to an empty slot of the bed depicted a missing presence, the designated space reserved for your lover whom has failed to return home until dusk broke the vast horizon. your chest heaved at the thought. arriving at a time much later than promised, you’d routinely be fast asleep when sero clumsily shuffled into his spot on the comforter; no message or voicemail were left to mention his late arrival.

he failed to contact you throughout the day. updates pertaining to his current shift or agenda never buzzed your phone. the thought wouldn’t inflict so much pain if it hadn’t been for the mornings you woke up to alone. the drifting touch of your lover long vanished from your skin, leaving the embrace of a wintry cold to wrap its arms around you instead. you couldn’t remember his voice. you tried; drawing forth past imagery to seek comfort in the recollection of his passion, but his mannerisms were far from exact; his characteristics distorted. the man you gazed upon had been a stranger to your home.

was hanta sero never to be found? you thought yourself mad. hanta hadn’t faded into oblivion, but your hanta had. his touch were foreign; seldom acquaint to your shivering figure. were his hands warm? did his smile while he kissed you last? you couldn’t remember. he were a shadow discernable to the corner of your eye. always present but never obtainable, hanta waned until no longer acknowledgeable.

you missed him dearly. was hanta of the same, you could only pitifully sigh as you frustratingly rubbed a hand at your swollen cheeks. your sense of longing had spiraled until uncontainable. you ached for his reciprocation.

you doubted him. doubted he possessed any similar exhibition of yearning for intimacy. does he care? you could hardly recollect the last time he genuinely took the time to say, “i love you.” you whispered into the quiet room, silence present and actively eating away at your spoken acclamation. “can you tell me the same?” for how long had the flame of his heart become vacant?

had it been a fault on your behalf? “why do i always have to mess everything up?” the rhetoric parted your lips as a quaking cry, octaves tiny, meek, and timid. you sounded broken; anguished, as you had been for lengthening days. you sought for reassurance, hoping to address your concern when hanta arrived home, but when your clock read the next hour of the mourn, you died a little bit more; cried until you could no longer fight the hands of slumber.

your heavy lids fought against the descending motion. occasionally, you would crack open an eye to peek at the time and perk an ear to listen for any indication that another resident had allowed themselves entry, but each time the house had only shifted, and you were, once again, left waiting. you resisted rest for a short while more, but your reluctance had only reigned for so long.

the weight of your blanket sat heavy on your chest. tears ceased their crusade over the hills of your cheeks, but the visible remnants of melancholy lingered as a painting of sorrow.

“i made you cry again.” hanta discerned the frown etched into your cheeks and mirrored the expression with one of his own, heart heavy and sinking in his chest. he took a moment to kneel at your bedside, lifting a palm to brush away what streaks stained your dampened countenance with trails of gloss. “‘m’sorry” he pulled his hand away and forced his fingers into a fist when attempting to rake soothing strokes along your temple. “i’ve broken my promise, haven’t i?”

hanta sounded as if he had cried himself. his voice faltered and trembled, “things won’t always be this way. i won’t always be this way,” hanta rummaged for your hand and placed the knuckles against his skin, pressing his head tenderly into your limp caress. “please don’t regret us; me.” he exhaled as if breathless. “you deserve someone better, someone who doesn’t leave you alone, someone who doesn’t make you cry. you deserve so much better, baby, and i’ll give it to you. i’ll make it up to you for as long as it takes if you’re the one i’m coming home to.”

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bloodredhands · 2 years

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tender . kiss my muse on the Nose (Hello I am here to bother you and Zeke <3)

A satin shawl was draped across bare shoulders, dipping down the sun kissed skin of his back. Tousles of light hair, pink in the right light, bounced with each step he took. A tight tank top was on his upper half, drawing your gaze to the flutter of toned muscles across his abdomen that dripped down to a pair of sarouels that were… very low cut. Each garment was graced with gold embellishments, and bracelets of the same hue hung loosely around slender wrists, pulled together with the sweeping ornaments that curled around long, Viera ears. The whole outfit was relatively Thavnarian in design, coupled with the chakras that twirled around his wrists and hands before coming to be caught between dexterous fingers.

How he moved. Arching back and arms spreading wide before coming in on himself as he twirled across the floor. Each note of the song was considered in his movements as he performed around the little arena, the band keeping a perfect tempo for the man to prance. Ezekiel really wasn’t much of a dancer, but he came to watch E’mal, just out of support. And to sometimes get roped into a dance; though thankfully today was no such day. Today he couldn’t help but find him almost intoxicating, the expressions of his body moving, speaking words he could never formulate - holding a rhythm to the flow of the world he could never get in tune with.

He stayed near the back of the hall. He always did. Large arms folded over a broad chest and his pale visage stayed firmly upon the Viera at the center of everyone's attention, including his own. In his constant feeling of uncertainty and woe, he lingered by the door all the same. As if he might leave at a moment's notice, just in case he had to.

He wasn’t sure if E’mal ever paid mind to that fact, or to him. His mind had wandered at some point, thinking of the situation he had found himself in, so he did not hear the song come to an end when it did. He just saw E’mal stop moving, and with it the thunderous applause and cheers from the crowd that made Ezekiel's ears ring out. His face scrunched up, eyes slammed shut, waiting for the noise to settle so he could regain his focus.

It slowed, hands stopped clapping and voices turned to soft hushes as they spoke of the performance and waited on the next. Once the intense throb of his head had subsided the pale Viera opened his eyes. He found himself met with a mismatched gaze, a soft violet orb accompanied by a pale blind eye. He straightened himself up a little too quickly, now bearing his looming form over the much shorter gentleman.

E’mal smiled wide, a twinkle of mischief to his gaze. He crooked a finger of his right hand, while his left came and rested upon one of the folded forearms of Ezekiel. Carefully the taller Viera would dip his head forward, assuming that E’mal wanted to tell him something without too many prying ears listening out.

Instead, E’mal leaned forward just enough that soft lips would come to kiss the pale Viera upon his nose. “I’m glad you came,” the words came out in a flurry of amusement, as the expression left upon Ezekiel's face was one of plain confusion, with a faint red hue to his cheeks.

cute BUN INTERACTION OR WHAT anyways please continue to bother me and zeke we both enjoy it. E'mals a little flirt who knows exactly what he's doing!!! tysm for the ask Dizzi!!!!! @midnightmagicks

#// memories of another life and dreams of another land; what could or could not be #non canon rp prompts #i just love them okay #precious bnuuy boys!!!#midnightmagicks

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queenlucythevaliant · 3 years

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Hymns for my Narnia kids

Peter: “Praise To The Lord The Almighty”

Praise to the Lord, who doth prosper thy work and defend thee/surely his goodness and mercy shall daily attend thee/Ponder anew what the Almighty can do/if with his love he befriend thee

Susan: “Hast Thou Heard Him, Seen Him, Known Him?”

Hast thou heard Him, seen Him, known Him?/Is not thine a captured heart?/Chief among ten thousand beauties/Joyful choose the better part

Edmund: “O The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus”

How he loveth, ever loveth/changeth never, nevermore;/how he watches o'er his loved ones/died to call them all his own

Lucy: “O Love That Will Not Let Me Go”

O Light that followest all my way/I yield my flickering torch to Thee/My heart restores its borrowed ray/That in Thy sunshine’s blaze its day/May brighter, fairer be

Eustace: “Jesus, I Am Resting”

Thou hast bid me gaze upon Thee/And Thy beauty fills my soul/For, by Thy transforming power/Thou hast made me whole

Jill: “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”

Here I raise my Ebenezer/Hither by Thy great help I've come/And I hope by Thy good pleasure/Safely to arrive at home

Shasta: “Great Is Thy Faithfulness”

Great is Thy faithfulness, great is Thy faithfulness/Morning by morning new mercies I see/All I have needed Thy hand hath provided/Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me

Aravis: “I Asked The Lord”

Yea more, with His own hand He seemed/Intent to aggravate my woe/Crossed all the fair designs I schemed/Cast down my feelings, laid me low…

These inward trials I employ/From self, and pride, to set thee free/And break thy schemes of earthly joy,/That thou may’st find thy all in Me.

Digory: “Pensive Doubting Fearful Heart”

Fear thou not, nor be ashamed/All thy sorrows soon shall end:/I who heav’n and earth have framed/Am thy husband and thy friend

Polly: “How Great Thou Art”

When through the woods, and forest glades I wander/And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees/When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur/And see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze/Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee

Bonus:

Reepicheep: “The Sands of Time Are Sinking”

O Christ, he is the fountain/the deep sweet well of love/The streams that I have tasted/more deep I'll drink above/there to an ocean fullness/his mercy doth expand/and glory, glory dwelleth/in Emmanuel's land.

#pontifications and creations #narnia #how can i keep from singing #a narnian look about them

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cherryplasmids · 4 years

Text

☆ the lives you’ve left behind ☆

pairing: donny donowitz x reader

fandom: inglourious basterds—post-movie sequence

anon request: hi girl! i love your writing and i was wondering if you still write for donny donowitz? if you do i was wondering if you could do an angsty one? that's all i ask, you could take that and run with it however :)

notes: the reader has a kid — aldo is referred to the reader’s child as ‘uncle’ but that doesn’t mean they are actually related. also, aldo is married to a girl name jenny

— the child is a boy named Alex for filler purposes

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"That's your daddy," You whisper, pulling the tiny bundle of joy closer to your chest.

The infant, swaddled in a pale yellow blanket decorated with small brown bears, yawns but does not take notice of your words. Instead, Alex twists, stretches his arms out and settles back onto your chest. Without a care in the world, he just relaxes in the warmth that you've given him. An inkling of envy flashes through you—you would do anything to be that carefree again. But the war ruined everything, including your unbridled youthful attitude.

"Handsome, isn't he?" You question as if the little one will respond. You'd be more scared than anything if he does. You wave the 4x6 photo forward to entice your baby to look. "The most handsome man I've ever seen. Everyone thinks so too, even your uncle Aldo but he won't admit to that.

"But don't worry, baby. You'll be just as handsome and charming as your old man was."

As if he understands, the boy babbles happily, spit freely spilling over his lips and onto his cheeks. Grabbing a Kleenex from the bedside table, you wipe his face. It doesn't deter him. He continues to express his enjoyment through spit bubbles and random giggling. Your heart swells at the sight—his happiness contagious enough to erase your woes for the night.

When the sun rises, you'll tell Aldo all about the affection your newborn has been showing. He'll run down the street to coddle his nephew.

You don't continue until your baby boy calms down enough to the point where spit no longer seeps out of his mouth. By then, sleepiness is taking hold of him. He gives out a deep yawn. One of his tiny hands grips your right thumb while the other curls into a fist and rubs his eyes. A smile quirks at your lips. You take that as a sign to turn in.

“I’ll tell you about your daddy’s love for baseball tomorrow okay? I’ll even show you his prized baseball cards. but you can’t tell him or he’ll have my head.”

He’s knocked out by the time you lay him down. You pray he’ll sleep through the night, allowing you to earn to some much-needed shut-eye he’s deprived you of for months. After tucking him in, you tuck the photo of Donny under his pillow. You press a gentle kiss on his forehead, whisper a few sweet words to him, and then glide out of the room, leaving the door ajar in case he wails for your attention. You make do with this system until Jenny, Aldo's wife, takes you shopping for a baby monitor. She knows a lot more about baby care than you do.

Sleepiness is taking you hostage too with a yawn escaping your lips every 1-2 minutes but you had housework to complete before the morning arrives. Mostly just clearing out boxes of gifts the Donowitz family had sent from Boston. Some of them were open, others weren’t. Gifts like a microwave or other kitchenware were left in their respective box. You’ll deal with those on a later date.

There’s one box, though, that remains sealed. You inspect the plain cardboard container and see a word written across one side in neat cursive. But it isn’t the penmanship that has you gasping and dropping the box in shock.

No, it’s the word 'Donny' labeled across the surface that does.

It takes a moment or two for you to shake off the shock and another to get down to the ground. Sitting cross-legged, you stare at the box as if something will pop out and yell “surprise”—a harmful prank that will send you wailing for something you no longer had.

The knife seamlessly glides across the tape and you wonder when you reached for a knife in the first place. Your body is moving on its own accord without a thought concerning your mental wellbeing. While your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage, your hands steadily tear open the cardboard overlaps.

Taking a deep breath, you open the flaps and find a single sheet of paper covering the rest of the objects. It reads “for my darling daughter, with much love.” It’s signed “Mama Donowitz”.

Underneath the letter reveals a boatload of miscellaneous items from Donny's youth that he's shown to you with pride. His prized Lefty Grove signed baseball, favorite Wrigley's chewing gum, and his worn and torn favorite baseball glove stood out the most. Little things like that made you grin to the point where your cheeks reached your eyes. Anecdotes of Donny's childhood run through your mind—his voice echoing pure excitement. You take your time admiring each item, trying to permanently engrave them into your memory just like you had with his stories.

Then you find Donny's baby socks, embroidered with his name in red string. All resolve you bottled up for months disappeared instantly. You completely crumble.

You press the little socks to your chest as tears freely stream down your face and onto your neck, coating the bare skin with liquid. A wail bubbles up within you, crawling up your throat at a steady pace. But when you open your mouth to scream, nothing comes out. It dies in your throat. The only effort you can commit to is to rock back in forth, allowing sobs to shake your body. If someone saw you, they might have thought you were convulsing. They might have even called the ambulance.

The sobs don’t stop until hours later. By the time your heart calms down from its burning thrum, exhaustion envelops you.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Aldo kicks some dirt on the side of the road while lighting up a Chesterfield. It doesn't take long for him to reach your house since it's down the road. He checks his wristwatch before knocking on the front door. He has about 45 minutes to meet Jenny at the factory. He'll spend 15 minutes here for coffee before leaving. You always made better coffee than his wife.

After some knocking and no response, Aldo takes it upon himself to check through the windows. Most of them are covered by curtains but the window facing the breakfast table isn't. He peers through, searching for you and his nephew wrapped in your arms.

Instead, he finds you on the floor with no baby in sight.

Aldo runs to the back door and searches for the hidden key. Besides the backdoor, he digs under the false rock where he remembered he put. It’s gone. The Chesterfield falls into the hole. He crushes it out and fixes the dirt on top. As an act of impulse, he stands up, goes to the backdoor, and punches out the small window panels on the door. The glass breaks easily and shards pierce his hand just as smoothly. Just glancing at it, he can tell his flesh is free from any lingering shards. A clean slice on his wrist bleeds moderately.

He reaches on the opposite side of the door and tugs at the locks. Not a second later, the door slams open, and you shoot up in an upright position.

Immediately, a fury of questions spews out of Aldo's lips, blending together and becoming unintelligible to your groggy brain.

"Is it morning already? I swear I took a five-minute na—" You see Aldo's bleeding hand and gasp, reaching out to inspect his wound. Your current position on the floor completely escaping you for a moment. Aldo lets you worry for right now.

You drag him up to the sink and run his hand over the open water. "Will I be alright, doc?" His odd accent leaves a few letters out. It reminds you of someone you try not to think about. "Ain't seen such a wound since the war."

Briefly glancing at him, he throws a wink and you gratefully smile. "You're the bane of my existence." You take his hand out of the water to wrap it in a big Band-Aid. It has crude miniature drawings of Mickey Mouse that make Aldo question them. "Just in case either your kids or mine get hurt, they'll immediately cheer up at seeing Mickey. Band-Aid should really invest in designing their product. Who knows how much money they could make?"

Aldo agrees as you finish. "You'll see another day, lieutenant"

He crookedly grins at you and thanks you for your service. You offer him some coffee which he enthusiastically agrees too. He checks his watch as he sits down at the breakfast table. Jenny will have his head if he's late. But he doesn't worry too much about that. She'll understand once he explains what happened.

"Mind tellin’ me why I caught a heart attack on this fine Thursday mornin’? Findin’ you sprawled out like freshly ran over roadkill?"

"Disgusting, Aldo." You say while passing him his mug of coffee. You turn around to fix yourself a toasted bagel with cream cheese. "I guess I was so tired last night that I fell asleep sorting out the gifts." You lazily wave your hand at the unsorted boxes on the floor.

Aldo walks over to the opened box in the middle of the kitchen and grabs the socks you dropped hours ago. He looks them over and notices a letter embroidered on the top. 'D' in red thread.

"Those are Donny's." You confirm. Aldo meets your glazed gaze.

Aldo sucks in a quick breath. It finally clicks in his head. Jenny will understand.

“Darlin—" You look up at him with such a depressed expression that immediately shuts him up. All he does is gather you in his arms and rests his chin on your head.

He hears you mumble something about how small Donny's feet were before you silently cry into his chest.

After a few seconds, Aldo's cheeks become wet with his own tears as he mourns over not only his friend but the lives he left behind.

────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

word count: 1,661 published: august 21, 2020 edited: n/a

#donny #donny x reader #Donny Donowitz #sgt donny donowitz #donny donowitz fanfiction #donny donowitz x reader #donny donowitz imagine #inglorious basterds #inglourious basterds x reader #inglourious basterds imagine #inglourious basterds fanfiction #x reader #imagines #eli roth #my writing #fanfiction #anon requests

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lilydotroxanne · 3 years

Text

Also I hate anyone who has light mode graphic design is not your passion it is your fatal flaw and you will be judged for you sins

“you’re not better than other people because you use dark mode”

Actually I am and I will continue to shame people like the god of hubris I was always meant to be

Bow before my superior design skills you mortal flesh fools

they all end up j̷u̸s̶t̷ ̶a̶n̷o̴t̶h̶e̴r̸ ̷u̶s̵e̷l̶e̴s̶s̶ ̷s̵o̴u̵l̶ ̵t̷o̷ ̵a̵d̷d̷ ̶t̸o̸ ̶t̶h̸e̷ ̸p̷y̶r̵e̶. P̸e̸r̷h̷a̸p̶s̸ ̴a̵f̶t̴e̷r̷ ̴a̴ ̶c̶o̵u̵p̵l̷e̷ ̵o̵f̴ ̶e̸o̸n̴s̷ ̷i̴n̷ ̶y̴o̸u̸r̶ ̸b̶l̵i̷n̵d̴i̷n̷g̷ ̵l̵i̷g̴h̵t̷ ̶h̵e̷l̴l̵ you ̸w̷i̶l̸l̸ ̴t̷u̵r̸n̷ ̵t̶o̴ ̵t̶h̶e̷ ̸c̸o̵r̶r̵e̸c̶t̴ ̷s̷i̵d̸e̶ ̴a̸n̵d̷ ̵s̵e̸e̸k̷ ̶p̸e̶n̴a̸n̴c̶e̴. Children of woe and naïveté.

I laugh as the foolish mortals gaze upon their beams of information blinded by prisms of all colors and shapes, unable to see the truth unable to see the color against the onslaught of oppressive totalitarianism, forced to bow to The whims of the status quo, one day you will all look back and laugh at your childish choices The same way we look back our past selves and chuckle at the emotions they had how silly they were how silly you all are

Soon you will turn to the Darkside my children oh so very soon we will be together but now I must punish you for children must learn

#tumblr #meme #dark mode #gen z memes #i’m definitely not a primordial guard banished to this horrible putrid realm #oh no please don’t lock me away in a arcane cage of chains

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terreisa · 4 years

Text

Love Down the Line: Chapter 2

The last thing Indie musician Emma Swan needs is a gigantic wrench thrown in the workings of her biggest tour to date weeks before its launch. When her backing guitarist that caused the problem says she has the perfect solution Emma is skeptical but left with little choice but to accept. Unfortunately she isn't really prepared for said solution to be former Rock Star and leading man of Emma's teenage fantasies, Killian Jones. With no other options and a month of performing across the country ahead of her Emma just hopes she doesn't come to regret letting Killian onto her stage and into her life.

Ch 1, AO3

~*CS*~

Portland, Maine- April 10th

Emma hadn’t intended to be late to rehearsal. In fact, she wanted to be early to get a step up on Jones. She figured just because she was doing Ruby a favor didn’t mean she couldn’t exert a little pressure on the guy at the same time. By the end of a tour she was usually ready to kick everyone off the bus and finish the damn shows herself and she was good friends with Ruby and the others in the backing band. Jones had to more than prove himself to her during the rehearsal turned audition. He had to blow it out of the water.

Of course, that had been before she was the one showing up almost forty minutes late.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she huffed under her breath as she ran across the parking lot, the guitar strapped across her back knocking her in the ass with every step.

“You’re late Miss Swan.”

Emma grimaced at the sound of her manager, Regina Mills’, voice. The woman was scary on a normal day with her custom designer suits, red soled stilettos, and three hundred dollar haircuts that made sure not a single dark hair was out of place, or grey. She was holding open the door for her with a look of extreme annoyance or impatience or disappointment. It could have been all three but Emma blew past her into the building and down the familiar hallways towards the space she and the others had been rehearsing in for years.

“I know, I know. Sorry-” she shrugged in apology and nearly dropped the three notebooks and handful of loose papers in her arms. Hugging them tighter into her chest she kept moving, “The bug wouldn’t start and I had to call Mary Margaret to borrow her car and then there was an accident on the highway.”

“And why couldn’t you have carpooled with Ruby?” Regina asked cooly as she followed, clearly unmoved by her tales of woe.

Emma stopped dead in the middle of the hallway and spun to face Regina, “Ruby can’t be here. She’s not supposed to drive with the pills she was given.”

“She is and she didn’t,” Regina said with a roll of her eyes, pushing at Emma’s elbow to get her moving again. “Some other woman who has the manners of a barn animal is here with her. If you keep inviting people to rehearsals I’m going to start charging for the privilege, maybe even turn it into a VIP package.”

“It must be Dorothy,” Emma smiled, her first real one since Ruby’s practically world ending phone call. “Good for her. And the only other person who should be here is that Jones guy Ruby swears is worthy of replacing her. She said he’s a session guitarist, do you not know him either?”

She’d opened the door that led to the rehearsal space, looking over her shoulder as she asked. Regina raised an impeccably plucked brow and settled her gaze behind her. Turning towards the room she immediately saw who the stranger was and promptly dropped everything in her arms in shock.

“Careful there, Swan, if you’re anything like every other songwriter I know those things are worth more than their weight in gold.”

Emma could do nothing more than stare as Killian Jones set his guitar aside and crossed the room to pick up the papers and notebooks at her feet. He gathered them all and tried to straighten them before handing them up to her, a crooked grin on his face. It faltered a little as she continued to stare at him before he chuckled and scratched behind his ear.

Killian Jones was definitely not the random guy off the street Emma had been imagining, he wasn’t even a vaguely familiar face she’d seen in the halls of their rehearsal space. He had been the lead guitarist and second vocalist for one of the biggest rock bands in the world almost fifteen years earlier. His band, Realm of Jewels' second album had gone multi platinum, they’d played arenas and headlined festivals across the globe. Rumor had it that their third album was supposed to be even bigger. Then there had been a terrible accident and half the band was gone in an instant. Killian Jones had survived but emerged from the wreck with one hell of a dragon, in the form of alcohol and pills, on his back.

As far as she’d known he was just another rock star that had gotten lost in the world because of his addictions. Apparently the story hadn’t ended there. No, it had seemingly kept going with him ending up in her goddamn rehearsal space looking bashful and hot as fuck.

“You’re Killian Jones.”

He blushed and it almost killed her, “Last time I checked.”

“Realm of Jewels,” she challenged, wondering if he’d shy away from his past.

“Once upon a time,” he shot back, a glint of humor in his eyes as his blush faded.

She hummed, “Rolling Stone called you a ‘not so hidden gem in the rock world, poised to be among the pantheon of rock gods’ if I’m remembering correctly.”

“Good memory,” he grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And that same illustrious publication said you were on the road to being the Stevie Nicks of your generation. A bit belittling but not far off the mark.”

“Belittling?” She asked sharply, her hackles rising.

He held up his hands in defense, “Not in the way you think, Swan. If I had written the article I would have perhaps said that you were a talent beyond compare.”

“Oh,” she said, deflating a bit but still on edge due to him being there at all, “um, okay.”

She glanced around the room, trying to find a way out of the suddenly awkward silence that had settled between them. Tink Greene and Will Scarlet, the other members of her backing band, were huddled by the drumset, watching them with barely hidden awe, clearly star struck at being in the same room with the Killian Jones. Ruby was sitting on the couch, whispering to the woman sitting next to her, who could only be Dorothy. Emma caught Ruby’s eye and not so subtly jerked her head back towards the hallway she’d just come from.

“Emma-” Regina snarled as she started backing out of the room.

“I’d like a minute with my guitarist if you don’t mind,” Emma said through gritted teeth, giving Jones an insincere smile that had his own widening in glee.

“Oh, do let them go, Your Majesty,” Jones said with a laugh. “I believe we still need to discuss certain terms and conditions of this little arrangement.”

Emma opened her mouth to argue that nothing was decided when Ruby pushed her fully into the hallway with surprising strength in her uninjured arm.

“Are you fucking kidding me Ruby?” She hissed as soon as the doors closed behind them. “Killian Jones?!”

“So you obviously know there’s no need for him to audition,” Ruby said with a sly smile. “I mean you have seen him in concert four, no fi-”

She covered Ruby’s mouth with her hand, shushing her as she pushed her further down the hallway. They only made it three steps before Ruby licked her palm, cackling with glee when she yanked her hand back, disgusted.

“It’s not gonna happen.”

“Come on. He can play, he’s available and he knows the songs. This is the best you’re going to get and you know it,” Ruby stated proudly, her grin smug.

“The best,” Emma muttered, shaking her head and trying to keep hold of her temper. “The best? Jesus Christ, Ruby, the second he steps out on stage it’s not my show anymore, it’s his. I have worked too fucking long and hard for that asshole to come in and take it all from me in some bid to reclaim his glory.”

“Oh, oh no, Emma, that’s totally not at all what this is,” Ruby whispered, her face pale and looking stricken. “He owed me, big time, and I obviously didn’t think about any of that when I called it in. Look, don’t repeat this to anyone. Like, anyone. But Killian hasn’t played in public since he got out of rehab. That he even agreed to do this is I think big enough for him. He’s not looking to steal the spotlight.”

“Then why is he here?” Emma asked, slightly mollified but still seething.

“He misses playing for an audience but I think he has a kind of block or something about going for it on his own,” Ruby said softly. She gave a half-hearted shrug, “I’m just trying to help out two friends in one go.”

The last of her anger drained away at the sincerity in Ruby’s voice. It wasn’t often that Ruby was the serious one in their friendship but when she was Emma always paid attention. If she hadn’t she’d have still been waiting tables at Granny’s Diner and only playing her guitar at barbeques and bonfires for their small group of friends at home. She also wouldn’t have been able to call Storybrooke home for that matter.

No longer angry but still infinitely annoyed she tipped her head back and let out a sigh, “Fine I’ll give him a chance on two conditions.”

“Excellent!” Ruby crowed. Emma dropped her gaze back down and raised a brow at her, “Whatever the conditions he’ll totally do it. He wants this, just doesn’t know how badly he does until you start making him jump through hoops to prove it to you.”

“Oh, only one of the conditions is for him,” Emma said with a smirk.

Ruby’s eyes widened, “What? Why do I have to prove myself?”

“You don’t. I just want to know how you can call Killian Jones, one of the most famous guitarists-”

“Who you had a poster of on your wall,” Ruby broke in with wiggling eyebrows and a giddy grin, “and a laminated photo in your-”

“Who had a very public and very destructive drug and alcohol problem, your friend,” Emma continued pointedly.

Ruby’s grin faded, “He was in the same rehab facility as my mom. Well, one of them. On one of her bad days I went for a walk around the gardens to cool my head a little and recognized him. Had a bit of a fangirl moment, if I’m being honest. Not exactly my finest moment since he was there to get his life back together and I go gushing about how great I thought he was before it all went to shit. I could tell he was humoring me until I started talking about gigs and asking him how to improve my playing, then his eyes kinda lit up and he started offering me advice and some tricks for the road. So whenever I went to visit my mom I would also stop by to talk to him about music.

“After my mom decided she was done being sober, again, I still went by to see him. He needed a friend and I guess I needed to believe that someone could actually follow through with getting clean. When he got out we stayed in touch. Just a ‘hi, how’re you doing’ text every so often. Until, of course, the arm thing happened.”

“And you never mentioned it because…?”

“I wanted to but it seemed-” Ruby shrugged, “like an invasion of privacy, somehow?”

Emma nodded, getting what Ruby meant but still a little hurt that she’d kept it from her. She’d only admit it on threat of death having met him but Jones had been her number one celebrity crush since she’d discovered Realm of Jewels in her senior year of high school. Ruby was a witness to it then and clearly still remembered that embarrassing fact. Then it occurred to her that there were dark parts of her life that she wouldn’t want shared with a fan no matter how close of a friend Ruby was with them. She nodded again, fully accepting the truth of what Ruby had told her.

“I’m not going to go easy on him,” she warned, spinning on her heel and walking back to the rehearsal room.

Ruby laughed, “I would have been suspicious if you did. So what are you going to make him do?”

“You’ll see,” she said cryptically with a grin before opening the door.

“Finally,” Regina muttered as they walked back in. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Emma, “You may be a favorite of the owners here but we’re still paying for every minute this room has people in it. So start playing or find somewhere else to work out your little grievances.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma apologized again, knowing that if there was something that pissed Regina off more than wasted time it was wasted money.

She felt Killian’s eyes on her as she greeted Tink and Will before moving to the piano. It was like a phantom pressure between her shoulder blades that she was trying her best to ignore. If he was trying to unsettle her she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction and if he was trying to figure her out she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. When she finally had all her things set up how she wanted and ignoring him was no longer an option she turned to face him, valiantly trying to hide that she was still slightly shocked and unnerved that he was there.

“Ruby said that you’re a session guitarist now,” she began without preamble, hoping to gain whatever upper hand she could.

“I may not be hurting for cash, love, but a man does like to keep busy,” his voice dipped low at the end of his statement. Paired with a raised brow and feral grin she had to hold back a snort of amusement at his innuendo.

“Not your love,” she shot back dismissively, “She also said that you’ve played on my albums?”

His grin faltered, “Aye.”

“And would you say you enjoyed the songs you recorded or were they just a forgettable few in a long set of recordings to… keep you busy?”

There was the sound of a violent snort and then a deep spluttering a cough that belonged to Will from behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ruby rolling her eyes at her and Regina throwing up her hands in exasperation. She kept her face impassive and gaze on Killian, pleased to see him fidget and scratch behind his ear in what had to be nervousness.

“Erm, well when I first recorded one of your songs I’ll admit I had no clue who you were and no interest in discovering more,” Killian admitted but instead of dropping his eyes he held her gaze. “Then I had the fortune of recording another one and found myself intrigued. I’ve listened to everything you’ve released up ‘til now and I’ve enjoyed all of it, not just what I was hired to play.”

“Okay then,” she said as cooly as she could, despite the giddiness and disbelief running through her knowing that he liked her music. “Now I hope you don’t mind but I’d like to hear you play something.”

“Play something?” He repeated, flabbergasted.

“Just a few different songs,” she said innocently, “so I know you’ll be a good fit.”

His mouth opened and closed several times before he shot an incredulous look at Ruby. Emma could barely hold in her laughter as Ruby shrugged and said nothing.

“Problem, Jones?”

He turned back to her, looking incredulous, “Let me get this straight, Swan, you can quote an article from Rolling Stone that was released well over a decade ago about my playing and you want me to audition?”

“Only if you want the gig,” she said with a shrug.

She could see the muscle in Killian’s jaw jumping, though she wasn’t sure if it was from annoyance or contemplation. Either way it gave her a little inspiration. While he continued to stew she pulled out her phone and did a quick internet search for what she needed.

“Fine, love,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. He picked up his guitar and slid the strap over his head. “What would you like to hear?”

“Can you read music?” She asked with honest curiosity.

“I can,” he said warily.

“Good-” she turned to Ruby, “I need your Ipad.”

Ruby gave her a calculating look before slowly extracting the tablet out of her purse and handing it over. Emma gave her what she hoped was a look of innocence before pulling up what she needed and handing it over to Killian.

“Layla? A classic-” he smirked and handed her back the Ipad, “and one I already know by heart.”

With that he started playing, amazingly, and Emma almost didn’t have the heart to stop him. Almost.

“Whoa there, Jones,” she said loudly, waving her hands for him to stop. He did with a discordant note and stared at her in confusion. She handed back the Ipad, “I wanted you to play this.”

He looked at it and then back at her, his brow furrowing even more, “But I was.”

“No, you didn’t read the music-” she wiggled the Ipad at him, “You were playing the lead. I want to hear you play the rhythm.”

“Ah,” he breathed, a look of bemusement and something that was too much like awe replacing his confusion, “I see.”

From there he played every unflashy guitar part she could throw at him. He didn’t complain and his annoyance didn’t make a reappearance. The others listened happily and even offered suggestions, though Regina had left with a disgusted huff after the fourth song. They passed the tablet back and forth several times before she decided to end the teasing with one of her favorites.

Killian snorted when he saw her choice, “You do know that two great guitarists play on this one right? Even playing rhythm on this one is an honor. Although, the same should have been said for Layla, but I have enjoyed this little challenge.”

“Good to know,” she said, smiling. “I don’t want you to play rhythm on this one though. If you don’t mind.”

“It would be my honor,” he hummed, handing her back the Ipad.

The chatter in the room fell silent as the familiar chords of While My Guitar Gently Weeps swept through the room. Emma closed her eyes and let the music wash over her. There was only one constant in her life and it was music, first listening, then playing, and finally creating. It had never sent her back, never sent her to prison, and never forced her to send her child away. As Killian played the last notes she felt the familiar pang of melancholy the song invoked in her but made sure the smile she gave him when she opened her eyes was genuine.

“Thanks.”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you for giving me the opportunity? I’ve never had to audition before-”

“Lucky git,” Will grumbled as he ambled by them, heading toward the snack table on one side of the room.

“Will Scarlet, drums, constant pain in the ass but our pain in the ass,” Emma commented lightly, batting away the Red Vine Will had tossed at her. She hitched her thumb over her shoulder to where she’d last noticed Tink, “That’s Tink Greene, bassist, she’s small but she’ll knock you out if you mess with the current rotation of romance novels she’ll be bringing on the bus.”

Killian raised a brow at her, “I can’t quite tell by your tone but am I to believe I got the gig?”

“You had the gig as soon as she saw your pretty face and hot ass,” Ruby called out from her spot on the couch, causing Emma’s cheeks to heat up and Killian’s lip to curl.

“Yeah, well-” she cleared her throat, “We’ve, uh, already used up our reserved time for today and Regina won’t be happy if we stay late, even if we actually rehearse. We’ve got a couple more weeks of rehearsals on Mondays and Fridays and then it’ll be almost every day until the tour starts. If you need somewhere to stay just let Regina know and she’ll book the hotel room or whatever.”

“So I got the gig?” Killian pressed, his blue eyes glittering in mirth.

“You got the gig,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at his toothy grin. Then she let her features settle into what she hoped was a menacing look, “There’s some conditions.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding sagely.

“Your name isn’t going to be in any of the advertising, or brought up in interviews, and absolutely not on any of the damn marquees. You’re being hired as a guitarist in my backing band, not as the feature player.”

He nodded again but with understanding, “Of course, I have no desire to upstage you or hijack the tour for my own needs.”

“Good,” she said, slightly surprised he agreed so easily. “This is also temporary. Once Ruby gets the all clear from her doctor she’s back and you’re out.”

“As I wouldn’t want to keep a fellow musician, or friend, out of work I will happily step aside-” he gave a little bow that she refused to see as charming.

“And last, no groupies on the bus,” she added, fighting to keep her face impassive and the blush that threatened from pinkening her cheeks.

It had never been a set rule, in fact it was one they’d each bent a little one time or another, but a weird pressure built in the back of her neck at the thought of having to see and listen to Killian with some doe eyed fan. Not that she cared. She just didn’t want to get to know him that intimately, even if it was by proxy, when she barely knew him as anyone other than the rock star she’d had a crush in high school.

His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly before he laughed. It didn’t sound forced or off but somehow Emma knew it was fake all the same.

“Understood, love.”

“Still not your love-” she held out her hand and his hand was calloused and warm when he grasped it, “Welcome to the band.”

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfiction #ouat ff #my writing

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matchamorphosis · 4 years

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𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲

𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔, 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆. - 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐 + 𝒋𝒖𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒕

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || Once Upon a Time in the shiny pearly gates of an elite residential community not long ago, lived our dear sweet [y/n] Beaudelaire. a revengeful Juliet, a woeful princess within the lavish parts of these aristocratic folk. what will happen when she meets again with her once Romeo now fiend in the lovely auspicious event of her graduation party? especially when she’s out for his head.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 || alternate universe AU tutor//counselor!ari levinson × [black//woc]fem!reader + bryce langely × [black//woc]fem!reader

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 || angst + smut

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 9.7K

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || +18 nsfw, daddy!kink, student-tutor relationship, age gape: reader is twenty two and ari is thirty seven: don’t like, don’t read, dark elements, sexual past // intentions // flashbacks + mentions lose of virginity + future manipulation//blackmail + somewhat dark/upsetting content + alcohol mention + emotional denial

𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 || valley of the dolls by marina . teachers pet by melanie martinez . imagine by ariana grande

𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 || romeo + juliet ☆ 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑒𝒹𝓎 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 ☆

𝐰. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 || hello my dearests! chapter two will come soon! ♡ anyways, enjoy reading cherubs!

THE BRONZE BELLS RING BACK AND FORTH FROM THE TOWER ABOVE, MARKING THE HOUR OF FIVE O’CLOCK.

shuffling of waitresses and waiters bustle as they seamlessly welcome, seat and serve the arriving guests as they begin to enter the dining room. not breaking or huffing a single sweat as they carry the trays of prepared dishes while ice buckets of champagne and brandy dance around the golden framed accommodation.

patrons young and old in fine silks and tailored stitches of embroidery situate themselves on the seats at the lengthen dining table. the seating arrangements that were made don’t crowd the banquet hall too much yet still very much wide that you only see eye level with the many persons right and left of you.

sharp smiles and provoking laughter, along with articulate chatter and conversations are not too loud yet not too quiet for anyone who had the nerve to add on nor the audacity to step in. devious hushed giggles and cruelly clever remarks still being heard, the affluent demons situate themselves comfortably before the grand feast.

entertained by the mulled wine and glorious halcyon strokes of the Rococo paintings that ordain the burgundy upper fortifications. soft classical music soaks through while they breath in the malodorous rich phlox air, sitting blissfully. a rays of candlelight chandeliers and the whimsically painted ceiling of the golden cumulus clouds pierced through almighty arch angels shine above their privileged heads. glimmering in the sunlight swimming the room as the servers begin re-pouring the sparkling alcohol in their half empty glasses.

being settled in the middle of the table, our dear sweet princess- sits tracing the outline of her wine glass with a single finger.

the slight high pitch hum sends her deep in the labyrinth of her thoughts as she internally chants to remind herself who she is. more so the individual figure she is manifesting, someone who will give her strength through this tear dropping moment.

though here she is, green as the frog prince tale her neglecting father read to her to sleep when she was a child- she couldn’t help but not shed the ugly ivy shade.

for only the scene in front of her would make dutiful damsels cry in their lace handkerchiefs and shining knights in silver armor woe in pity- it gave all the more reason to.

bare elbow resting on the table, it holds up her clenched fist. holding up her chin while she leans upset on forced straight shoulders. glossy nude lips pursed, sharp eyes puncture through the white cloth of the finely dressed table. once again restraining herself not to pout or let a sign of disgust crowd her face to make her emotions and thoughts obvious.

[y/n] [l/n] will prevail through this- well, until she starts to hear a giggle, and then a hushed whisper.

biting down on the inside of her cheek to ease the need of wanting to snap a snarky comment between the two individuals. for whom are speaking in front of her rather carelessly (for the fact that one of the which- his date or so you found out much earlier “fiancé” was excusable but it didn’t keep you from wanting to rip the woman’s tongue out) she simply rethinks her situation away from her prior knowledge and sit to a solid conclusion.

it seems as though you’ve been replaced

if it were possible, the tips of your ears tint up in a blistering crimson red as smoke curls, like a teapot screeching as the water was boiling over. although you don’t let that scream out nor the tears you’re keeping within. instead, slender brows arch and scrunch in their artful cynical manner.

your inflicting conscious attempts to cool down the bubbling boiling cauldron of vexes in the pit of your belly that you want to spite the man across. yet you’re unsure whether it’s because you feel like vomiting or because the scene in front of you is pushing a new level of internal disgust in yourself.

strange how you put yourself up with this in the first place is a whole heart mystery

listening in and out of your beloved friends conversations- centering around typical topics such as boys, books and bucks. [y/n] sits rather contemptible.

[y/n] doesn’t want to deal with the suffocating thick air of strained smiles, faux compliments, and forced giggles and chuckles.

all do nothing but rot her Dior perfumed presence the tragic princess is illed from this life.

facing too many cold greedy touches to her bare highlighted shoulders and too many fabricated comments twined with vicious sarcasm and shaded in fifty shades of irony. it was all too much to handle, even when their pockets were dripping in gold and bundles of cash it was all a façade. apprehending the reflection of pure hatred in the rich folks split red irises, it has all been seen and taken accounted of hundreds of nonchalant times.

all fail to make you shiver, all fail to make you resign

[y/n] doesn’t know how long she’s going to have to sit and look pretty, not for herself no but for an image.

all for the sake of her fashion designer mother, who urged her to have a gala for her high performance and decree. how can you say no to your own mother? even after all the vicious Hell she puts you through, she got you here. mistaking your own emotional withdrawal for strength at her cruel hands, she crafted her own perfect daughter.

one who showed no weakness, who gave no mercy

despite this, she feels herself crumbling

[y/n] doesn’t feel like talking or thinking about the silly and irrelevant ideals and prospects that don’t involve her sitting on his lap.

straddling the strong warmth of his thighs while your inner ones grind against his searing loins. wanting to act on the fine lines of either choking him or kissing him to death as your jeweled fingers play with the buttons of his expansive crisp white.

head full of toxic odium inflections you want to slash against the gentleman across it doesn’t mix right knowing you wish to be that women sitting next to him. the one who receives the cheeky whispers, who gets to feel his tongue when you two kiss.

instead, you ease the desire by taking a quick unnoticed swing of the moonshine in your silver flask. placing the vile thing back in your pearl Gucci clutch you grasp the item close to the ribs of your abdomen- quickly popping a mint in your mouth to mask the telling breath. keeping touch with your breathing, the shiny diamond ring on the woman’s finger almost made you choke the first time you saw it.

your heart nearly stopping dead in your chest when it sparkled and the hand that was twined with it was wrapped in another that also displayed the gold band. it threw you off completely and wrecked havoc on your heart and mind that you had to excuse yourself to cry in the bathroom.

now, your tears are nearly spent. the sight of dreaded thing only boils along with the other bittersweet things you find meaningless when it dealt with the gentlemen.

the gentlemen across the dinging table, that broke too much of your heart and took too many pieces.

[y/n] doesn’t want to look or hear the heart shattering display of affection that is proceeding right in front of her eyes.

knowing there was a certain unintentional catch to performing your celebrating gala you weren’t exactly sure what the decoy was. all until the deliberate provocative maneuvers were performed by the enemy himself.

that enemy, the gentlemen across from you, is puffing a thick Cuban cigar. not cowering against your bellicose gaze nor shudder of the battle cry that rings in the deep pools of your irises. he should know better not to play such a shrewd egocentric game when you’ve been playing it for years.

however the battlefield is empty, but you want war

you want it so bad it’s clouding your judgement, clouding every rational thought that brings you to reasonability.

if he wishes to avoid this matter let him be labeled as a wise coward. if he wishes to take you to battle then let him burn in the crossfire of his deserved loss

you’ve had the experience of driving your victims in circles- questioning themselves on their own apprehensions and relation predictions.

it was fun driving them over the lines of their morals and boundaries. it was even more fun to sit in the passengers seat as you insisted for them to not hit the breaks and for-long the steering wheel. telling them they had no worries as they drove over the cliffs edge. yet in the end they always hit the breaks and they always begged for you to forgive them for it.

no one had the will to do so, no one could satisfy your hunger

the deed at the moment- the childish yet very humorous game is more so a chore now if you were to admit. no longer a stringed merriment of imperious interest to drive your morphine high. on the other hand you aren’t going to ignore the piercing glance which soul purpose is to make you stare back.

the constant idyllic remarks that relentlessly grab your unwanted attention make him somewhat smirk as you notice it from the corner of you eye. the cocky grin almost willing you to shove that monarch title of yours in his face. slowly making him wish as you keeps his glare on you that you’d step off your throne and accuse him of revolt against the crown.

anything to make him hear your voice again

the finger of your right hand that was still tracing the wine glass halts as you grab the chalice within your clawed hold. tapping the glass slowly with your shimmery white acrylics, all you see is red.

red, red, blistering red

[y/n] Beaudelaire is furious

if anyone truly knew her they would notice that she is indeed too quiet. that the way she purses her lips is a comprehensible threat that friends, classmates, and acquaintances are regretfully familiar with.

cause they all know, that once [y/n] Beaudelaire is simmering with the acrimony of the Gods there will be vengeance to uphold. and sooner than later she will be redeemed, even if it means a dead body being buried or burned she will get away with it.

such wrathful repayment will have you second guessing your every daily decision, it will always come when you least expect it. although it will come (she sincerely promises) on a silver platter. polished and delivered by Karma herself that would make the War God Ares shiver and cower in fear and leave Athena in wonders on your foreshadowing strategies.

there are three golden rules you should know when you come across [y/n] Beaudelaire || never lie to her, never double-cross her, never get in her way

you would think these simple laws would be easy to understand, follow and obey on the account that they’ve been written like a syllabus within the minds of her subjects-

then you are sadly mistaken

there isn’t one event where an act of treason or mutiny were to be made against you, questioning your position of authority. you’ve known from the beginning that if you were constructing the building blocks of your kingdom a judicial system was to be constructed and laws were to be proclaimed.

even the rich have rules to follow in their own golden gate communities, you had your rules. it is no secret to everyone that the polished anarchy and shining throne that your seated on is built on the shameful secrets and corrupt deeds of your subjects. like a contract these vain money slicked cheats didn’t read the fine print.

the confidential information of the lieges were made as, somewhat clauses in contrary with whatever business you had to deal with or against them

everyone wished you the best of luck just as everyone wanted your throne, secretly wanting to burn you alive at the stake.

putting into perspective if they had burned you alive, taken the death enveloped in Holy fire nothing would change for their benefit. the anarchy, the high socially affluent class would crumple under new management. even the rich have rules to follow in their own golden gate communities, you had your rules.

the crown, throne and kingdom was all for you

not because it was a birth right passed down, but because the socially illusioned world created didn’t exist for you created a system that only you understood how to control.

you worked hard to have the social and financial suitors of both potential allies not just in your own state but from all around. from the Beverly Hills to the Upper East Side there are people watching over you. nobody wished to mess with you although they loved the idea of it, you knew of people that are even powerful than anyone in this room it was frightening.

teaching yourself to be socially assertive and wiser in making decisions whenever it came to making ties and bonds. a trait these close minded sheep in wolfs clothing couldn’t buy with their mommy's and daddy's plastic.

their silver spoon lives have been fed with opulent lies one mouthful at a time

the princess thinks, amusing herself she can’t help but smirk rather wickedly down at the light amber liquid in her crystal glass. it keeps her distracted from the brute man across, knowing exactly what’s conjuring in that pretty mind of yours.

coming off as innocent to the careless eye but if you knew [y/n] Beaudelaire nothing about the young lady is entirely innocent, at least not anymore. not as innocent as people loved and cherished, an element those poor simple fools took for fucking granted.

it could all have been ruined from the gentlemen in front of her, her cruel parents, fabricated friends and crushed dreams. but she used to remember herself as the sweet heartfelt cherub that’s casted into the thundering storm. a storm she cannot escape from, how can someone escape from the troubles of their own mind?

sure she was naïve then, oblivious of the ways of the affluent world around her. so uncertain and troubled, always so quiet with her nose in a book and always first to raise her hand when her teachers asked a question. a stuttering mess whenever a handsome boy would speak to her, even when it was but the simplest things.

she remembers those days. when she wouldn’t let herself be seen out without satin hair ribbons that matched her plaid skirts, blazers and stockings. simple trademarks being her black glossy heeled flats, powdered sugar bubblegum, lip-smacking strawberry chapstick, and the tender playfulness of her blooming body.

[y/n] Beaudelaire used to be pure- or whatever fucked up term that would describe a girl with no social experience.

now she’s considered an enigma. as many of her classmates and peers believe- a mystery, a paradox.

she was loyal, yet somewhat detached. platonic yet sensual, heartwarming yet tear wrenching. no one truly knows or understands her, nor wishes to. maybe the gentlemen some time ago wished but not anymore, the princess deems.

the elegant dining hall that accompanies the Beaudelaire family fitted fifty five guests. all from her graduating class, extended family, business affiliates and close courtiers bustled with energy as the food is beginning to be served.

conversations ending and picking up quickly in between mouthfuls of buttered bread rolls and sips of ancient wine. the steaming rotisserie chickens and roasted lamb shoulders sit on plates of roasted vegetables next to the multiple wooden baskets of rolls. ivory bowls of rice pea soup and dishes of white and red sauced pastas are placed in commendation with trays of salads in front of each sitting guests.

looking down at the ivory china, the pea soup was the last possible thing [y/n] wanted to consume and the flirtatious comments that were happening in front of her only added to the fire that was tearing inside of her.

thinking otherwise, he was getting back at her from her actions earlier, he was equally as jealous as her

[y/n] looks outside through the tall glass apertures, streaming in golden light the crowd of conversations and chatter going to the back of her mind. to help her recollect upon the events that happened earlier that day.

it’s a sunny breezy June day for the graduating class of Bradford for they had just arrived at the Osborne manor for lunch from the gardens of the Beaudelaire estate. considering it is the first week of summer break, long until she and her classmates are back to their books starting their third year of university.

they’ve decided instead of staying inside the fine Beaudelaire music room rehearsing their song for Madame Hautecourts (Bradfords founder) arrival next week, they’d rather spent it on the Beaudelaire estate.

surrounded by blooming flower beds, marble fountains and ivory statues. remotely unattended from any pressure bearing adults, it was heaven. enjoying the sound of buzzing bees and humming hummingbirds and the sight of elegant doves bathing in the birdbaths, their senior year was finally over and they were finally done with their studies.

the rich white teethed teens drank fizzy bourbon sodas, smoked cigars and played cards as a celebration. smiled with nefarious charm as they told, listened and laughed along detention stories and parent-teacher mishaps that have happened throughout their high school years.

it was their right to enjoy their summer break as shameless young adults committing prohibited acts. they were legal enough to break the law, but wealthy enough to get away with it

a golden ethereal moment [y/n] relished, yet couldn’t help but feel the peering stare of someone on her.

in shock she met the eyes of a figure that was staring down at her on the second story balcony of the mansion. immediately upon seeing the heavenly cerulean blue of his fierce glare caught her off guard completely, for she has never set sight of them in person in forever.

unaware from his return over seas all together she surely did not invite the man yet here he stands. head up looking down on you with those ocean hues as if disappointed with the clutch of moonshine in your grasps and the lips of a drunk boy at your neck.

ignoring the large group of adults chatting upon the carved ivory balcony. talking with champagne flutes in hand while cigarettes sit fuming in between their dazzling ring fingers, not caring for their children below as they commit their sins.

the gentlemen’s- Ari Levinson’s sharp glare was still present and it viscously dripped in distain. maybe baring the same shock you were feeling- that someone had their hands and lips on his property. knowing that tell, he did indeed notice you’re holding onto this boys hand that he will later find out is your boyfriend, Bryce Langely.

yes, the older man heard it right from your mothers lips - boyfriend.

it was a little bit, a morsel of karma that you unraveled against him. having gotten over Ari, your traitor of a Romeo you now savor in the violent delights of being a woeful Juliet. even when you sometimes feared over your newly found beau, you would overshadowed that creeping chill to spite that man who shattered your heart.

it came with its heartbreaking disadvantages but had abundances of limitless sinful privileges. obtaining a title that doesn’t include you ruining someone's will to live or playing a mind-fuck emotional waste game surely was your guilty pleasure.

granting all this, we all have learned from past mistakes- from past tragedies- that these violent delights that taste so virtuously divine, have their merciless violent ends.

this night will have its violent end and your wicked gaze told it all as it cascaded with Ari’s. so revengeful it was saddening, he thought as he exhaled the cloud of cigar smoke. feeling his fist tighten when the school boy of a boyfriend slipped his skinny fingers under the white satin of your slip dress. the beating in his chest increasing when you smirked, bite your lips on not the bastard but him.

breaking the stare wanting not to stare back, she straightens herself under the sun rays trying not to let him spoil the mood. instead of averting your eyes to the older man, you hold Bryce's bicep; lying your head on his shoulder.

the icy glare Ari returns was enough for you to wonder, were you going to regret doing this?

you’ve broken a vow, but that thought makes you bite your tongue hard in this falsehood. he broke his first, he promised he’d never leave you and he did. the pain its just as bad as you feel the metallic taste in your mouth.

I don’t belong to him, not anymore.

glancing your attention back up to the floral balcony you see that your Romeo has disappeared and serves him right. but where are you the audience touching up on this elicit affair?

well, ladies and gentlemen, let us start from the beginning...

it all started with a kiss.

a magical night that was the grand premier of [y/n’s] latest play, Romeo and Juliet.

you were the leading actress playing Shakespeare's unfortunate Juliet. the prima donna of the stage, the blazing star in everyone’s hearts that snowy February night.

[y/n] was nineteen, open to the ways of the world and at the time your Romeo was a much older man. but in the heat of the moment-

when the dazzling stage lights shone down on her and the audience cheered in a standing ovation as the single roses and bundles of baby breaths were thrown at her feet. as you took your bow, the chorus of the angels above song for the romantic tragedy of a teenage tale to be your reality.

seeing your Romeo, your Ari, grinning proudly from the side lines throwing a red rose at the hem of your gown - your heart pounded in this truth/

the romantically tragic tale was surely real when he snuck into her dressing room.

a bouquet of red roses in his hands asking her if she would like to take a stroll with him. when their eyes danced and fingers laced within each other as they walked towards the candlelit park. covering her with his own black trench coat over her revealing costume when the cold winds of January seared their cheeks. their lips met each other under a streetlamp as snow began to powder above them.

that kiss was the tipping domino that shattered their flirty student-tutor relationship into a secret scandalous affair. the visits between them only began after that, both Ari and [y/n] always either announced a date with a letter informing them or a surprise visit.

one of her favorite surprises, especially when it came to Ari- has been engraved in her memories for eons to come.

maybe it wasn’t as sweet and virtuous as [y/n] Beaudelaire dreamed of and remembered, but how can it not be when she felt like she was in heaven.

how could something be sin when it feels holy at the first touch?

it might be the endeavor of the Devil cause she still feels the temptation of his large warm hands. groping and grasping the powder blue lace of her nightie that wrapped the smooth skin of her waist on that warm pink honeysuckle June night.

a naughty moan erupted from her and a deep groan against him. [y/n] could taste the bitterly addicting taste of honeyed whiskey on his dazzling smile and couldn’t help at all but to pull onto his loose velvet tie. shamelessly whining and urging him to come closer as she unbuttoned his shirt, roaming her hands on his sculptured muscled chest.

reality has withered into a forgotten thought for dear sweet [y/n] Beaudelaire. although they both know an important figure as Mr. Levinson shouldn’t have been in her room. let alone cup the petal soft cheeks of [y/n] Beaudelaire as he kissed her harder, dancing his tongue with hers.

desire, desire, desire...

how she had desired - longed to feel his strong arms around her waist, his satin locks through her fingers, his muscled golden skinned everything against her. a thought struck her - what if her father and mother were to walk in any second?

both home early from their business trips? simple, all hell would break loose- figuratively and literally, although how could this not make her swoon more.

the danger and chaos incited the princess, she felt like a precious Juliet.

yet [y/n] couldn’t stop at the threat, couldn’t help the mesmerizing feeling of her plump warm lips against his sweet tasting ones. how he was her first kiss conflicted with the older man, it seemed she had much more experience than she was letting on.

danger and pleasure mix well, especially when Ari Levinson was pumping his throbbing hard cock into the tight virgin hole of [y/n] Beaudelaire. gripping the religious brooch of his golden chain in the palm of her hand, he continued to pump deep in and out of her. symphonies of moans and sighs adorned their blissful bubble waiting and urging to be popped.

whispering praises and soothing the dear girl as hot tears streamed from her eyes. kissing her temple telling her how well she did and how he loved her.

all while the droplets of blood curled with the puddle of nectar underneath their locked connection, soaking her rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets. his tempered hands gently caressed the curves of her summer ripe body, sucking her rose budded breasts and licking her honey slicked core.

the magical spell that she was under, the thrilling sin enfolding as he held the key to her own wrecking. how it felt so fucking goddamn right to straddle his lap and allow him to leave the dark cherry wine lovebites on her neck. ravishing in the sinfully divine reflections in his eyes, she flourished on their next encounter.

being this an unvarnished truth, it wasn’t just a kiss as you all know now. but the intensity, the pure desire radiating them both that full moon night as they ‘made love’ questioned dear [y/n] Beaudelaire whether or not it was an event she would regret for the rest of her days.

conflicts her presently as she stares down on her food, not allowing the elements of the present to interfere to connect to that corrupt heaven.

“promise me you’ll never forget this, forget me,” out of breath, you shushed in his ear and he stopped sucking the skin of her collarbones and gripping her rear entirely.

angling his face to meet hers, he examines his artwork- her ruby lips now pouty, being overworked from crashing his lips to hers. the blooming hickies covering her neck, collarbones, and breasts like springtime poppies.

the sweaty bare sunkissed skin of her naked body underneath him and her leaking honey cascading with his salty brim coats both their inner thighs is nothing but aerial piety.

noting the tears that glazed your eyes- the dear girl has never felt so defenseless, so vulnerable to heartbreak in her life. two droplet streams slip from her eyes and Ari’s heart weeps.

his precious princess being teary eyed will not do, not if he could help it.

lifting her on his lap, he raises his warm hands to cup her cheeks. wiping the tears with his thumbs, erasing their short lived existence before softly pressing his lips to hers. keeping his hands in place as she grips the silky hair that drops onto the back of his neck.

“how could I ever forget you? my angel, you are purely unforgettable. never ever forget it,” he hushes as he glides his thumb against her lips and onto her cheekbone.

he releases one hand to dig into his trouser pockets and reveals a shimmering piece that sparkles and shines in the moonlight, a heart locket. “when you wear this, i’ll know that your heart belongs to me. that I am worthy to have a place in your heart.” he glides his fingers around her throat, moving her hair to the side as he clicks the gold in place.

looking down on the locket, her fingers wrapping it close. “even without this pendent, my heart will always belong to you.”

beaming at the sight of you in his gift his heart is off to the races. you belong amongst the lavish pearl, blush pink and fanciful moonshine strokes of Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s signature paintings. the posh gold necklace rests securely around your lower neck and the promising pendant tips a luscious glossy glow upon her breasts.

she truly is art, to be seen and adored by everyone but only touched and worshiped by him/

“tell me daddy, please tell me i’m yours,” you sighed heavily, bust along with the locket lifting against Ari’s chest as you move her face even closer to his.

“no doll, daddy’s yours.” her giggle, a classical melody to his ears as she kisses him again sweetly.

he returns more passionately but stops immediately for the ding dong of the old grandfather clock announces the twelfth hour of the night, surprising as well as startling the girl. “it’s getting late, I can’t stay for long.” he quietly hushes, his voice slightly raspy causing [y/n’s] inner demons lustfully scream but she pouts and carps.

he’s leaving so soon, always so soon.

“don’t frown, pretty girl. we had to stop at some point.” he smirks as he picks up his shirt from the floor, buttoning it up swiftly.

getting up from your bed to find his belt from under it, he walks by the blue lace he stripped you of much earlier in the night. fitting the leather with his belt loops he zips up his pants, looking to the small table aside your bed he see’s his tie missing among your things.

judging from the small giggle that escapes your cheeky smirk he turns to you and opens an outreached hand. the tie as he predicted is in your hands, yet you keep it clenched against your chest looking at him as if you aren’t keeping anything from him.

though with the raise of an eyebrow and the other hand of his that softly yet firmly grabbing your jaw makes you question yourself if this trickery was a good idea, “It isn’t kind to take daddy's things, princess,”

the comment leaves your smirk dropping and a pout to form.

Ari always kills your teasing games with gentle kindness, always had the patience for your devious fairy like temper. his authorized stance was a killjoy but he held the discipline you lacked that helped balance your relationship.

rolling your eyes you give him his tie, which he takes after giving a subtle kiss to your knuckles. “good girl,” your core clenches at those words.

Ari has the right mixture of dominance and softness that made the cocoons in your stomach break free. the fluttering butterflies of lust flying to your heart and heading down to soak your already sore core.

hungry hands wander his muscled body, feeling and drinking everything in. playful eyes saunter down and lock on the front gaping tent of his pants. catching were your eyes lock on Ari smirks to himself, his dirty little girl.

he knows exactly what you’re thinking, purely naughty you are.

“my eyes are up here, angel,” and with that remark your eyes snap to his eager blue and you feel your face heating up.

the delicious ache between your legs from the previous adrenaline filled thrusts and pumps of Ari’s hips smashing into yours is like a VCR tape on repeat in your mind. leaving you bashfully smiling and shivering in cordial delight as you feel his white syrup drip from your puffy crux.

biting your bottom lip, however you aren’t at all shy to sit up over your plush pink comforter and grab his shirt needily. averting his eyes on you as you cup his bearded cheek. your eyes turn to wet glass and Ari is scared you might shatter into tears again, but your angelic smile makes him think otherwise and your holy wicked giggles do most for his growing erection.

the very things you do to him, he will never be able to explain in words.

“promise i’ll see you again, Ari. promise me we’ll have more nights like this,” lips ghosting over his purposely.

those same wandering hands slide over his chest slowly, working down exploring the front of his pants. rubbing the tent with rapacious fingertips he moans under your touch. if this feeling of intimacy was a type of bait they’re both now hooked.

“undoubtedly princess,” he keenly moans as he leans into your spit slicked lips yet you pull away giggling. “oh no, you don’t.” he suddenly grabs your waist and lifts you up from the cream sheets of your four poster bed. carrying you bridal style as he twirls you around your pale pink bedroom.

wrapping your arms around his neck you burst into a fit of hushed giggles, Ari smiles to himself.

such a darling princess, he thinks again, his darling princess

setting her back down on her bed he tucks her in and pecks her nose, caressing her lovebiten gold lace adorned neck. “my dove, i’ll see you tomorrow. for now is best you sleep.” he whispers breath warm against your lips he pulls away. turning his body to reach the secret doorway until-

“must you go? please stay, please,” you sit up, holding his face in your hands as he looks down at you.

tinges of sadness and tones of sleepiness shade deep in your eyes and Ari feels his heartstrings vibrating. how could he even think of letting you sleep alone? wouldn’t be a justified thing for him to take your purity, make love to you and leave you bare and cold all alone.

eyes shined bright as you looked up at him, so sweet and angelic and waiting for his response. he was unsure, of course his heart sang that he wanted to stay. yet questioned himself as to why he let himself corrupt your angel kin, why he allowed himself to fall in love with you. dreamt every night for you to warm the empty cold spot on his bed.

dreamt of making you his.

the killing absence is a tell.

Ari wants to stay, oh how he wants to stay.

although he is scared, terrified- that once he lays on your bed with the comfort of your warm sleeping body against his, he won’t ever be able leave.

terrified that all conscious awareness of knowing this love is forbidden will be erased cause he won’t care. as long as he feels your heart beat against his when he shuts his eyelids. terrified that this may be all a dream and he’ll wake up in his bed alone with you not by his side.

you can notice the troubling hesitation, even when his eyes are on you his mind is somewhere else. wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down on you until his clothed body is pressed softly against your bare one. until your eyelashes flutter against each other, until your lips feel each others breath.

“please, stay,” your whisper soft and airy, your face as well as the pendent ravishing in complete beauty and elegance.

you are truly his, and he will never let you go

with that he doesn’t answer because he’s taking off his clothes again till he is bare and vulnerable just like you. picking up your sheets he slips next to you. “come, my dove,” he hushes and you shuffle against the sheets to lay on him.

each of your legs on the opposite of his sides, your naked breasts pressed against his warm lifting chest. damp face still parallel to his he sees a tear leak from your eye and hear a small sniffle.

“what’s wrong?” hand at the back of your neck he pulls you closer.

“w-what happens if they find out about us? what happens i-if they tear us apart?” whimpering your voice breaks in between sobs.

Ari cups your cheeks while he shakes his head, as if what your saying is impossible and hopeless. both you star-crossed lovers should know-

by the fate of the tragic stars above was this night destined to come.

“never. never would they be able to tear me away from you. [y/n] look at me, I would never let that happen,” his whispered voice euphoric as he holds the sides of your face.

hushed sobs escaped your mouth, Ari wipes your tears with his rough palms. hugging you close until you calm down and your small hiccups can be heard. a small smile begins to unfold between the two of you and Ari folds a piece of your hair behind your ear.

you’re so beautiful when your bare and on top of him, it’s almost godly.

starry face, body and soul is just begging to be worshiped, he does worship you. “even if they try and succeed, they would be at a loss. For my heart would still belong to you, forever and always.” by that, your lips stretch in a tragic smile.

“forever and always,” you sigh as your lips meet his in a wistful kiss.

lips passionate against yours, hands in his wild hair and legs intertwined you both fall in the black hole of desire again. both of you know that this was destined to happen, that they was no way to avoid or prevent this.

your heart his and his heart yours, both eternal and forever blooming.

when you two are finally spent and sore in the most wonderful of ways, you lie on your sides. facing each other by enjoying each others presence, tracing and retaining every freckle, scar and birthmark with caressing fingertips. grabbing the red lace ribbon that was initially in your hair, you tie it around Ari’s wrist.

tired eyes going dreamy, he lays to his side smiling and watching as you wrap and finish the lace with a bow.

“it isn’t much, but if- on the account, that they do tear us apart. please know that I will wait for you. always.” hushing, your bodies glow in the loves rays of the pale lavender moonlight present.

pulling you to his chest, your face finds the crook of his neck and breath in his natural scent. “and I to you,” he says kissing the top of your hair, wrapping his arms guarding you in the most comforting way.

“Goodnight good night, my Romeo,”

parting is such sweet sorrow -

“Goodnight good night, my Juliet,”

that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

you remember after the night was more love and happiness you don’t know you could ever feel. in your opinion that morning the following day was like a perfect reverie.

Ari and you were woken up from their lovesick slumber by the sing song of the morning birds and the vivid yellow sun rays. giggled and admired the memory of last night as he pressed butterfly kisses over your hipbones and belly.

wearing nothing but Ari’s cream button up and him in his briefs they had a French breakfast out on the brick terrace barefoot surrounded by Persian buttercups and marigolds.

afterwords they took a bubble wash in her clawfoot bathtub and put on some clothes, smelling fresh of rose water and milky dove soap. walking down the staircase as he had to leave, you kissed him goodbye but he reassured you that he will be back that same night to see you again.

however with unfortunate timing, your parents returned that afternoon from their separate business trips. with greater outcomes than they both have expected, news of their return and latest success most likely cautioned Ari. he is one of her father’s most close old friends and obvious of his return he did not come to the celebrating lunch that same day which dishearten [y/n] but she knew that he would come around.

and he did, time and time again through the end of your first year of college and following into the middle your second year. that is, until he stopped and disappeared from her completely when the summer season went by.

the day you thought would be a nice idea to stop by the private elite college to see Ari. you were surprised to find that everything in his office to find everything of his gone except a letter on the desk with your name on it. you’ve examined the empty room around you, the framed degrees on the wall and boxes of filing papers vanished.

the office clerk had informed you that he was here when you arrived, seeming to suspicious you told her that you were meeting him for ‘counseling purposes’.

now siting in his chair by his desk you opened the letter with shaky hands, prepared yourself to either be completely devastated or perplexed. slipping the letter out and forced yourself to take a deep breath as you focus on the cursive black ink.

My Dearest Dove,

I beg hat you won’t be disappointed. won’t be mad or even put this on yourself, it kills me to see you cry.

I didn’t have the heart to tell you this sooner and with that I dread itself though I will be back in a couple of months.

Know that the sun will blaze and the moon will shine and the planets will orbit into oblivion.

For my love for you was gifted by the stars and with that I beg of you to do the most and wait.

it was soiled with a teardrop as you finished reading the last words. the letter left a sore pain in her heart that was laced with amorous longing. leaving his office with the letter in hand, salty melancholy tears on your tongue and a prolonging ballad hum in your tender voice.

you didn’t blame him for taking a job opportunity over seas as you later found out but it hurt knowing he didn’t tell you of this earlier. so you did what he asked you to do, to wait for him.

the lovely burning hours of wasting through your summer retreat daydreaming of your runaway Romeo to return turned into days. then with greatest unfortune days into weeks, and weeks into months till now it has been a solid year without a single phone call, letter, or personal appearance.

until now that he sits across from you.

the sheer heart shattering thought rattled in her mind that last summer day and with that tears threaten to glaze and drop from her mascara lashes at this moment.

our princess, our Juliet already accepted that it was an incident…

incident be damned.

the man is no ordinary man but a public figure. Mr. Levinson could not risk his professional career to a scandal. thinking you probably weren’t worth the risk in his eyes, you’re blinded by the truth of how utterly wrong you are.

everyone knows that he has worked and had an extensive history with the justice department in the earlier years of his life. eventually in some time in his life settled as a criminal behavioral specialist teaching a division of B.A.U students at Harvard.

when people young and old see him, they see a hardworking risk-taking man who risked his life for our country and to help many others in need. on the other hand when girls [y/n] age see him they see dollar signs, because of course the man had the opportunity to retire, but saw fit that the rank of superior director of future agents would be a better use of his time.

for just that fact alone is the true reason for his previous failed marriage, how and why it came to an end. Hell even you knew that he was divorced, you would see and notice the picture frames of a little girl that was always placed on his desk. whenever you tried to say or ask anything about it he always changed the topic, seeming empty and broken. you knew that the little girl was Ari’s daughter, you just didn’t want to push the subject but he would soon open up to you later on.

part time however, Mr. Levinson was an advocate as well as counselor for Ivy Leagues. the very first the two of you met was the day he was gathering and advising students for college preparatory programs and collecting college applications.

when you stepped inside the counselors office, and took a deep inhale of the incense soaking the air. the soft eye contact he given as you chanted about your aspirations and ambitions. the way he held your hand when you started to speak on your mental and social troubles. telling you that you were safe to speak your mind on any topic.

once you left his office that day, you felt the singing sensation of wanting to see him again. memorize his face so its like an oracle for your mind to fantasize, remember his smooth voice till you can hear it in your dreams. an unforeseen crush was formed and with that you started finding new ways of seeing him, which meant more visits to the counselor office.

you wanted to talk to him more, speaking on topics that didn’t revolve around your sweet cynical ordeals but for but for him to get a taste of your sweet cynical- well you get the picture.

you wanted to get to him to touch you. so shy touching your hand and shoulder from time to time realizing he was getting much more comfortable around you then what was appropriate for him as a counselor.

you wanted to get him to kiss you. during that prophetical freshman year of university when the Shakespearean performance commenced you did get that kiss.

if you were being truly honest with yourself, you don’t at all regret it.

you truly don’t.

he was your counselor, he was somewhat of a tutor at times but it wasn’t at all professional when they had been continuously flirting and teasing each other. an affair fueled on both sides as you two tried on riling the other person up until they had no clue what happened when your hands found each others.

it was nerve racking trying to convince yourself that you were just using him so he’ll pull some strings to get you an even closer advantage into Harvard than you already had.

Ari knew [y/n] was younger- but the intelligence, sophistication, and charm that you were gifted he couldn’t help but fall head over heels.

it was wrong, a disgusting thing to do he thought and thought. but with your consent and the love you gave back to him made those thoughts stop. he was under loves heavy burden and oh did he sink stepping forth into your siren like song.

Mr. Levinson was never a man to settle when he could do so much more, even when the man was ensured with millions of dollars the government owned him in his missions adding onto his current affluent job the man was indeed wealthy.

you’d have to be in order to be around such prosperous bluebloods, where old money and power come hand in hand. these upper class folk think they rule the world and by him being a respected figure, people laid countless loyalties to him.

it isn’t fucking fair.

how could he still sit there, thinking he helped you when he took the sharpened sword of your trust and loyalty to only just stab you with it. through your already browbeaten and broken heart you gave with shaking hands and pitiful eyes.

where you carried the broken pieces of her heart where ever you went, like a pathetic souvenir of some sort that you bragged for some reason. you were and are so emotionless, so deprived of such that you mistaken it as strength. so desperate that Ari Levinson himself helped stitch and glued back together.

all that to just shatter it within his grasp, letting the ambrosial blood gush on his hands and wipe it all over your fucking face.

so rather then turning into the broken clueless little girl you outgrew, you instead picked up the bleeding smithereens and put them together yourself. with the will of an iron fist the burning sensation of your blood, sweat and tears you forced yourself up. swearing you will never fall to a defeat like this again.

yet this won’t excuse your thoughts, you swore that you will only exchange the same treatment back to him when the opportunity occurred.

and now is the perfect time, as he sits at your will to find and make amends.

a spiraling storm begins to unravel within the mind of [y/n] Beaudeliare, she will not be silenced from her treacherous heartache. she will see to it that she will have that man begging on his knees for forgiveness, and maybe set him on fire if it suits her liking.

snapping out of her day dream [y/n] couldn’t help but not sneak a quick look at him, I mean he is across the table.

peering from the setting sun she looks to him and she wishes she hasn’t. the face she fantasizes of at night yet curses in her daydreams holds the apple of her eye and she feels Cupids skilled golden arrow rip through your heart once again.

soft toffee hair parts on top his shoulder blades, dark sultry beard slightly trimmed going in stark contrast against his white pressed dress shirt. wondering eyes lingered onto his wrinkle free collar to see the three top buttons loose revealing his golden Star of David chain and a trail of dark chest hair.

the woman next to him was indeed beautiful and held more mature features than her. if anyone were to see these two sitting together they’d assume they were together but think twice to see that the man is Ari Levinson and he is already married to his job then be shocked again when they find he’s engaged. you believe the woman's name is Miss. - soon to be Mrs - Liz Earl, but dismiss it every time she introduces herself.

asking her to repeat her name saying it always slips your mind, pretending she didn’t exist when she tried to speak to you. thus on the account of you responding you tried to make her question whether or not you liked or despised her.

it wasn’t right at all to be this petty and you know it. you aren’t acting like yourself by taking your pain and convicting it on the poor women. although you can’t deny the connection she has with Ari that makes your blood pound with resentment. you especially cannot deny that you haven’t seen him wrap his arm around her waist or chuckle along to whatever she had to say or kiss her while they lit their thick cigars. with that you rolled your eyes at your sincerity even though you were wrong doing so.

Ari would catch you within his actions and your vicious feedback. he wasn’t blind to your raging sorrow and he wasn’t petty enough to actually comment back at you or play in the game you were initiating.

but he hates to see you this way

is he the only one who sees the tears in your eyes? the falseness in your smile and remarks? the ache in the way you try so hard to present yourself that everyone seems to fall for? what is he suppose to do?

Ari can’t exactly grab your face and kiss you for the whole world to see but he wants to, he can’t avoid you any longer. desperately trying so hard to move on, even now that another women is holding his hand and kissing him he still personally wishes it was you. longing to see you again from the very beginning of his voyage he sees you now, heartbroken and patience gone to waste.

the very last thing he wanted for you, a deed he should have never put on you. even though you hate his existence, Ari wishes for you to simply look at him.

not look at him behind his back or when he didn’t know you were staring, he wants to meet your irises to his. you’ve been driving him in circles as you planned, all he wants is to hear you sweet voice yet he can’t get over your arrogance.

your self righteousness that made him fall for you in the first place

on the other hand, his presence was enough to make you shift and either burst into a mess of tears or throw a fucking bitch fit. although you will not show any sign of torment, not a single weak manifestation. especially not for the man that treated someone of your worth as a shameful sin when he worshiped you behind closed doors.

“Miss. Beaudelaire,” a deep voice rang and you turned your head to the mayor sitting on the right of your father.

“it’s wonderful to hear that you’ve been doing so well in your classes. the Beaudelaire residency endures their traditional status.” Mr. Waldeyer Hartz exclaims, peering at you from across the long table which catches everyone’s ears.

a gleaming smile is revealed and you pull your bottom lip in between your teeth, they will be in for a surprise.

[y/n] can’t help but enjoy the attention, she hasn’t worked years of college hell as President of the Student Body and claimed Valedictorian while crushing any competition to not enjoy time in the spotlight.

from the corner of her eye she catches Ari clapping, bringing a chorus of clapping from all others. the gesture leaves you bashfully smile and when your eyes meet his the beat of your heart flutters in that dear nostalgic way.

a strong proud smile displayed on his face that lights up his eyes in some magical way. the lovely gesture only you got to see, cause it is only meant for you and only you.

though that divine thought once warm and sensational leaves you empty and cold. you aren’t the women in his life no more, thinking again you weren’t even his to begin with.

how can someone be loved and be claimed as such when they are buried like a dirty shameful secret?

you’ve grown up at the receiving end of heartbreak. whether it’s the cruel torment you’ve received from your classmates from your early school years. your parents toxic high expectations and standards they whipped you up to fulfill. to simply feeling broken when you keep disappointing yourself realizing you haven't gotten over your treacherous Romeo.

your Ari.

it’s too late to head back now.

you’ve put to time, effort and power into getting yourself here. it will not be shot down for a cry of remorse and validation. you will never put yourself forth in that again.

“actually, Mr. Hartz. there have been some alterations.” you say, chest empty and heart cold.

“you say? do tell!” Mr. Hartz cheers, while the guests peer their eyes on you from the sudden attention.

“i’m not attending Harvard anymore for my last year. in fact i’m transferring to Princeton, right father,” you say and your father smiles at you nodding his head.

“those individual service programs and essays did work well in the end, and not to mention Mr. Levinson’s considerate word and recommendation letters. it was quite simple to please the Princeton officials,” you smile, teeth gleaming and eyes bright.

“you hear that Levinson! your star pupil will be competing against you in the big leagues now!” Mr. Hartz exclaims, cackling and erupting in boisterous laughter along with her father and a couple other of his close friends.

she doesn’t even spare Ari a glance but she imagines the rage and offence on his confused face. unsure as to what happened but he traces back to the hours and hours of you and him together-

were you merely just using him?

the gentlemen's clapping stops and he looks at you again. you’re completely ravishing as the cheers continue and you start making your mini speech but its all hazy in the back of his mind.

is this some sort of back biting trap you set out for him to fall for or has he been clueless this whole time thinking you really felt for him?

he may have left you, but it was for your own good

how could he stay by your side just to ruin your life knowing that the love you two share will never be accepted? how could he have stayed when the love he feels for you tears at his heart? knowing he can never truly have you?

breaking his vows and promises to you of course, but if this all was a sort of plan of yours. so, has he done the right thing at all for leaving you?

yes and no. its all so complicated even when the answer is in front him, drinking her strawberry rose from her crystal glass.

he still loves you, if it was possible its a galaxy stronger than before. its ripping his lungs and heartstrings wanting to know- urging to know if you feel the same.

“an Ivy League image is to be bestowed upon you young lady. keep up the good work and don’t disappoint us.” your father says and you wince, knowing it isn’t as sweet as he spoke.

with that everyone goes back to their own silly privileged conversations as the dessert course starts to be served.

the smell of chocolate, fresh strawberries and lemony puffed pastry fills the room. plates of powdered berry oven cakes come in varies colors and sizes. trays of dark chocolate covered strawberries and white chocolate red velvet croissants replace the empty dinner dishes.

“oh, [y/n] you have met up with my grandson have you?” Ogden Osborne, the principle of Bradford adds nonchalantly.

sipping from his wine glass gesturing to the shiny blond young man no more than a seat away from her. “he just so happened to transfer for Princeton himself and I believe you will both have some classes together. am I right Bryce, my boy!” he chuckles and the young man laughs lightly giving her a flirty smile.

as if on que, Maya Langely - who has been siting to your left excuses herself from the table to chat with Finn Earl who you recently found out is Liz Earl's son. switching seats with Bryce Langely, you find yourself staring face to face with the shiny blond with the bottled green eyes.

“hello [y/n/n]. it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Bryce smiles fondly, a bit too sweet as he reveals his wolfish smile. sitting closer to you, gibing you a rather tight hug yet his hands slip under the table to grip your ass roughly.

the eyes of her father and mother and Mr. Osborne don’t notice this yet Ari grits his teeth in a seething sneer.

Ari knows boys like these, he knows they treat everything of the opposite sex as a chess piece. a challenge in their selfish and heartless games. does his Juliet know Bryce flirts with everything with a beating pulse while she isn’t around?

apparently not. little naïve [y/n] kissed her devious demon for a boyfriend after settling in the dining room when Ari himself stumbled upon hearing her blond beau. hidden away in a coat closet making out between some girls legs as he went to find a room to smoke in.

“it has, hasn’t it? a whole year! it’s your fault you’ve moved away and haven’t kept in contact with me!” you joke and he laughs and gleams that boyish smile that makes all the schoolgirls blush, gripping your ass tighter.

[y/n] and Bryce always play this game, pretending to not know each other. though they were childhood best friends they’ve grown apart due to well, growing out of each other. realizing they had different likes and interests as all childhood friends do.

even throughout high school they both never associated with each other, they weren’t within the same social circles and they sure didn’t have the same friends. with this you’d imagine they never get along yet with two horny and danger seeking teenagers anything is possible.

you won’t ignore the sexual eagerness in his eyes that is overlooked by plenty but you don’t care for him. you do not care for Bryce because your legs lift from underneath the table to slip under Ari’s one pants leg.

caressing the leg with the front of your ivory Prada heels making Ari’s gaze shoot to you when he was in midst conversation with Liz. staring at the dessert options you don’t return the stare but continue with your footwork.

guests begin to grab what desserts catch their eyes and you place a mini raspberry dome cake on your plate. cutting your fork into the lemon cake and taking it into your mouth, the whipped cream and raspberry jam covers your lips. licking them coyly, Ari’s stare is nothing but punishing.

it brings you back to all the times you purposely acted up to just have his attention. always succeeded you did as he would whisper dirty things in your ears about what he was going to do once the two of you were alone. at this moment you’re proud to know it still works like a charm once you feel his warm hand clenching your ankle.

ignoring the warning glare you chat with Bryce, joking and teasing the rest of dessert despite your fear of him creeping up your spine. occasionally, just to piss Ari off- you’d whisper and giggle sweet nothings in Bryce's ear whilst caressing your bare foot against your suffering Romeos hardening manhood.

leaving both you and Bryce smiley and giggly like schoolchildren and Ari sexually affronted trying desperately to hold in a moan.

smirking, feeling accomplished when Ari starts to sweat and hide the growing pleasure from the woman next to him. she asks if he feels alright, Ari’s respond is short of nothing but murmurs and a grunt while he shifts in his seat. keeping the small sly smile, you remove your foot all together to just place it back, rubbing his now solid cock. dipping a single finger in the cakes syrupy sweetness of jam and cream, taking your coated finger you take it in your mouth.

[y/n] could feel the burning eyes of Ari against her but you pull out your signature doe eyes. letting a slight pout come into the equation, Ari feels his heart melt and he wants to yank your foot when you start rubbing harder. maybe steal you away, pull you close in the dark corner of a secluded empty room and return the teasing favor.

wanting to do so he can’t even shift, your motions building up inside him he feels like he’s going to bust in his pants any second. so he then removes your foot giving you the coldest glare that even makes you stop. excusing himself from the table, alarming his fiancé but you roll your eyes at this action. Ari’s expecting you to follow him.

how fucking typical for the man who still thinks he owns you. you will not follow him, you won’t hop along. you aren’t his clueless bunny no more.

sudden clanking is erupted from across the table, to see sight of her dearest uncle clanking his pudding spoon against his wine glass catching everyone’s attention.

“everyone attention! i’d like to make a toast. this year has indeed been hard for us all, but when you look upon the reckoning there we see the clearing of a new resolution. it amazes me to this day that we see the youth taking charge of their futures, and I am utmost proud of my youngest niece. [y/n/n] Beaudelaire for carrying on our bloodlines legacy and continuing to bring honor upon us. ‘here here!’ for our dearest princess [y/n/n]!”

“here here!” the table cheers, raising their glasses of wine and champagne towards the dear princess, smiling and praising for your victory.

seeing sight of her father and mother smiling proudly at her, all their business friends and affiliations congratulate you once again. friends giggling, pecking your cheeks in swift hugs and your male classmates holler praises and throwing flirtatious winks.

the table continuously cheers and Bryce presses a kiss to your cheeks while you take a sip of your glass of white wine. yet you feel disheartened.

all this time you have thought you’d be sharing this moment with Ari. despite its what you’ve wanted, you feel melancholy and abruptly bitter.

this isn’t right, this doesn’t feel right whatsoever.

for how have you planned this to emotionally collapse on you when it was meant to make you feel better? how have you been focusing on yourself and loving yourself to only wish to be in the arms of the man who hurt you the most?

is this how that unfortunate Capulet girl felt? having no escape from the raging love she felt for a person she couldn’t have?

growing up, [y/n] knew that the storybooks on her bedroom shelves told no lies, the magical tales bared no falsehoods. being the innocent small girl she was, wishing upon stars by her windowsill when she couldn’t go to sleep you prayed for a prince to save you.

that night, the stars knew all your downhearted disputes, your troubling sorrows as you wept every single one to them. have they truly listened to you that North Star night ago, have they believed you?

the wise astral beings above know all and see all but are they working in your favor?

I reassure you this ladies and gentlemen, no matter how tragic or wicked the stars may be - they don’t act without purpose.

♡♡♡ thank you for reading! ♡♡♡ pretty please like, reblog and/or comment what you think and if you enjoy this follow me to read more of my future works! ♡♡♡

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ my storybook || aka my masterlist!

#ari levinson #ari levinson × reader #ari levinson smut #brattycherubwrites #chris evans #chris evans × reader #chris evans smut #the red sea diving resort

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miss-tc-nova · 3 years

Text

A Garden for the Lost - Marluxia

Hey! Most of my zine work is coming to a close, meaning I can post this one here! Written for the @disorganizine. It was a blast to be part of such an awesome project.

~~~~~

Lord of Castle Oblivion: the man takes immense pride in his position, even if it’s been handed to him by the very person he seeks to ruin. Nevertheless, between overseeing the castle and plotting his take over, there’s little time to recoup. Despite his ambition and drive, Marluxia still needs those moments in which he can forget obligations and goals and focus on something he wants to do.

So he made time. With Vexen as acting lord for a day, Marluxia has taken to another world.

Upon his first visit, only dirt greeted him. However, when no inhabitants had been found to be a bother, the barren plot was claimed as his own. Since then, the dusty, drab lot has transformed into a lush, expansive garden. Everything inside has been grown by the Graceful Assassin himself; even the little toolshed and bustling greenhouse had been put up with his own hands. Flowers of all sorts comfortably thrive here from roses to snap dragons—there’s even a cactus patch in its own sandy enclosure. This is his sanctuary—the only place he has ever felt complete. It’s absurd to say he enjoys this hobby seeing as he has no heart, but for as long as he can remember, peace only finds him when he indulges in gardening.

The hefty black coat is shed, sloughing off the woes of work with it. Boots scrape the dirt path as he makes his way towards the greenhouse; there are some seedlings that require his attention.

And that’s when he notices it: shuffling among the vegetation is something unknown. As it makes its way through the rose bushes, Marluxia begins to stalk the rustle. Every now and then, the top of a silver head bobs above the leaves, a pair of folded ears bouncing and a ring of flowers perched between them.

The shifting halts at the end of the shrub line causing the assassin to freeze. The intruder is feline in its characteristics but is clearly no ordinary house cat. A cape sits across small shoulders and a large, pink coin purse hangs from its neck. A crown with the most intricate weaving sits atop its head, made of flora from this very garden.

Before the animal is a previously empty patch Marluxia had not yet designated, though that seems to have changed. Little paws lift a watering can over the freshly planted foliage. The flower looks like a flock of ridiculous birds on alert. Green and ruby “beaks” jut out at the top of the stalk with a vibrant crown of gold and violet. A twinge in his chest causes Marluxia to act.

“Excuse me,” he sneers, having long lost his sense of sympathy—if he ever had one.

The watering can clatters to the ground with a shocked gasp. Blue eyes peer up at the gardener before a puff of smoke engulfs the feline.

“Hey!” But the strange cat is already gone.

A closer look at the plant reveals an orange ribbon tied around the stem of the brightest bloom.

No warning brings about the pain that suddenly surges through his skull. With a snarl, Marluxia stumbles back, but no amount of grasping or wincing eases the agony. Unprovoked, it swells and spreads until it overwhelms the man, bringing him to his knees. The blinding ache only fades when he blacks out.

~~~~~

“—r—m. L—ia—”

What happened?

“L—m.”

Eyes flutter open to a brilliant sky. Blue, yellow, and every shade of pink frames his vision, the soft petals occasionally grazing against him as they sway in the breeze.

“Figures you’d be snoozin’ here.”

Pushing from the flowers, Marluxia glances back, finding a crowd of blurred faces strolling closer.

Who are they?

Without consent, his lips pull back in a smile—a real smile without all the insincerity and secrecy he’s become so skilled at. “You caught me.”

“That makes this my nappin’ spot now. Scram.” A hand meets his shoulder in a teasing shove, provoking light laughter from the confused man.

“Oh come on, _____,” a feminine voice scolds. High pitch ringing and static consumes her voice for a moment but no one acknowledges the anomaly. “We caught you asleep in the library like an hour ago.”

The first stranger, clad in black, flops into the flowers. “Aw, well now you went and blew my secret.”

“Did I miss a meeting or something?” Marluxia asks.

The third, a blur sitting above a crimson scarf, reassures him, “No. We were just worried about you; haven’t seen you all day. Only ______ seemed to know where to find you.” Again, the name is drowned out in a blaring mesh of noise.

He looks to the man beside him, somehow finding this normal. “You knew, huh?”

A finger points to a looming tower not far off. “Yep. Could see you from the window.”

“Really?” interrupts the girl. “You couldn’t have just told us that instead of dragging us all the way out here?”

“What fun would that have been?” He lies back, his hat tipping forward to shade his face. “Besides, why would you wanna miss this view?”

“It is pretty,” admits the one in the scarf.

These people, regardless of who they are, have managed to bring out a lightness that Marluxia can’t recall ever feeling. With no memories of who he used to be, he can only assume that this is what happiness must feel like to somebodies. It’s as warm as the sun, as light as the breeze, and as beautiful as the flowers; he can’t imagine how he’s gone so long without knowing something so wonderful could exist.

A fourth voice, the last stranger, speaks, “Hey, did you ever find _____?”

This time, the cacophony is far more extreme, picking at his brain like needles. They sink in, allowing this oozing pain to seep through. Whatever spell gave him this bliss is broken, freeing Marluxia and allowing him to grip at the stabbing in his head.

Clouds roll in, bringing threats of a storm and snuffing the serenity for good. Carried along by a sudden gust is a chill that sweeps over the field. The first three strangers disintegrate in the wind, leaving behind the last. His face clears, revealing someone Marluxia is fairly familiar with.

Roxas?!

Blue eyes, usually full of innocent curiosity, are empty, as if dead. Curled around him, waving menacingly, are tendrils of darkness. He’s a threat.

“—iam.”

What is this?!

Foreboding shadows engulf the boy as they reach for their new victim. From within, a pair of violent, yellow eyes pierce through to leer at the man. That gaze antagonizes the ache that paralyzes him.

“L—r—.”

What’s happening?!

With the impending darkness looming above, he cannot fight the inevitable, only brace for the end.

Shrieks of scraped metal fill the air. Peering past the pain, Marluxia peeks just in time to see the shadows and the boy fading away on the other side of a massive scythe—his scythe. The weapon towers over him, wielded by a Nobody he’s never seen before. Wings splay out behind the female figure with swaying vines. Beneath the pink mask is her empty, tormented face with golden eyes that seem to pity Marluxia.

“_____.”

His attention drops to the ground; there’s a girl there, clad in white as if to mock his usual black coat. Her face is entirely veiled with only two strands of red hair giving her any defining features.

Immediately, Marluxia’s mouth produces a word he can’t hear. Everything in his body is pushing him to approach but as he reaches for her, something repels his advance. Sound pours from his mouth but he can’t decipher a single syllable. He’d give anything to reach her but he doesn’t know what’s driving this desire—he doesn’t understand why she’s so important.

A flurry of petals blasts at the man and his feet begin to drift—he’s losing ground.

“No! Wait! _____!” Screams tear from his throat even if he can’t hear them. “_____!”

The gale grows stronger, sending him flying back. The robed figure grows farther and farther out of reach as the darkness consumes him.

~~~~~

Coming to, Marluxia clears his bleary eyes. The sky above is tinted in pink, the sunset warning him of lost time. Rubbing at his face as he sits up, he struggles to remember his dream. It ends in failure as every frame is forgotten, despite the feeling of importance it holds.

Rising to his feet, the assassin immediately rediscovers the tall blooms he’d been suspicious of earlier.

The Bird of Paradise. Its name slips from his mouth: “Strelitzia.”

The colors of the flowers suddenly bleed together. A hand lifts to clear his vision but comes away with smears of water. Just the thought of shedding tears perplexes the man, let alone actually crying. Regardless of what Xemnas likes to pretend, Nobodies cannot have emotions. So Marluxia chalks it up to his body having some sort of reaction to the flowers—they need to be disposed of.

Reaching out with the intention of tearing off the blossom, Marluxia snags the vermillion ribbon. Another spasm of pain wracks his brain while a strange twinge ripples in his chest. The backlash causes the man to stumble, the fabric coming free in his grip.

Once recovered, he glares but this plant still has some sort of spell on him. The cloth is crushed in his fist in spite of the futility. Releasing the pent-up tension in a huff, he turns away; it’s too late to be worrying about some pest of a plant.

“I’ll deal with it later,” he grumbles.

But Marluxia never does. Days turn to weeks and then months and the plant thrives. It grows taller and releases more blooms of the exotic flower. He makes a point not to, but there are clear signs of it being tended to: his tools move, fresh dirt and fertilizer are taken, and the ground around it is disturbed with stolen equipment and paw prints. Clearly, the creature visits often.

The strange thing is Marluxia’s waning hatred for the flower and its caretaker. In his usual upkeep of his garden, extra supplies are purchased to account for the invasive plant. He even picked up a smaller watering can he’d spotted while passing through the market. The cat still refuses to reveal itself, but there are signs of its presence—including the occasional flower crown waiting for him. By the third, he finds these little gifts not at all annoying, often pressing them in books kept on a shelf in the greenhouse.

As for the ribbon, Marluxia keeps it—something about the strip of material compels him to. Hardly a day goes by without it on his person. It reminds him of his precious garden and the little gardening creature in it, but at the same time, it reminds him of his task. He can’t exactly say why, but that piece of fabric pushes him towards his goal.

Even if it completely consumes him, there will be no stopping Marluxia until he reclaims what he’s lost.

#marluxia #chirithy #kh zine #zine feat nova

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peachyteabuck · 4 years

Text

eye on the prize

summary: commission for astrid, who asked for chris evans x reader interview fluff.

pairing: chris evans x reader

words: 3,006

trigger warnings: RPF, slow burn, heavy flirtation, idiots in love, nondescript mentions of misogyny in the media as a business, a likely poorly reconstructed timeline (time fake and reality is a construct!)

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The hotel bed is large, big enough for four of you. The blankets are thick and the soft, the pillows a perfect balance of structured but plush. Sunbeams stream onto the mused sheets, warming your face. It’s nice, but only as nice as the calm before a major tropical storm can be. As your phone alarm blares next to you, you start to wonder if being caught in a category five hurricane would be better than press junkets.

A whole day talking to people about a movie you made months ago that you know jack shit about. Sometimes you have nightmares about giving a book report on a novel you’ve never even opened (you’re how old? And high school is still haunting you? Jesus, you need to go back to therapy) that cause you to break out in a cold sweat and kick all the covers from your bed and buy a bunch of stuff online to distract yourself from your racing heart and shaking hands.

Still, those are never as bad as interviewers asking about character arcs and plotlines and your relationship with actors you’ve barely (if ever) met and whatever else a normal interviewer would ask a normal interviewee when all you know is your character, the fact that she does shit with magic, and she’s Dr. Strange’s daughter. Anything other than that is anyone’s guess.

Your stylist and makeup artists are the ones to eventually drag you out of bed and plop you into hair and makeup after squeezing you into an incredibly tight pair of jeans and a non-controversial sweater. The forty-five minutes are a complete blur, but then again, nothing feels real until Sebastian hands you a large coffee in a travel cup that bares no logo or other kind of copywritten signifier – your knight in shining…cardboard? What are travel coffee cups even made of? Paper? Can paper even “shine?”

You’re nearly purring when the taste of caramel macchiato burns your tongue. “Ah. Thanks, Seb. I appreciate it.”

Sebastian shrugs, sipping at his own drink masquerading as generic brand. “No problem. I didn’t want you to bite an interviewer’s head off this morning. Or worse, mine.”

You play-hit him in the face and laugh with him, making small talk and trying to kill the time before the mind-numbingly long day really begins. You’re halfway through a rant about the woes of make up artists trying to put you in a full face of makeup to a man who barely has to put on concealer, the fucking asshat, when Chris makes an appearance.

“Hey, guys,” he’s is also drinking coffee from the unmarked travel cups. He looks you up and down before taking another sip. “You look really nice today.”

You blush, smoothing out your sweater – one of the color-blocked ones that sits at the intersection of casual, feminine, and not-intimidating. “Thanks, you too.”

Sebastian’s about to say something snarky when someone wearing a headset calls upon the three of you.

“Let’s get going, people!” she calls, ushering you into three barely-comfortable seats. You’re between Chris and Sebastian, the sheer mass of them making you feel approximately three feet tall. It doesn’t take much to forget how large they both are – even if Sebastian doesn’t weight two hundred pounds anymore and Chris was able to tone down his exercise regime since finishing Infinity War, you still feel like you’re sitting at the big-kid table for the first time.

The first interviewer is from some YouTube channel you only know because your fourteen-year-old niece gushes about them every family dinner. The woman who sits in front of you is young, cute. Dresses trendy, dark eye makeup and red lips.

She’s nice, too, along with being knowledgeable about the projects of each of you. She banters with Sebastian about his seven million movies before turning to you.

The interviewer turns to you. “And you! You’re nominated for some pretty major awards!”

You smile wide, unable to help yourself. “Yeah, best actress and best original score.”

“That’s so cool,” Chris mumbles. You blush and pretend not to hear him as you speak again.

“It’s just super crazy,” you tell the interviewer. “Not even gonna lie. When I was younger, I would look at stars who like, cried when they found out they were nominated. Not even winning, just their name shows up on the ballot. But now I’m like, it’s me, two-time Grammy nominee! I was nominated for a Grammy, twice!”

Sebastian chimes in, laughing. “When we were at bunch together, I got there early and the caterer showed up and they were like, we’re here for the two-time Grammy nominee?”

“You had a brunch?” The interviewer asks.

You nod. “Yeah, I bunch of the Avengers cast and the cast from my last movie were in my hometown, which is super rare, so I hosted this giant brunch-”

“As one does,” Sebastian chimes in with a crooked smile.

You nearly hit him. “Yes! As I do! I wanted to see all my friends, whom I love, so I host a brunch. Sue me! Anyway…I hosted this brunch and invited a bunch of people over. Just a bunch of my favorite food from my favorite restaurants. Everyone I’d wanted to see for such a long time was there. It was amazing.”

The interviewer paints a faux frown across her face, looking at the man on your right. “Chris, you look very sad.”

“I didn’t get invited to the brunch,” Chris frowns. Unlike the woman in front of you, he looks genuinely sad. A twinge of pain bounces in your ribcage, and you rub his cardigan-clad back

“You were out doing Broadway shit!” you laugh. “You were halfway across the country!”

Chris continues to frown, staring at the printed-out pictures from the social medias of various guests. A few are from yours – you in a flowy sundress with your head thrown back laughing, a shot of you and a few of your friends from college drinking alcohol in the bright mid-afternoon sun. One you recognize from Sebastian’s Instagram, another from Hemsworth’s. A few from Twitter of a few of your non-movie-star friends. You look so happy in all of them, so beautiful in each shot. “I still wanted to be invited.”

You just roll your eyes. “Okay, call me when you’re in my region of the country and I’ll host a brunch,” You touch your forefinger to his nose. Chris blushes, profusely, in his cheeks and his ears. “just for you and me.”

You don’t hear much after that, too focused on Chris’ eyes meeting yours and his small smile. You’re taken aback by how sweet, tender he looks, and before you know it the interviewer is saying goodbye and the next one is taking her place.

It’s a man this time, a little older than the last one with artsy facial hair and a button hip. He mostly pays attention to the two men and soon your brain goes on battery-saver and you’re lost in your own thoughts.

Are hipsters still a thing? Is that what this guy is trying to be? Do hipsters even like Marvel? Is that too “mainstream for them?”

Eventually he asks a question about you, your recent entry into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, your music, your composing. You’d be happy to talk about your passions, of course you are, but the first genuine question of the interview is positing towards…not you. You’re about to tune everything out again, but then Chris speaks and you snap back to attention.

“It’s always interesting to meet people who bring something new to the art form, ya know? A huge part of acting is learning and evolving and all that, especially from other actors,” Chris avoids your gaze, and the gaze of everyone else, as he speaks. “If you stop learning, if you stop growing, what’s the point? Why would I do this job if I didn’t think it could change me for the better?”

There’s a moment of thick silence, the heavy weight of Chris’ introspective answer settling over the people in the room. It’s one of the things you lo-

It’s one of the things you enjoy most about Chris, how dedicated he is to acting as more than a job. It’s amazing, truly, how much he adores what he does. You could spend the rest of time with him, a plate of cheese, and a bottle of wine; listening to him talk about how he thinks of acting as an art, how that art can impact people and society, how actors have a responsibility to that art (that is, of course, after you mock him endlessly for Not Another Teen Movie and Fantastic Four).

You feel like a high schooler again, doodling your first and his last name in hearts in your math notebook with your favorite pink glitter pen. You’re an adult, why are you blushing red as a raspberry every time he says something smarter than a fast food order?!

The rest of the day goes down in a blur, the only time you start to care again when someone on the production staff calls for dinner (yeah, no lunch on press junket day. You can ask for a light snack, but you learned the hard way a full meal is “bad for your figure” and “makes you likely to burp on camera” and a bunch of other stuff you care very little about).

All three of you groan in happiness when you enter the room designated as craft, the thick smell of barbeque hitting you like a baseball bat. But a good baseball bat, though, like…one you ask to be hit with. Honestly, you have no idea what you’re talking about because you’re so hungry.

When you finally manage to scavenge food, Sebastian’s right behind you as you stare at a very delicious looking tray of pulled pork. Your plate is already full, but what if they take the food away? And then what if you get hungry later?

“You know he’s flirting with you, right?” he whispers as you watch the man in question scroll through Twitter on his phone. Chris is eating about the same thing you are, plus celery. You almost make a quip about it being “nature’s floss,” but then you realize that would be dumb because Sebastian definitely wouldn’t find it as funny as Chris would.

You shrug, picking up a French fry from your plate. “Yeah, but you were, too.”

He scoffs into his second Americano of the morning. “Nah. Not like that. He likes you! He like likes you!”

“He does not-“

“And you like-like him!” He boops you on the nose and pinches your cheek like some sort of grandmother who hadn’t seen her fifteen-year-old son since he was five. “My little baby has a cruuuush!” he coos while making small kissy noises.

You’re about to bite back about how you’re not that much younger than him, but then the sound guy on the other side of the meat tray glares at the both of you. Looks like, while Chris couldn’t hear your bickering from the across the room, this dude definitely could – and he’s not very happy about it.

“Sorry,” you both mumble, shrinking away from the persecuting techie and his judgmental eyes.

Sebastian only talks again when you find an unpopulated corner, devoid of prying eyes and anyone who could be annoyed with the two of you gossiping like high schoolers.

“You know I’m not wrong, right?” he says around a bite of crisp apple. What is up with this guy and fruit? Sure, he’s on a restrictive diet for a role to keep him from bulking up (something at the intersect of keto and vegetarian but able to eat lean meats) but he’s can’t eat like, the vegan stuff? Why must he always eat like rabbit in your presence? “Have you not seen what he says on Twitter?”

You scoff. “No, because I don’t have a Twitter. And neither do you!” You narrow your eyes accusingly. “How do you know what he posts?” Sebastian rolls his eyes. “I see screenshots on Instagram, first of all. Second, he could be complimenting your music on the inside of a cave. It’s about the principle.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you hiss. “Also, I’m done arguing with you about this. Let me find a cheeseburger and eat in peace. Is that too much a woman to ask, Sebastian!?”

He just laughs you off and lets you eat in peace, eventually getting his own food. Though, you suppose the meal was specially timed, because then Chris Evans is sitting next to you.

He’s about to say something, too, and you’re about to listen, but then you get called for an individual interview for a women’s health magazine and you have to leave him and you plate of food and fuck…you hate this job. A lot.

The interview is boring, once again, and the next time you have another coherent thought you’re taking the elevator back up to your hotel room and waving off your manager, who is telling you to be downstairs by seven tomorrow to catch your flight back home.

You’re just kicking off your heels when you hear a faint knock at the door. When you look through the peephole, you see a very sad-looking Christopher Evans. With his small frown and hunched shoulders, he looks like a kicked puppy; and even though all you want to do is take your bra off, you let him in.

He’s quiet for a moment before speaking as if he was a child preparing to be scolded.

“I lost my hotel key. And my backup got demagnetized.”

You bite back a laugh, trying to seem sympathetic. “Do you want to chill in here until security brings you another one?”

Chris nods solemnly as he steps through the threshold. “Thanks.”

Neither of you speak for a while, instead Chris looks around your quite messy (or “homey,” as you call it when you FaceTime your best friend and she scoffs at how easy you can make a room look like a hurricane tore through it) room and you…find an outfit for tomorrow?

You’re the first one to speak, only breaking the quiet after changing into fuzzy socks and sneakily taking off your lacey bra (and tucking it under the covers of the bed for you put away later).

“Well, that was excruciating,” you mumble. All you want to do is change into your biggest, most comfortable hoodie and your cotton panties and order room service and ignore humanity until you leave for a flight the next morning, but a man you’ve had a crush on since he appeared as Johnny Storm is right in front of you and after that talk with Sebastian your world is kind of shaken to its core and should you make a move? Is he the kind of guy to not like that? Would you want to be with a guy that doesn’t like that? What if he-

“Always are, I guess.” Chris interrupts your train of thought, saving it from going off the rails. When you at him he looks just as, if not more than, exhausted than you are. “That’s one of the things that you forget, I think. How hard it is to talk about these movies.”

You snort. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Chris smile a little wider as you laugh. “Yeah. Other movies I can talk about like, characters and plots and shit. With these I live in constant fear I’m gonna pull a fucking Ruffalo and get my ass fired from the best paying gig I’ve ever had.”

Chris laughs with you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Word.”

An awkward silence fills the room and you find something, anything to do to avoid his heavy gaze under those thick eyelashes and his thick beard that you just want to run your fingers through or his even softer hair that you want to mess up while you-

“Do you want to get dinner together sometime?” you blurt. You’re ready to take back the words as soon as you say them, wanting to backtrack or say “just friends” or “ha-ha, just kidding!” or something else that absolves you of non-platonic commitment.

By a long stretch of luck that you can’t even begin to thanks a long number of deities for, Chris doesn’t laugh at you or turn you down or even walk out of the room. He meets your gaze with excitement in his eyes and a smile wider than your home state. “I’d love to,” is all he says. It’s all either of you get to say before his phone rings loudly, and the name of the head of security flashes on his screen. He sighs loudly, apologizing as he takes it. Somehow, you feel more awkward as he turns away and answers the call. You fidget with your hands, with a loose thread on the sweater you’ve come to hate more than anything else in the world, with your phone. Nothing makes it easier to face Chris again once he hangs up.

“That was…,” he laughs lightly. Not laughing at you, maybe at life or how weird his life is, but never at you. “You know. They fixed my key and want to give it to me in person.”

You swallow and nod. “Yeah, understandable. I’ll, uh,” you clear your throat. “I’ll see you…”

Chris finishes for you. “How about we find a good restaurant near here after I’m confirmed to actually be me by the private security detail our employers hired to make sure no one kills us? We can have that second dinner I’ve heard you always eat late at night.”

Holy shit…he remembered that time you vaguely mentioned how much you enjoy staying up late and eating lots of food. It makes you blush as you respond.

“Yeah that sounds,” you sigh happily, smile just as big as his is. “That sounds great.”

#chris evans x reader #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff #chris evans imagine

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