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#but nearly dying because he was lying to one of his employees about having things under control has no impact on him
shigayokagayama · 1 year
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mob psycho is the greatest show ever made because reigen being cancelled on twitter is one of the most important moments for his character as well as one of the most emotionally heavy episodes of the show but him being trapped in alone in a purgatory dimension slowly starving to death is treated as a gag and never mentioned again
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Strawberries and Peaches
Pairing  ::  Eric Northman  x  fem!Reader
Warnings  ::  Angst, Smut, Mentions of Blood, Bloodplay(?idk he’s a vampire so-?), Death
Word Count  ::  3,588
Summary  ::  Eric thought he had lost you centuries ago, and yet here you were again.
A/N  ::  Takes place between season 3 and 4
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When you walked into Fangtasia a few nights ago, with an old acquaintance of Eric’s, he thought he had seen a ghost. The last time he laid eyes on you, you were crying. The last time he held you, you were dying. 
-
Nearly several hundred years ago, Eric first met you, a humble girl in a recluse village. Your people warned you not to venture off into the woods, and more importantly, to never speak to the people who walk only during the night. You were kind-hearted though, and so, when a blond man walked up to you after nightfall, begging for help, you couldn’t say no. You more than happily helped him and welcomed him into your home. You treated and cared for him as if he were your own family. 
Eric had never received such kindness from a human before, whether they knew he was a vampire or not. You always gave him a smile, even when people began to warn you about him. He found himself drawn to you. Your scent was like none he had ever smelled before. Strawberries and peaches, with a dash of rose petals. Whenever your fingers touched him, he swore he felt his freezing body warm-up. For the first time in his life, he found himself falling for someone, and slowly, you did too.
Perhaps your feeling for him clouded your judgment, or perhaps you truly didn’t care. When Eric had confessed to being a vampire, you hugged him and told him you’d love him no matter what. Godric tried to warn Eric that starting a life with a human would be dangerous, especially since you weren’t ready to be turned. The thought of being immortal horrified you, however, with Eric it didn’t seem that scary. Still, you weren’t ready to say goodbye to the sun. All he could do was support your decision and wait. His compassion is what killed you, and he blamed himself every day for it until eventually, you were a fleeting thought in the back of his mind. 
There were times Eric had to leave because Godric needed him. Unfortunately, on one of these trips your village, though recluse, was not impossible to find. You were attacked right before sunset by a neighboring kingdom that had recently declared war against yours. Men, women, and children died, homes were burned to the ground. Your home was spared. You were not. Eric returned shortly after the attackers had left, finding the ruins of your village. If his heart was still beating, it surely would’ve stopped. He found you in your home, laying in a pool of blood on the floor with a large slash across your torso. Your breath had stopped long ago, and your warm touch now is just as freezing as Eric’s. He fell to his knees, holding your limp body in his arms. He could see tear stains on your face, and he couldn’t help but wonder what your last thoughts were. Were you waiting for him? Crying for him to return? He’d never know, but he’d make sure he’d have revenge for your death.
-
Time went on, and Eric began to grow unsympathetic. He never allowed himself to get close to another human again as he did with you. He had the occasional flings, and there was Pam. She was a companion and received a different sort of love from him than you did. There was also Sookie, whom he felt drawn to, but he never felt the love for her he felt for you. What drew him to Sookie was the fact she was a fae. What drew him to you, he never quite understood.
You may have become a distant memory, but he’d always remember your sweet scent. Strawberries, peaches, and a hint of rose petals. He hadn’t smelled that sweet aroma since the day you died, that was until a few nights ago.
You walked in with Bishop, an old acquaintance of Eric who knew him long enough to know you. You wore a pastel yellow sundress, not knowing you’d be going to the vampire bar. All Bishop told you was to wear something nice. Hell, the man didn’t even tell you he was taking you to Louisiana. You lived on the west coast in a small apartment as a writer. Ever since The Great Revelation, you had been attempting to speak to as many vampires as you could so you could share their stories with the world. Most were hostile or rude when you questioned them, and the few that would agree had either odd demands you’d have to refuse or were clearly lying. Then, one night, a vampire showed up at your front door, claiming he knew a vampire over a thousand years old who’d tell you his story. Shortly after, you found yourself on a plane and now in a bar called “Fangtasia”.
Bishop told you to wait near the front, which you gladly did, not wanting to walk further in. You stood out like a sore thumb, and all you could do to avoid the gazes you were receiving was look at the wall of shirts they sold.
Bishop walked up to Eric’s throne, a small smile on his face. “Hello, Sheriff-”
“Stop,” Eric said in a cold tone. He narrowed his gaze on the man.  “What do you want?”
Eric and Bishop had a complicated relationship. They had known each other for centuries, but they weren’t friends. Their paths only really crossed when one needed something from the other, typically Bishop needing something from Eric.
“Have you always been this hostile?” Bishop let out a sigh. “I don’t want or need, anything Eric. I came to bring you a gift.” Eric was silent, letting the man continue. “I know you smell her, and yes, it really is her…”
Eric’s gaze moved over to you, standing by, looking at the shirts. You looked exactly the same, besides your (h/c) hair being a bit different now. His eyes softened for a moment, watching you giggle at some of the little phrases they put on the shirts. 
“...or at least, another version of her.”
Eric’s focus snapped back to Bishop. “What?”
“She’s one in a billion.”
Eric knew some people could be reincarnated, but thought the chances of that were slim to none. Godric had only encountered two reincarnated people in his life, and Eric none, until now that is. 
Without another word, Eric approached you. You were so into the silly phrases on the shirt, you nearly missed the tall man approaching you. You turned to face him, a large grin on your face as you extended your hand.
“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Northman. I’m (f/n) (l/n), but please, call me (y/n).”
“Only if you call me Eric.” 
Looking down at you, the corner of his lips were curved upward. Reaching out to shake your hand, he felt the same warmth he felt centuries ago when your hands touched. You tilted your head touching his hand. Yes, it was cold, but, you felt an odd sense of safety holding his hand, even if it was for a brief moment.
You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head lightly. “I’m sorry, but, do I know you?” You couldn’t help but be forward. You’ve never felt this sense of security before.
Eric, for once, didn’t know how to reply. Technically he knew you, a different you though.
“Possibly, I’ve been around for a long time. There’s a chance our paths have crossed before.”
You hummed in response, before continuing on to tell him about why you had traveled all the way to Shreveport, Louisiana. Eric absentmindedly listened to what you had to say. In all honesty, he was just happy to see you again and agreed to any pitch you gave him. As long as he could be close to you again. Even though Bishop was constantly telling you on your journey here that Eric would say yes, you were still surprised and grateful when he agreed. The agreement was for you to come to Fangtasia each night, sit next to Eric, and he’d tell you his story.
He was one to come up with the arrangement, yet it seemed he cared little about telling you his story. You went several nights in a row, standing out due to your brightly colored clothes each day. Everyone stared at you as you sat next to Eric, except for one of the employees named Pam. She didn’t seem to care a single bit about who you were. The night usually went one of two ways. One: You’d ask Eric a question, he’d give a vague answer, and then quickly shift the focus on you. Two: Men and Women would spend the entire night trying to grab just a sliver of Eric’s attention before he snapped his fingers and Pam came to pry them away. There was one night he almost kicked a man who made a comment as to why you were so special you got to sit next to him, Eric held back. He didn’t want to make you more uncomfortable than you already were in the bar.
Tonight was the second kind of night. So far, the blond had already rejected two women and one man. You couldn’t wrap your head around why people would throw themselves at him. Admittedly, you found Eric handsome, and always wanted to see him smile for some odd reason. Still, you’d never throw yourself at him like these people would. At least, you’d hope you never would.
You were usually patient, however, it had been nearly a week and you still hadn’t gotten a thing from him. You were beginning to grow impatient with him, not to mention tired from your daily schedule changing so much thanks to him as well.
“Hey, Eric, I think I’m gonna head back to my hotel early tonight,” You told him as you began to pack up your things.
Eric looked at you with confusion, brows furrowed. “Why? What’s wrong?” He didn’t want to show it, but he was worried something was wrong.
You stood up, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “Nothing, I’m just tired is all. Have a nice night.”
Walking out of Fangtasia, for the first time ever, you saw a large group of Christian protesters standing a short distance away from the entrance. Usually, you showed up right before sunset and left at the crack of dawn, so you had never seen such a large group. You wouldn’t have cared much if not for the fact that you had to go through the crowd to get to your car. They shouted at you as you walked through, calling you a “fang-banger” and “vampire cunt”. You ignored them, wondering why they had nothing better to do than this. Tonight was one of their rowdier nights though, and you were shoved to the ground. You scraped your hands and knees, tearing the white tights you wore under your blue dress. You began to pick yourself up, and that’s when you noticed the crowd had gone silent. You looked up, curious, seeing Eric now standing right at the front of the crowd, Pam right beside him. He was giving them a murderous glare, daring for one of them to do something so he could rip them apart. 
Once you stood up, Eric turned to you, walking over in a few steps. He grabbed both your wrists, eyebrows knitted together. “You’re bleeding,” He muttered, looking down at the scrapes on your palms. Letting go of one of your wrists, he led you back inside. “Pam, deal with these people,” He ordered right before he walked in.
Briskly, he walked you back to his office, not wanting any of the other vampires to get a whiff of your blood for too long. You had never been in the back, and you didn’t get a very good look around with Eric rushing you into his office.
“Sit on the desk,” He told you as he began rummaging through one of his cabinets for the first aid kit. It was rarely used.
You moved a few of the items on his desk aside so you could hop on. Silently, you looked around the office, waiting for Eric to walk over. After a moment, he found the kit and began cleaning one of your hands. His cold hand held your warm one gently, almost as if he were afraid he’d break you if he wasn’t soft with you. You were closer to him now than ever before, with only a foot of distance between you. You winced when he cleaned the wounds, but as he bandaged them up, you couldn’t help staring at him. You took note of his perfect, still pale, complexion, his blue eyes, and his slightly tense jaw. Little did you know, it was causing a great deal of pain for Eric to hold back and not start licking the blood that came out of your wounds. Your scent was much stronger than before and his mouth was watering, remembering the sweet taste of your blood.
When he was done with your hands, he paused for a moment, looking down at your knees. “I need you to take off your tights.”
You were confused, until you looked down, seeing your ripped tights. “O-oh, right,” you stuttered.
You hopped off and took your little blue heels with ease. Then, you reached up the skirt of your dress and pulled down your now ruined tights, tossing them right next to your bag. As you did, you could feel his intense stare on you, causing your cheeks to heat up. You were about to sit back on his desk until he told you to stand instead. He knelt down to clean the scrapes on your knees, one hand holding the back of your leg. Quickly, he wrapped it up and moved on to clean your other knee. 
Now, you don’t know why you did, but without thinking you questioned Eric. “Why’d you lie and agree to tell me your story?” You covered your mouth right after you asked him. Your mother always did tell you that you had the problem of speaking without thinking.
Caught off guard, Eric looked up at you with wide eyes. “Excuse me?”
Realizing you couldn’t take back what you said, you continue on. “You haven’t told me a thing about you. Why’d you lie to me about telling me your story?”
Without hesitation, Eric replied, “Because I wanted you to be with me again.”
Now you were caught off guard.
“You’re almost an exact replica of someone I cared about and lost a long time ago. You don’t have her memories, but besides that, you’re exactly the same,” He began to explain, “You look like her.” His grip on your leg tightened, “You feel like her.” He moved his head closer to the now clean wound on your knee and took a sniff, “You smell like her.” He licked the fresh blood that was coming out, “You taste like her.”
Eric watched you squirm a bit under his hold, a faint blush spreading across your face. You gripped the sides of your dress, your brows turned downwards and your lips formed a small frown. You thought he was teasing you.
He let out a small chuckle. “You even act the same as her.” He licked your leg again, your breath now shaking.
“S-stop it,” You barely managed to whisper.
You could hear the sadness in his voice and it made your heart hurt. Your eyes began to sting. Your chest grew tight. You couldn’t understand why you felt so sad for him, even though you barely knew him. Finally, he let go of your leg and stood up, towering over you. 
“What if I don’t want to stop?” Eric asked you, eyes peering down into yours.
Your heart was racing now, though you weren’t sure whether it was from fear or perhaps excitement. You knew one thing for sure, with him staring so intensely at you, you could feel a heat beginning to rise up inside you. 
He brought a hand up to the side of your face, stroking his thumb gently across your cheek. Slowly, he began to lean his head down.
With his lips brushing against yours he asked you, “What would you do?” right before pressing a soft kiss onto you. 
You leaned into the kiss, closing your eyes and gripping his black shirt. As it continued on, the kiss began to grow rough, Eric nibbling your bottom lip with his fangs. His hand on your cheek was gentle, but the hand that held your hip was tight. Feeling a small pinch on your lip, you let out a gasp knowing full well he had bitten your lip. It was enough for Eric to shove his tongue in your mouth though, and both of you tasted your metallic blood.
His hand on your hip moved lower, gripping your thigh. He pushed you back against the desk, lifting you so you’d be seated again. He pulled away from your mouth, moving down to your neck. He licked a few spots, before finally biting down and piercing your skin. You let out a soft cry, hands moving to wrap around his neck. You gripped his hair, feeling him suck the blood out of you. You bit your lip, trying to hold back your whimpers.
When he pulled away, you felt light-headed now. Your eyes fluttered open, feeling his hands come off only to swiftly pull your dress off. After pulling off your bra as well, his hands began to roam around your body. You shivered against his touch, your skin feeling like it was burning against his cold hands. He grabbed one of your breasts, squeezing it lightly before leaning down and biting the upper part of it. This time, he sucked to leave a mark rather than to drink your blood. 
A hand of his moved down, in between your inner thighs. He began to rub your clit with his thumb roughly, a moan finally escaping you. He pulled away from your breast, a bloody smirk on his face.
“Well how about that, you sound just like her too,” He teased.
“Sh-shut up,” You stammered.
You moved your hands to pull at the bottom of his shirt. He pulled away his thumb, allowing you to take off his shirt, and see the bulge that had formed in his pants. 
He leaned down to your ear and whispered, “I want you to get yourself ready for me love.” He then grabbed your hand, leading it down to your panties. 
Once he let go, you began to rub yourself through the thin fabric, feeling how wet you already were. You began to rub harder and faster, watching him undo his pants. His briefs went down with his pants, allowing his hardened dick to spring free. With one hand he grabbed the hand you were using to rub yourself out, and with the other, he ripped off your panties, causing you to yelp. Then, he guided you to put a finger of your own inside you, along with his. 
“Eric,” You whimpered.
He continued to guide you, moving your hands together in and out of you at a slow pace. “Shhh, I need to get that tight little cunt of yours ready for me. Okay?”
He stuck another of his own fingers inside of you and all you could do was nod your head quickly. He took out your hand and began to pick up his pace with his fingers. With your moans, and grip on his shoulders, he could tell you were getting closer, begging for a release as you arched your back.
“Eric, please,” you mewled out.
“Please what?”
“I need you, all of you,” you begged.
He pulled out his fingered and positioned himself right at your entrance. “Alright, but only because you begged,” He said with a wink. 
Slowly, he began to push himself inside of you, cursing under his breath at how tight you were. Your nails dug into his shoulders and you buried your face in the crook of his neck. Eric gave you a moment to adjust to his size before he began to move, thrusting at an unbearably slow pace for you. You attempted to move your own hips, wrapping your legs around him. Knowing you needed more, Eric began to pick up the pace almost instantly, causing you to cry out loud. He slammed his mouth against yours, muffling your cries and your moans.
He was finally giving you what you needed, and you knew you’d be undone soon. You almost cried when he pulled out of you completely, until he slammed back into. You let out a loud scream and Eric groaned, feeling you tighten. He continued to pound into you, going harder each time until your body tensed up and you moaned his name loudly, finally hitting your high. Growing close himself, Eric’s thrust had a rhythm before, but now they grew ragged. Soon after you, he hit his climax, cumming inside of you. He proceeded to ride himself out in you and your breath slowly began going back to normal.
Pulling out of you, he placed a quick kiss on your lips. “I hope you know I’m never letting you go now,” He muttered.
“That’s fine because there’s no one else I want to go with.”
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acreativeme · 3 years
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Keeping Secrets
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Keeping Secrets
Rick x Reader
Trigger Warning: Abuse, Death, Reproductive Abuse, Guns.
Magnum walked into the bar, having just come from a meeting with a potential client. A man from the mainland was looking for his wife, who had come to Hawaii on a girls trip and never came home. The client didn’t have much information, other than her friends had shared that she had gone on a hike and never returned. The woman in the photo he was given looked familiar, he just couldn’t place where he knew her from. 
He sat in front of Rick, who was smiling down at his phone. “What are you smiling at?” He asked, trying to get a look at his phone.
Rick pulled away, locking his phone in the process. “Nothing.” He slipped the phone into his pocket, “how was the meeting with the potential client?” 
Magnum sat his own phone on the bar, “It was fine. Just a man looking for his wife, who disappeared while on a girls trip.” He pulled up the photo and turned it towards Rick. “Does she look familiar to you? I feel like I know her from somewhere.” 
Rick nearly dropped the glass he had been cleaning. There on Magnum’s phone was a Y/H/C version of his girlfriend, Y/N. He almost didn’t recognize her, because the aesthetic of the girl in the photo was completely different. “You are right, she does look familiar.” His voice was tense, “she looks like every other mainland girl that comes to Hawaii on vacation.” He tried to joke.
Magnum chuckled, taking his phone back. “She is actually from Europe, or at least that is what the husband said. So, I am going back to Robin’s nest and have Higgin’s to help with a background check.”
Rick nodded, tossing his drying rag over his shoulder, “Hopefully you find something that helps!” Rick waved goodbye as Magnum left.
Rick’s POV…
Rick sat in his car, watching as Y/N moved around her bakery to help customers. A part of him didn’t want to believe that she had been lying to him about everything, but the other half knew something was going on. He waited until the last customer left, before heading inside to talk with her. 
She was going over some recipes at the counter as he walked in. She glanced up and smiled, “Hey, Rick. What brings you to my side of town?” 
He locked the door, flipping the open sign to closed. “I think we need to talk.”
Y/N’s POV…
She led him back to her office, carrying two giant cinnamon rolls. She didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, so she was bringing his favorite treats with them. The look on his face had worry boiling up in her stomach. “What did you want to talk about, Rick?” She asked, sitting down on the little loveseat that she had tucked away.
He sighed, sitting down next to her. “Are you married?” He blurted, which caused her to freeze.
Y/N looked down at her hands, trying to keep her hands from shaking. “Rick…” She whispered, not knowing where to start. 
He looked away from her, pain radiating through his chest. “You are, aren’t you?”
She shook her head no. “I am not, I promise. It is a long, complicated story. If you want to know the truth, you’ll have to promise to be patient with me.” She turned to face him completely, crossing her legs so that she wasn’t twisting her body around.
He nodded, wanting to hear her side of the story. “Okay, I promise.” 
She nodded absentmindedly. “I am going to grab a bottle of water, would you like a bottle?” She asked, silently needing a minute. She leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t know how Rick found out about Henry, but he knows now and needs answers. 
She cleared her throat, biting back the tears. Y/N and Henry’s story was written like a Stephen King novel, dark and twisted. She knew that Rick wasn’t one to judge her, but the demons in the back of her mind were telling her differently. She grabbed a bottle of water from the employee fridge and made her way back to her office. Rick was gripping his phone, visibly tense. 
She returned to her spot next to him. “Henry and I met at University. We dated for around a year and it was great for the most part, he would complain about me hanging out with my mates and not him but it always seemed like a joke.” Y/N had to look away from Rick, noticing that his face grew red. “I know, red flag but I was young and dumb. We moved in together shortly after our one year anniversary, and that is when things went from great to horrid.”
Rick gripped his thighs, knowing where she was going with this story. “You don’t have to finish. I think that I know where this is going, and I don’t want you to have to relive that trauma.” 
Y/N released a shaky breath, “I think I have to finish or I will never completely heal.”
He reached over and laced his fingers with hers. “If at any time you want to stop or need a break, give my hand a squeeze.” 
She nodded, giving his hand a light squeeze. “It started with him calling me names, then he started to keep me from seeing my friends and family. He was isolating me from any support system that I had, so that I would depend solely on him.” Rick held out her water to her with his free hand, making her pause to take a sip. “Thank you. After he was able to strip me of my support system, he began physically abusing me. He nearly killed me a couple of times, but I still couldn’t leave him.”
Rick had to squeeze her hand, knowing that he was going to lose it if they didn’t stop. “I don’t think that I need to hear anymore.”
She shook head, not wanting to stop. “I need to get this off my chest, Rick. The physical abuse wasn’t even the worst part.” Tears were now falling freely down her face. “He had decided that he was ready to be a father, so he stopped using protection. He would demand sex from me multiple times a day, even pulling me away from my job to do it.” 
Rick stood up and began to pace. “I want to murder him, I haven’t even met this asshole.”
Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle. “I am sure that you will be meeting him soon, considering that you asked about him.”
He shot her a look, “Oh, yeah, Magnum had a meeting with a new client and said client had given him a picture of a woman that looked like you, but with Y/H/C.” 
“When I was finally able to get away from him, I changed my name and dyed my hair. And since I have dual citizenship, due to my father being American. I didn’t tell my family that I was moving until I landed here in Hawaii, then I shared with my family what had been going on. And they did not take it well.. Like at all.” She chuckled, remembering how her father was going to hunt Henry down and torture him. “Henry disappeared shortly after I did, so my family couldn’t return the favor.” 
Rick stopped his pacing, turning to her. “Well, we will be returning the favor today.” He pulled her up from the couch. “I am going to call Magnum and fill him in, but I am not going to let him get away with terrorizing you.”
Robin’s Nest…
Y/N stood on the beach, watching as the water ran over her feet. Rick had called Magnum and Higgins to explain everything that Y/N had told him, only withholding the fact that he had tried to reproductively abuse her (yes, that is a thing). Juliet suggested that Y/N take some time to breath and calm down, which is what led her to the beach. Zeus and Apollo had followed after her, to stand watch over her. She knew Rick, Juliet, and Magnum were making plans to repay Henry for all the pain he caused-- which she was silently okay with. She was glad that Higgins had sent her outside, because she knew that she couldn’t face him. 
Y/N had moved to sit in the sand, letting Zeus and Apollo lay on either side of her. Zeus laid his head in her lap, which caused her to stroke his head absentmindedly. “You boys are such a comfort.” Y/N whispered, a calm feeling fell over her.
“I am surprised, love. You were never a fan of dogs back home.” A masculine voice from the past stated, a smirk evident in his voice. 
Y/N frozen, which caused Zeus and Apollo to stand up and growl. “How did you find me, Henry?” She asked, not looking away from the water.
Henry took a step forward, only to take a step back as Zeus took a step forward. “Well, that is a secret.” he pulled a gun from his waistband. “But I can say that it wasn’t without a lot of leg work.”
She tensed, knowing from the intense growling coming from Zeus and Apollo that he was aiming a weapon at her. “You think I didn’t know what you did for work, Henry.” She hissed, finally looking at him. “I am not dense, Henry. You were an intelligence agent with MI-6.”
He smirked, “so you know that I can kill you and make it look like a hiking accident.” He flipped off the safety, ready to end her life.
She smirked, “Not likely.”
He shot her a confused look, “what do you mean?” She didn’t have to say anything, because of a bullet taking his life-- which caused her to squeeze her eyes shut. Henry’s body hit the sand with a light thud, which told her that he was never going to hurt her. 
Rick ran to her, wanting to make sure that Henry hadn’t been able to hurt her. He had to tell the dogs that he wasn’t going to harm her, because they were still standing at attention to protect her. Once he was able to get to her, Rick wrapped his arms around her-- pulling her to his chest. 
“He’s gone, Y/N. And he is never coming back.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 
“Oh, god.” She sobbed, clinging on to him. “I don’t believe it, Rick. I really don’t.” She looked up at him, cheeks red from crying. “I am free, Rick.”
He grinned, “Yes, you are.” 
She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips, wanting to express how happy she felt. 
Magnum and Juliet watched on as they shared their little kiss, happy to see their friends happy together.
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fishoutofcamelot · 3 years
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I am once again thinking about a BBCM Mystery Skulls AU. Now, for those of you who are so woefully unaware of what Mystery Skulls is, allow me to set the scene.
(This ended up WAY longer than I was expecting, so I decided to put it all under the cut-off)
Merlin, Gwen, and Arthur have been friends since high school. Gwen is a spunky yet affectionate employee at a book store and despite her cutesy pastel aesthetic she has a bizarre interest in the occult/paranormal.
She came up with the idea for the three of them to form a ghost-hunting troop, and they call themselves the Mystery Skulls. And while Merlin and Arthur aren't nearly as invested in the idea as she is, since this is pretty much her hyperfixation, they are both very supportive nonetheless and enjoy going on adventures together.
Gwen has a pet lizard named Kilgharrah, and it's been in the family for a very long time, since before she was even born. Are lizards supposed to be able to live that long? She's never really given it much thought, but sometimes it seems almost...intelligent. Unnaturally so. Nevertheless, the weird and unexplainable is kinda their whole brand, and Kilgharrah has become something of a mascot for them, so they all let it slide.
Arthur is the Fred of the group. Muscular and almost-but-not-quite-a-himbo, he's the one driving the van with a cocky grin. Fearless, popular, everyone loves him, and besides some family issues he's got a good life. He and Gwen are in a relationship, and they're very lovey-dovey about it. He doesn't know much about the paranormal, certainly not as much as his girlfriend, but the idea of punching a ghost in the face is very alluring to him.
And then there's Merlin. He lives with his uncle Gaius due to...unexplained family drama, but the two of them have a good thing going. Gaius runs a mechanic shop on the edge of town, but his age is starting to catch up to him so Merlin has slid in as his replacement. Which makes sense, considering Merlin's near prodigy level of skill with machines. He's the one who fixed up an abandoned beat-up van and offered it up for their ghost-hunting endeavors. He quite likes Kilgharrah, ever a fan of pets and animals and the like, and Kilgharrah appears to begrudgingly return the sentiment.
Merlin has been third-wheeling Arthur and Gwen since high school. But he's not bitter about it, really he's not. He definitely doesn't feel left out, doesn't feel like an outsider, doesn't constantly worry that they would prefer it if he wasn't around, doesn't constantly feel forgotten and cast aside as he watches them get so absorbed in their two-way whirlwind passion. Not at all. So Merlin sits and smiles, because he truly is happy for his friends, and he pretends the loneliness doesn't bother him.
One day, they decide to investigate a mysterious cave. There are rumors of it being haunted by some kind of demonic entity. Merlin, as always, says it's a bad idea and they should turn back. Arthur, as always, teasingly calls him a coward. Gwen and Arthur exchange excited grins at the prospect of facing a real ghost. Merlin watches them wistfully, longingly. He fails to notice the way that Kilgharrah is getting increasingly anxious the closer they get to the cave.
Merlin has a really bad feeling about this cave, and a gut feeling tells him to go back to the van and head home. No one heeds his instincts.
There are two diverging paths in the cave, and Merlin dreads the moment that Arthur will inevitably suggest they split up. They usually split up between Merlin and Kilgharrah, and Arthur and Gwen. Because of course Arthur will want to pair off with his girlfriend.
Arthur notices that Merlin is scared, which makes sense because Merlin is always scared during their investigations. Gwen is sympathetic yet encouraging like she usually is - but notices that Merlin is more frightened than usual, so she suggests that Arthur pair off with Merlin instead this time, while she takes Kilgharrah. This doesn't make Merlin feel any better.
Arthur and Merlin head down one path in the cave, which eventually leads them to a cliff. All the while, Merlin keeps hearing whispers. Whispers that speak of horrible, macabre, terrible things, and all those whispers keep rattling in his mind like sharp-edged marbles. Arthur says he hears nothing at all, and they both conclude that Merlin is just hearing things.
He is not, in fact, just hearing things.
Arthur comes to the edge of the cliff and peers over to see the sharp, jagged stalagmites at the bottom. He beckons Merlin to come over and check out this cool view - but Merlin can't.
Merlin is...frozen. Petrified. Unable to move because of all the whispers attacking his mind from all angles, pounding into him with a righteous headache. His thoughts have turned to static, and his vision is quickly growing dark. Starting at his fingertips, his arm begins to go numb. The numbness gradually crawls deeper and further into his body, until he knows no more.
The spirit of the cave, the demon, the entity, whatever it is...it sapped into him through his misery. Through his loneliness. Through his pain. His pain has made him vulnerable for possession, and the demon plans to take full advantage of this.
The possession begins at the fingertips, its demonic wispy presence infecting him from the hand up. By the time its control has reached all the way to Merlin's face, it has enough strength to surge Merlin's body forward while Merlin himself is unconscious.
The half of Merlin's face that is still free from possession remains slack and unaware, but the half that has fallen into the demon's clutches is alight with a grin. It pushes Merlin's hand into Arthur's chest and gives a powerful shove.
As Arthur falls from the cliff, he doesn't have time to notice how Merlin's normally blue eyes have turned a sickly green, nor to notice the jaundiced hue pervading his friend's flesh, nor the spectral mist clouding all around Merlin's body in a haze.
No. As Arthur falls, as Arthur crashes into the ground and feels a stalagmite rip into his chest, all he sees is the half of his friend's face that has been contorted into a demonic smile.
Meanwhile, Gwen and Kilgharrah's path led them down a different part of the cave, and eventually they reach the bottom of a deep chasm filled with stalagmites.
Gwen spots Arthur at the top of a nearby cliff and waves up to him, but her excitement is short-lived as she watches him fall. Watches a stalagmite pierce his chest. Watches blood splatter everywhere.
It is said that if someone wishes for something passionately and profoundly enough as they die, then their dying wish might be granted. In this case, Arthur wishes more than anything for Gwen not to see him die. To not remember this. To just forget.
His wish is granted, and Gwen faints from the sheer force of his dying wish turning all her thoughts into static.
Kilgharrah sees the demon at the top of the cliff. Sees the wretched beast puppeteering Merlin's flesh, and snarls.. How dare that horrible thing possess one of his humans!
You see, Kilgharrah is no ordinary lizard. But rather, a very ancient and very powerful dragon masquerading as such, tasked with the protection of Gwen's lineage - the reasons for which only he is old enough to know or remember.
But while he is supposed to look after just Gwen, he has taken quite a liking to her friends as well. All three of them are under his protection, and it would be a disgrace to let this pitiful demon steal Merlin away under his watch.
So Kilgharrah unfurls from his false lizard form and embraces his true form - that of a massive dragon - and does whatever he can to purge the demon from Merlin's vessel.
Unfortunately, there's only one thing he can do. Since the demon has so vehemently lodged itself in Merlin's arm, quickly spreading out through the rest of his body, Kilgharrah has only one option left to stop the demonic infection.
Hating himself for it all the while, Kilgharrah bites off Merlin's arm.
A day later, Gwen wakes up in the hospital. Not only can she not remember watching Arthur die, but she can't remember anything to do with Arthur at all. She wakes up in the hospital with no recollection of how she got there, her pet lizard a blood-spattered coil on her lap, and with everyone telling her that her best friend Merlin is in surgery.
When Merlin wakes up, he also has no recollection of what happened to Arthur. He remembers going into the cave, splitting up...but everything goes blank after that. He doesn't know where Arthur is. Doesn't know what happened to his arm.
And he certainly doesn't know why he has become so debilitatingly afraid of Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah, who is by all accounts an ordinary lizard, but in Merlin's dreams transforms into a massive beast with bloody teeth.
Gwen gets a glazed look in her eyes and suffers horrible migraines whenever anyone mentions Arthur, so Merlin eventually gives up trying to remind her. Her memory problems have made her a lot more...scatter-brained, and although Merlin gets easily spooked he's willing to go to a thousand seances if it'll help Gwen act like her old self again.
He also tries to go back to the cave, but it has mysteriously vanished from where he knows it was meant to be. Gwen says that if a place is haunted by something powerful enough, it can change its own location, or can make it so that it will only be found if it wants to be found.
But Merlin refuses to give up. He uses the spare parts lying around his uncle's shop and builds himself a mechanical prosthetic, and loses himself in a never-ending quest to find his friend, to figure out what happened to his arm, and to find a way to restore Gwen's memories.
When Arthur wakes up, he discovers he has turned into one of the same ghosts he and his friends used to hunt. He looks down and sees his body, bloody and broken and cold as it lays impaled on a stalagmite. He can't look at it for long without feeling sick.
He also feels angry. Very, very angry. While his death had happened fast, too fast, he can clearly remember Merlin pushing him. Merlin, who he thought was his best friend. Merlin, who he grew up with. Merlin, who has always been there for him.
Surging with betrayal and fury, Arthur's now spectral body floats out of the cave. He has only one objective on his mind: vengeance.
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DiAngelo is the only survivor of the largest mass suicide on American soil. He found the bodies of his 39 friends lying with plastic bags over their heads, wearing neat black tracksuits with an 'Away Team' patch and Nike trainers. Now we discover why he was left behind...
It was midday when Rio DiAngelo arrived at the hilltop mansion overlooking San Diego to find all the windows closed, the curtains drawn, and outdoor lights burning in the sunshine. The front door was locked, but he found a side door ajar and warily pushed it open.
The unmistakable stench of death made him gag and he covered his face with his shirtsleeve, which still smelled of cologne from his morning shower. As he walked through the eerie silence, he knew what he would find. And he dreaded it. Upstairs, 39 of his friends lay dead in their beds after the largest mass suicide on American soil. All members of a bizarre cult, they had each downed a lethal cocktail of vodka, barbiturates and apple sauce to leave their 'earthly containers' and join an alien spaceship trailing the Hale-Bopp comet.Yelling out in case anyone was still alive, DiAngelo raced from room to room. But all he found were bodies with plastic bags over their heads. Each one wore a neat black tracksuit with an 'Away Team' patch and Nike trainers with their comet-trail trademark. The 21 women and 18 men had each packed a small bag for the journey, and have five dollars in their pocket. Thoughtful to the end, each had left a note saying. 'I forced myself to go into each room and check everyone,' said DiAngelo. 'With each body I came across, the loss became too much to bear. They were my closest friends. I loved them dearly.'
DiAngelo, who's real name is Richard Ford, became involved with the Heaven's Gate Cult in 1994 after attending one of their meetings in a California hotel or 'Cultifornia' as sceptics often call the state that spawned Charles Manson and the Reverend Jim Jones. He had listened while nine androgynous-looking members wearing identical loose clothes and cropped hair described their absolute belief in aliens, the paranormal, and reincarnation. One of them was 59 year old Thomas Nichols whose sister, Nichelle, played Star Trek's Lieutenant Uhura. Forbidden to have sex, hug each other, or even shake hands, the Heaven's Gate cultists concentrated on purifying their bodies and spirits ready for the move to 'an advanced level of being' on another planet or dimension. They called each other brother or sister, observed daily rituals, and were allowed to watch only selected TV programmes. Individual needs were minimised so that a member who had run out of deodorant, for example, would have to apply for a new one in writing.Anyone entering the immaculately clean mansion referred to as 'the temple' had to take off their shoes and wear surgical socks. Silence prevailed, and many of their neighbours assumed they were 'a bunch of monks.' In line with their belief that they had been sent to earth as angels, six members were castrated and, according to DiAngelo, 'they couldn't stop smiling and giggling about it.'
On some days, members had to report to their superiors every 12 minutes while on other days they were required to wear a cone on their heads as they would in alien bodies. Many common words were changed so that members would not remember their human past once they had ascended into space. For instance, house became 'craft' and kitchen became 'nutri-lab.' Their 65 year old leader Marshall Applewhite had started the cult in 1972 with Bonnie Nettles whom he had met while undergoing treatment for homosexuality in a psychiatric hospital. They had abandoned their human names and called themselves Guinea and Pig, then Bo and Peep, before finally settling on Do and Ti.Ti died of cancer in 1985, But Do, claiming he was Jesus reincarnated, said he continued to communicate with her. The group survived financially by running a successful web page design firm which they also used to try and win converts and spread their message. Their own website featured pictures of stars and nebulae downloaded from NASA and appeared very businesslike. It also stated that suicide is acceptable for cult members who want to ascent to 'a higher level of life.' Heaven's Gate shared some of the beliefs of 19th century occultists like novelist Mark Twain. In 1907, Twain wrote a short story about a hero leaving Earth for 'an extended excursion among the heavenly bodies' on the trail of a comet. He took his passport and five dollars for the fare. Despite their fantastic beliefs, DiAngelo was converted and lived in this eccentric community for nearly three years. I'd just turned forty and recently divorced and I was trying to find meaning in life,' he said. 'I'd had a fairly troubled past that included a violent, unstable mother and other bad relationships. The group shared my interest in UFOs, music and Eastern Religions.
But in, December 1995, Do's teaching took a more sinister turn and DiAngelo later recalled that he 'sat us all down and told us that we might have to leave our bodies behind. Amazingly, we didn't really have a problem with that. We trusted Do implicitly. 'We found a suicide recipe that used phenobarbital, vodka and apple sauce, and Do and some of his helpers went to Mexico to buy enough of the drug for the entire group.'  Eleven months later, an amateur astronomer took a photo of the Hale-Bopp comet, which showed a mysterious oval-shaped object trailing in its wake. Although NASA later described it a 'proto-comet' 2,000 miles behind Hale-Bopp, other astronomers dismissed the sighting as a hoax or error. Hale-Mary, as it was called, has not been seen since. Do, however, convinced his followers that it was a spaceship coming to take them away and that his deceased partner, Ti, was flying it. Seeing significance in everything, he told then that Hale-Bopp even had the same initials as Helena Blavatsky, another 19th century occultist with whom the group shared beliefs. Having decided on this 'Star-gate' plan, the group prepared to enjoy a final spree on Earth by spending some surplus money. They went to Las Vegas and stayed at the Stratosphere Hotel, and rode the rollercoaster and the Big Shot free-fall ride. A week later they went to see Star Wars and visited the San Diego wild animal park and Sea World. For their 'last supper,' they booked a table for 39 at a local restaurant where waiter Eric Morales was struck by their politeness and helpfulness. 'From the moment they arrived, all austerely dressed and looking the same, I knew this would be no ordinary shift,' he said. 'I made a joke to sort of set the mood and when I returned to their table five minutes later they were still laughing at it. You could tell they didn't get out a lot. 'All thirty nine ordered exactly the same: turkey pie, salad, blueberry cheesecake and iced tea. They were very pleasant, but guarded. When asked where they were from they said things like 'from the car' and 'from all over.' Six days later, employees at the restaurant watched news footage in amazement when they realised the oddball diners they had served had gone straight home and killed themselves. 'It was the last time they were going to be together,' said Morales. 'The bill came to three hundred and fifty one dollars which included a twenty six dollar tip. Our manager was so taken with them, he stood in the doorway and shook hands with each one as they left.' A month before the suicides, DiAngelo decided he wanted to leave the commune. He moved to Beverly Hills, and began working for a web design company. 'I left with Do's permission,' he said/. 'I told him I felt I had something to do outside...like a task. I think part of it was to explain to the world the philosophy of Heaven's Gate and the sort of people they were. Be an instrument of clarification. 'I believed Do was from another planet. He taught me to be more aware, honest and sensitive to the world. In short, a better person. What I gained from the group was phenomenal.
On March 27th, 1997, a parcel arrived at DiAngelo's office. It contained an upbeat farewell video and a message saying: 'By the time you read this we will have exited our bodies.' 'There was no mention of sadness or fear, but rather an air of excitement and anticipation. The cult he called 'his closest brothers and sisters' were aged between 26 and 72 and are believed to have died in three groups - 15 the first day, 15 the next, and nine on the third. In the heat of the Californian spring, many of the bodies had already begun to decompose by the time DiAngelo discovered them. Eager to be helpful, they cleaned up after each round of dying and had even taken out the rubbish. Police found handguns, rifles, and ammunition at the mansion which DiAngelo believed Marshall Applewhite had assembled because he feared a Waco-like siege by the FBI. He had also spent, $1,000 on an insurance policy that would pay out a million dollars each for up to 50 people in the event of abduction by aliens. The company said Heaven's Gate were one of 4,000 policyholders worldwide who had bought alien abduction insurance, with Britain and the USA being their biggest markets. The aftermath of the Heaven's Gate deaths was predictably prosaic. San Diego County planned to auction off their belongings - worth an estimated $1 million and give the proceeds to surviving family members. But  DiAngelo claimed that his brothers and sisters wanted him to inherit the web design firm and announced his intention of settling the matter in court. Neighbours living on the same street as the group campaigned to change it's name after crowds of 'strange visitors'  kept arriving to pray there. And the $1.6 million mansion itself proved unsellable because of it's gruesome associations and the obstinate smell of formaldehyde in its air conditioning. Two months after the suicide pact, two former members of Heaven's Gate also tried to 'exit their earthly vehicles' in a Holiday Inn four miles from the cult's mausoleum. They were dressed and prepared exactly the same as their departed brothers and sisters. One died immediately. The other was found unconscious, and went on to evangelise for the cult, touring the country with a 70-minute video of the bug-eyed Marshall Applewhite. He killed himself the following year in Heaven's Gate style after telling his friends that he would 'rather gamble on missing the bus this time than stay on this planet and risk losing my soul.' DiAngelo went on to apply the computer skills he had learned from Heaven's Gate to his earthly life. He auctioned off the cult's van on eBay and signed a deal to write a TV movie based on his experiences. But the project never got off the ground. A tabloid offered him $1 million for exclusive rights to his story. At the time he refused, preferring to preserve the dignity of his departed friends. Upon reflection, he later said he should have taken the money. 'I've been on a rollercoaster over the last decade,' he said in 2007. 'I still miss my friends so much and I still haven't met anyone who can compare to them. Not a day goes by that I don't think about them. 'I'm the last Heaven's Gate member on Earth, so there must be a reason why I'm still here. But although I still want to live like them, dying like them definitely isn't part of my plan.' DiAngelo re-established contact with his 19 year old son and confessed he was now 'a slave to commerce like everybody else.' Ten years on he was still haunted by the events of that terrible day, but relieved that he didn't join his friends in the mass suicide which shocked the world. The group's website is still maintained by two individuals allegedly surviving members who left after 12 years to get married (forbidden within the group which prized gender-free platonic relationships) prior to the group's exodus to the 'Next Evolutionary Level.' They confirmed in a statement on the 20th anniversary of the mass suicide that Heaven's Gate no longer existed but that the site remained available to those seeking information about their beliefs.
The world's fascination with the extraordinary actions Heaven's Gate undertook is yet to abate...
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indiavolowetrust · 4 years
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THE OBEY ME BOYS AS RPG BOSSES: NEO-OSAKA
LEVEL 1-7 (YOU ARE HERE)
LEVEL 8-10
FINAL BOSS
ENDINGS
You are one of many modified humans in Neo-Osaka. A relic of your brief time in the criminal underbelly. Your adopted little brother, Luke, has been kidnapped by a criminal syndicate known only as The Devil Triad for unknown reasons. Simeon, his upperclassman, is the sole witness of his kidnapping. Armed with your trusty katana, the healing microbots in your blood, and  the information Simeon has given you, you venture back into the underworld of Neo-Osaka to save your brother.
Word Count: 4,511
TW: Blood, Violence, Gore, Mention of Drug Use
LEVEL ONE -- BELPHEGOR, THE SLEEPING BULL
In the underbelly of Neo-Osaka, it is only natural that one would want to lose themselves for a little while. You pass by a number of pharmacies that act as black markets, street vendors that hawk anti-intoxicants, and children that run between the crowds. An exchange of secrets and yen, and a pair of shoji-playing women direct you to a shuttered pharmacy down the road. No one’s operated that store in years, they say, but there are always masked men that hang behind the lot. Masks in the shape of a devil.
Night falls. It doesn’t take long for you to subdue a masked man and rifle through his pockets. A hand-held radio tells you all that you need to know: the goods will be exchanged near the butcher’s shop, the password is sleeping bull, and that one is supposed to be there, so don’t fuck this up. The goods are headed towards the base of operations of The Devil Triad.
The underlings are easy enough to deal with. You take them out one by one in their own territory, leaving them alive for only sa long as necessary, and steal one of their masks and uniforms along the way. While it appears that none of the underlings have any information as to exactly where the goods are going – much less where your little brother is – you have more faith in what the lower boss should know. He goes by the Sleeping Bull, you gather.
For one named Sleeping Bull, however, he’s much faster than you had expected.
You can’t tell whether the shadows beneath his eyes are painted or tattooed there. If they’re real, then the Sleeping Bull's got one hell of a sleep schedule. He watches you through half-lidded eyes as he yawns, adjusts the oversized cleaver in his hands, and taps his foot in impatience. Even in the dark you can tell that the Sleeping Bull is planning the best way to butcher you, judging by the way he eyes the wound on your abdomen. Apparently the ruckus you’ve caused during your infiltration has interrupted his nap.
Your offense is a grave one, it seems.
“Do you think you could die a little faster?” he says through yet another yawn. “I’m kinda tired.”
LEVEL TWO -- BEELZEBUB, COOK OF THE HUNGRY BEETLE
The combination of cured meat and seasoning in the ramen is absolutely incredible, as is the addition of a perfectly poached egg. And it’s a chicken egg, of all things! A fresh chicken egg with a runny yolk, set whites, and a hint of soy sauce. You can’t remember the last time you were able to afford such a luxury, much less find it. The pork cutlet is perfectly fried as well. Each crispy bite balances out the nature of the curry it’s been served with. The rice is fluffy, delicate, and nowhere near overcooked. You find yourself nearly moaning with delight with each bite you take.
The cook – you haven’t quite caught his name – only smiles at you over the counter, encouraging you to have more. You did save his beetle-hound, after all. It’s the least he can do.
It’s not like he has any other customers at this time of day, anyway, so you’re free to take your time. While you do find yourself staring at him from time to time, finding his dyed orange hair and face oddly familiar, the thoughts are quickly dismissed by the fresh plate of gyoza that he places in front of you. The cook joins you a few minutes after, takes heaping plates of food for himself, and you ignore the nagging sense of paranoia.
It is only when you are hit with a sudden, overwhelming wave of nausea that you realize something is wrong.
You are barely able to stop yourself from collapsing onto the floor. A white-knuckled hand grips the table as your vision swirls, your stomach turning in on itself. An empty glass shatters onto the wooden floor of the restaurant. The cook only smiles pleasantly at you as you glare at him, demanding to know what he’s done to you. Why has he poisoned you? What would he even gain from doing that?
The cook only laughs. Don’t be silly – of course he hasn’t poisoned you! Only  someone unimaginative and boring would do that, and he is neither of those things. The only reason why you’re still alive right now is because you went out of your way to save his beetle-dog. The cook hopes that your last meal was an enjoyable one. You only stare at him in disbelief as he explains that he only wanted to test a new ingredient, nothing more. You just so happened to be the lucky test subject. The first of many to try his new dishes.
The cook – Beelzebub, he introduces himself – asks if you enjoyed eating so many beetle eggs. A gift from The Devil Triad for his service. They’re genetically modified to a rather impressive degree, and they should be hatching right now in your stomach. The larvae are quite famous for their taste for human flesh.
Pain strikes your abdomen, forcing you to double over, and you use the sheath of your katana to keep your body upright. Beelzebub regards it with interest for a moment. Eyes it with curiosity. And then he is pulling a rounded metal container  from his pocket, flourishing it before you.
“Let’s play a game,” he offers. “If I kill you, the larvae get to have you as their first meal of the day. If you kill me, you get to have these pills. They’re guaranteed to kill the larvae in no time – if you win, that is.”
You watch in horror as Beelzebub places the container into his mouth, swallows, and shoots you that same pleasant smile. You can already feel the sensation of something crackling and wriggling inside your belly.
LEVEL THREE -- ASMODEUS, KEEPER OF THE PINK SCORPION
You’re sure that the perfume acts as both an aphrodisiac and depressant. It would certainly make sense why all of the employees here have donned some sort of face mask. Masked women and men gyrate against golden poles, scorpion-faced bartenders invite patrons to try a various assortment of poisons, and many more employees work to keep the diffusers filled with perfume. A melange of insensate and intoxicated patrons are scattered throughout the space. Your limbs only grow heavier and heavier as you wander through The Pink Scorpion. The clamor of the crowd becomes distorted. The dim lighting, endless walls, and pink motifs of its animal mascot begin to blend with one another in your vision, and you are nearly rendered unconscious by the perfume.
Thankfully, you have just enough anti-intoxicant patches in your pocket to keep yourself from becoming too inebriated. A slip into the bathroom allows you to replace the patch on your tongue, and your head clears.
And so it is with a mostly unclouded mind that you are approached by a slender,  pretty man. He’s one of their best workers, he claims, and it would only be fair for The Pink Scorpion to offer service of the highest quality to its new patrons. You are a new face, after all. Despite your obvious discomfort at the proposition, you had found yourself agreeing. It wouldn’t do any good to act out of line – especially not in a place like this. You’re too noticeable. The Devil Triad has its fingers in every operation here, you’re not sure if you can take on every employee and come out unscathed, and the man before you looks like very pleasant company. Besides, it’s possible that he knows information about The Devil Triad.
He leads you by the hand through pink-tinged halls, up wavering flights of steps, and into a private room. A clap of his hands, and you two are served steaming cups of tea. A single sip nearly burns off the anti-intoxicant patch on your tongue.
Time passes in a strange haze. The man twirls a strand of his blonde hair as he offers you yet another cup of tea, adjusts his bastardization of a kimono to be even more revealing, and shoots you a flirty wink. You dump the drugged tea into a nearby plant when he turns away.
The conversation is light and pleasant. You aren’t exactly lying when you remark that The Pink Scorpion is one of the most highbrow, exquisite establishments you’ve ever seen, despite being a brothel, and the man claps his hands in delight. The Pink Scorpion is his pride and joy, you see. Truly it is the jewel of Neo-Osaka’s underworld. He would hate for a patron to leave with an empty heart or otherwise unsatisfied ...
Just as much as he would hate for an intruder to interrupt their operations.
You roll back from the kotatsu just in time. The wood splinters as the blade of the kusarigama obliterates the table, sending shards flying, and you gasp in pain when a particularly sharp piece of wood strikes you in the shoulder. The anti-intoxicant patch on your tongue can only do so much it seems, judging by the weightiness of your limbs. You wrench the shard out of your shoulder and regard the man through a pink-tinged haze, the edges of your vision starting to blur once more.
The man introduces himself as Asmodeus. Asmodeus, Keeper of The Pink Scorpion. A quick undoing of his sash reveals a number of poison vials beneath his kimono, each one a violent, neon shade of pink. The shoji doors slam shut, and you find yourself coughing as the diffuser in the room begins spewing even more perfume into the space. Asmodeus, as it would seem, is completely immune to its effects.
“You’re pretty cute, you know,” Asmodeus says, shaking his head in disappointment. He readies his kusarigama. “It’s a shame I have to kill you.”
LEVEL FOUR -- SATAN, THE ARCHIVIST
Bookshelves line the walls, books line the shelves, and texts take up nearly every single increment of space possible in the massive library. Not that you’re sure if it can even be considered a library, considering the condition of the place. Most of the books seem to be piled up on one another in a nonsensical fashion, creating mountains against the shelves, and an array of ladders is strewn throughout the place. While you’re not sure where they lead, why they’ve been placed there, or if they’re even functional at all, you do know that someone must be using them. There isn’t enough dust in the library to suggest that it’s been abandoned. Not yet, anyway.
It’s difficult to believe that a place like this exists in the underbelly of Neo-Osaka. It’s even more difficult to believe that the fourth strongest of The Devil Triad spends his time here.
A number of librarians, archivists, and other employees are nestled in corners of the library, hunched over various spreads of literature and manuals. Given that you don’t possess the brand of The Devil Triad, however, convincing one of them to talk to you is nearly impossible. While the library is considered neutral territory, it appears that the triads still have considerable influence over the area and its inhabitants. You spend most of your time being glared at, turned away, and generally ignored – which you should have expected, really.
Thankfully, you manage to catch the attention of a blonde, bookish man. He smiles at you over his rather messy desk, pushes his silver-rimmed spectacles up his nose, and shoves all of his paperwork aside upon hearing the reason of your request. He’d be delighted to help someone in need, he tells you, disregarding the work strewn on the desk before. It isn’t every day that someone travels to the underworld of Neo-Osaka for such a valiant reason.
You follow the man down winding corridors, listening to him prattle at length on one topic or another. He’s more of a librarian than an archivist, he says. He likes his tea with three sugars. Dismemberment and decapitation are some of his most enjoyable methods of murder. The cafe down the street has amazing spinach pies that it serves on the weekends, although he could do without all the extra cream. Staying inside all day doesn’t lend itself to good health, after all.
The bookish man leads you to a massive archive beneath the library and begins searching through the folders. While most of the records are completely useless – in his opinion, that is – there are still a few that he considers worth keeping. The record on the wiles and weaknesses of modified organisms, for example. It is only when you mention off-hand your hatred for The Devil Triad that the bookish man pauses over a pile of folders. He removes his glasses carefully, tucks them somewhere beneath the papers, and smiles at you.
The pain is there before you can even register the impact.
Your body crashes through a number of rickety shelves in the archives, its path only stopped by a concrete pillar. The microbots in your blood work to repair your cracked ribs as soon as possible, mending the injuries as you force yourself to stand, and you blink away the dust to see the bookish man walking towards you.
His expression speaks only of wrath.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he growls, his face already half-formed into that of a devil. The green blaze and exposed pitch-black teeth click together as he speaks, the flesh burning away, and you watch with horror as he tears off more of his pseudo-skin. The inorganic strands of his hands flex and rearrange themselves into claws. “I’m impressed you managed to take out the others, but I promise you won’t achieve the same result here. They call me Satan the Archivist -- but I  prefer being called Satan the Librarian. I’m more of a librarian than an archivist, really.”
He’s a cybernetic organism, you realize. There’s no way a human would have been able to survive so many body modifications.
“NOW LISTEN AND LISTEN WELL, HUMAN!” he roars, his voice distorting with the metamorphosis. YOUR INSOLENCE IN THE FACE OF THE DEVIL TRIAD ENDS HERE! YOUR NEXT AND LAST OPPONENT IS ME!”
LEVEL FIVE – LEVIATHAN, THE DOCKMASTER
Your lungs burn. Seawater fills your nostrils and throat as you are helplessly dragged into the black sea, your screams disappearing underneath the surface of the water. You struggle desperately, giving the leviathan-like monster a few choice kicks with the heel of your boot, but it’s no use. Its teeth have latched too deep into the flesh of your thigh. While your microbots can work fast enough to repair the wound, they’ll be of no use to you if you drown. Your eyes sting as you gaze upon the moon through the dark water, its image distancing itself further and further away. This may very well be the last time you see it.
And then it is gone. A lurch nearly knocks you unconscious.
Admittedly, you had been a little too confident. The dockmaster had been alone, strangely, and you had foolishly thought that it would be the perfect opportunity to corner one of The Devil Triad’s members. The devil-shaped brand on his neck had given him away. The only witness of his planned interrogation and murder would be the moon above, you had concluded. It would be too easy for you to take him out. A short distance closer, and you would have been able to subdue him. A moment earlier, and you would have been able drag him away from the docks, force him into one of the storage containers, and torture him until he told you everything you needed to know.
But how the hell were you supposed to expect a massive, monstrous sea serpent to bite into your leg? How the hell were you supposed to expect your night to end with you being dragged screaming into the sea?
A wave of nausea strikes you. Your body crashes through the surface of the water and is deposited roughly onto something solid. A smooth, solid stone. The salt still burns your eyes and nose. You collapse against the stone as you hack up seawater, your lungs grateful for the air. It takes a moment for you to realize that you have miraculously held onto the sheath of your katana.
It takes another moment to notice that you have been thrown into a sea cave.
The surface of the water breaks once more. The dockmaster emerges from the black water and steps onto the smooth stone before you. A flick of his hand, and a portion of seawater rises to attend to him. You watch as the sea forms itself into several pole arms, each one sharper than the last. The dockmaster peruses his options for a moment – and then he takes one of them into his hands, brandishes it, and regards you with irritation.
“Surprised?” he asks. “You’re not the only one who has microbots.”
Moonlight spills into the cave from above. The dockmaster steps into its embrace, still holding his weapon before him, and allows the light to catch onto his form.
Thousands of microbots have been embedded into the dockmaster’s skin, much like scales. The result of what must have been an extremely painful and risky operation. His eyes are double-lidded, allowing him to easily blink away the seawater. His hands – no, all four of his limbs have been modified beyond belief. You’re not sure if they’re even really his. You can’t imagine what could have made him stupid enough to force his body through so many procedures.
Then again, you think to yourself, it’s possible that he did it out of desperation. Only the strong survive in the underbelly of Neo-Osaka.
It is rare for one to be born with psychokinesis. It is even rarer for one to be born with psychokinesis that is strong enough to use in combat. While many undergo horrific, painful procedures in an attempt to enhance their abilities or even give one psychokinesis, the operations typically lead to the death of the subject. The ones that are lucky to survive are often crippled for life or rendered a vegetable.
This man must have had a hell of a reason to undergo such a risky operation.
“I’m not really sure why you’ve been killing us, but that isn’t really my business. An enemy of The Devil Triad is an enemy of mine.” The dockmaster levels his weapon at you. “I’ll feed whatever’s left of your body to Lotan once I’m done with you.”
LEVEL SIX – MAMMON, HEAD OF THE TREASURY
Despite the carnage – and there is plenty of that, considering the goons you’ve slaughtered on your way in – you can’t help but admire your surroundings. The walls are plastered with gold brocade, each golden strand woven skillfully into the  material, and the endless corridors are furnished with priceless works of art. You almost feel guilty for tarnishing them with blood. Windows composed of stained glass stretch to lofty ceilings. Carved statues of crows greet you at every turn, their marble beaks and wings poised in warning. You pass by countless mahogany doors, each emblazoned with the insignia of The Devil Triad, and kick down just as many to interrogate the inhabitants within.
Much to your disappointment, however, it seems that even the threat of death isn’t enough to make them speak.
You pause in front of a particularly massive portrait . The frame of the portrait seems to have been cast from pure gold and embedded with precious stones, which is shocking enough – but it is the painted image that truly captures your attention. The man depicted within is surrounded with pelts of exotic animals. His fingers bear multiple rings on each digit, his ears bear piercings in the shape of crows and ravens, and the material of his suit suggests that it has been made from augment-weave. The man’s hair is so bleached that it appears white. His smile portrays a damning cockiness.
It is the very image of decadence and greed.
You travel into the highest reaches of the treasury. The guards are no match for you, of course. You behead one of them before they can even speak. One well-placed kick to the most exorbitant, elaborate door you’ve ever seen, and you stroll into a massive office.
A man – the very same man you had seen in the painting, you recognize – sits at the desk, swirling brandy in a glass. Mammon, the head of The Devil Triad’s treasury. He regards you with interest as you pass the threshold. Despite your bloody, battered state, you level your katana at him and demand to know the location of The Devil Triad’s main operations. They’ve taken the little brother you’ve cared for all your life, and you intend to get him back.
The treasurer sighs. “Hasty, aren’t ya?” he remarks, taking a sip out of his glass. “Least you can do is let me finish. Vintage stuff like this is pretty hard to come by in Neo-Osaka, ya know.”
Your katana knocks the glass from his hands. It shatters against the polished floor. He shouldn’t fuck with you, you recommend. You’ve fought too hard and suffered too much to be played with now. If he would be so kind as to tell you what you want to know, then you might let him --
A shot rings out. Your forearm burns as the bullet tears through it, searing through a bit of your clothing, and you are just barely able to dodge the second shot. You look up to see a very, very pissed off treasurer before you, one of his fancy shoes propped up onto the desk. His augment-weave suit rumples with the movement.
Except he isn’t looking at you. The treasurer, you realize, is staring at a stain from the brandy on his augment-weave suit. A stain that is entirely your fault. When he whirls around to look at you again, his expression only speaks of ire and hatred. Apparently the slaughtering of his underlings means nothing compared to his tailored suit.
“Thought you could pull a fast one on me, didn’t ya?” he barks. His multiple sets of rings click together as he reaches under the table. “Well, ya got another thing coming!”
Every crow statue in the massive office orients itself towards you, their beaks opening to reveal firearms within. Countless lights make themselves known  against your body. The treasurer scowls as he grabs a golden plasma rifle from beneath his desk, powers it up, and hefts it over his shoulder. Aims it right at your head. The glare he shoots you nearly burns through his orange sunglasses.
“Come on, then!” the treasurer snarls. “I’ll show ya the power money can buy!”
LEVEL SEVEN – LUCIFER, THE RIGHT-HAND MAN
Something is wrong here. You’re all too aware of the emptiness of the compound. The corridors are unlit. No shadows linger behind the shoji doors and walls. There is only an eerie silence. You pass by gardens of stone and running water, arched bridges, and well-tended flowerbeds. You pass by dark alcoves, monochromatic passageways, and fragrant incense. Your eyes flicker to and fro as you explore the compound, expecting some enemy to come rushing at you from the darkness, but your efforts are wasted. You are alone.
For a while, that is.
A man in traditional garb kneels in the middle of a massive, otherwise empty washitsu. A sword sits at his side. Moonlight spills into the space as you open the door and pass the threshold. The man doesn’t flinch when you address him, nor does he bother to respond when you press him for information. The sound of your unsheathing katana doesn’t seem to faze him either, which infuriates you, and then you are pressing the tip of your weapon to the nape of his neck. You demand to know where your brother is.
The movement is too quick for your eyes to catch. You curse as you stagger backwards, clutching your abdomen in pain. The image of him before you blurs, despite the sufficient amount of light in the room, and your body sways unsteadily.
And then you realize exactly what the man has done to you.
Despite the brevity of the man’s attack, his blade has somehow made its way through a majority of your torso, disemboweling you. You watch in horror as your clothing blooms with the excessive blood. As your organs threaten to leave the cavity of your abdomen. As hands fail to keep most of your intestines in the right place. The man only looks at you with disdain as you fall to your knees, gasping in pain. The sensation burns like a fire through your veins, white-hot and excruciating, and for a few moments you see nothing but patches of shadow. For a few moments you waver in and out of consciousness.
But you won’t die. Not here, and certainly not now.
You slam your blade into the ground and force yourself back onto your feet. The microbots in your blood work to knit your flesh back together, reattaching your organs and skin back into the right places. With one trembling arm, you level your katana at him once more. A challenge.
“So it’s true,” the man muses, flicking his blade. Your blood splatters against the tatami. “I didn’t quite believe the rumors. Congratulations on surviving my first attack.”
You tell him quite thoroughly just how much of a fucking bastard he is.
Much to your surprise, however, the man bows towards you. He introduces himself as Lucifer, the right-hand man of The Devil Triad’s boss, and politely informs you that he has been sent to eliminate you. You bested the others because they were weak and relied on modifications, he explains with a disdainful tone. You bested the others because they were overconfident in their altered physiology. The others saw your modification as common and therefore useless, unlike theirs, and so you had used that to your advantage. It was only the factor of their underestimation that led to their defeat.
He, on the other hand, needs no such things. Altered physiology is nothing to the training and discipline that only a pure human can master.
Lucifer readies his blade. “I look forward to witnessing your skill.”
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taexual · 4 years
Text
HOLIC - 48 | jb x reader
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pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader
genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au
warnings: angst
words: 3.4k
disclaimer: i do not own the gif, please let me know if it belongs to you, so i can give proper credit
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The next few days passed by surprisingly quickly. You’ve set your mind on a fair number of things and finally relieved yourself of some of the exhausting doubts that have clouded your mind for as long as you could remember. Most importantly, you’d decided to quit your job at the gallery – and, thus, began your last week of work before you moved on, diving head-first into the dark unknown.
Knowing that you wouldn’t have to work there anymore and no longer having to stress out about your potential exhibition made every morning much easier as you no longer had to spend the first fifteen minutes after waking up cursing at every inanimate object in your way. On top of that, although plunging yourself into the abyss of uncertainty was relatively scary, you still felt alive with excitement. Not to mention, now you had much more time to find a new job, all while rehearsing the words you were going to say to Jaebum once Jackson finally called you with a way for you two to meet.
You had decided to start to work on a new version of yourself but, first, you needed to fix your relationship with Jaebum. That was the only broken thing from your past that you wanted to take into the future with you. No, “wanted” didn’t quite describe it – needed, perhaps. You needed this relationship to continue because you were afraid of your life without it. You were waiting for Jaebum to make the choice of where to go from here but, even though the reins were in his hands, you weren’t going to stop fighting for the one solid thing on an otherwise rocky foundation of your life.
This determination was a relatively new feeling for you but it was the only feeling that you were certain about. If, like Jaebum, you had to pick the most prominent emotion that you were feeling and put it into your art, you’d have picked the overflowing love and inserted it into all things around you until your surroundings were screaming as loud as your heart was.
Thinking of Jaebum was what made the wait for Jackon’s call so difficult. You went on with your life – or, tried to – choosing to busy yourself with work instead of sulking, but you couldn’t help but feel your mind wander back to him again. It was like the aforementioned love always pulled your thoughts towards him, never letting your mind stray from him for too long.
And that was how, after convincing Eva that you weren’t going to change your mind about quitting, you finished your day at work, and found yourself looking at the pictures of Jaebum you’ve taken on the day he brought you to Jackson’s studio for the first time. Looking at them brought back all the memories, especially accentuating the fight you and him had had before he gave in and finally played “Don’t Touch Me” to you.
You’d both done and said some awful things to each other that night and you could still recall how much Jaebum’s doubts about you made your chest sting. What made it hurt even more, however – actually, so much more, that for one passing moment, you thought you were having a real heart attack – was Jaebum’s confession that he was terrified of himself around you because he wasn’t thinking. Because he forgave and forgot, and kept giving you second chances every time you did something that raised red flags in his overly-alert mind.
The memory made it hard to breathe all of a sudden.
You’d been so angry and so upset with him for saying those things – for even thinking that you’d ever treat him in any way that he didn’t deserve – and then you made his fears come true by omitting the truth. By selecting which parts of your life you wanted him in. By lying, just like he was afraid you would.
Closing your laptop shut, you got up from the bed and left your room as you tried to breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth. It was a pathetic attempt to calm down, really, because it seemed as though your heart was now a whole separate being that was powered by your anxiety and had promptly gone into overdrive.
Breathing exercises didn’t help. Drinking water didn’t help. Lying down made it even worse.
It was the sort of wave of suffering and self-hate that you could have only been saved from if someone told you that everything was going to be okay. No, not someone—him. But he wasn’t here and it didn’t seem like it was going to be okay – hence why you were nearly shedding your skin as you tried to find a way to break out of the paralyzing chains of pain.
You’ve lived through the past few days worried and anxious but still in control. You’ve lived hoping and anticipating your conversation with Jaebum. You’ve considered what you were going to say. You’ve even rehearsed it all. But the consequences of your words is what pained you now.
You haven’t given Jaebum’s response any thought. You had set your mind on explaining yourself to him and giving him enough time and space to decide what he wanted to do but now the raw grips of panic were tearing you into pieces just at the thought of Jaebum choosing not to do this anymore. And the worst part was, you didn’t think it was fair for you to keep on fighting if he gave this up. He was just as mature as you were and he had certainly thought about this as much as you have – what would you even say if he told you to leave?
He had every right to let your relationship go because he deserved one where he would never be put in a situation like this. You didn’t think you had a right to search for ways to make him stay with you if your behavior proved to make him suffer. If you turned out to be as toxic for him as the girl you’d tried so desperately to save him from.
Suddenly, it felt like this was the last time you were standing in your kitchen. And, in a way, you were glad. You felt trapped here, in this room. You felt just as trapped in your own body – but the helpless feeling was slowly fading. Searching for an empty glass inside one of the kitchen counters calmed your heartrate down, replacing the desperate wave of fear you’d felt with a silent numbess.
It was as if a sixth sense had opened something up inside of your heart – subconsciously, you knew what was going to happen the next second, so your mind and body had to prepare in advance: you couldn’t possibly start to hyperventilate when Jackson finally called. And, as soon as you grasped the glass of water in your shaky hands, trying to keep yourself hydrated despite the pointlessness of the task, your phone finally rang.
You lunged for it, drops of water spilling on the kitchen island – empty now that Jaebum wasn’t here to eat meals with you – and nearly landing on your phone, too. You could barely keep yourself together when you saw Jackson’s name on the screen.
“Yes?” you picked up, the one word coming from the back of your throat and thus making you sound like you just woke up even though it was way past into the afternoon now.
“Hey. Sorry it took me so long to call you back,” Jackson started and you couldn’t help but notice the voices in the back of his call. You wondered if Jaebum was there with him. “I—I’ve found a way for you to talk to him.”
Your entire chest seemed to expand to provide more space for your wild heart as it continuously banged against every single rib in your ribcage.
“You did?” you asked, the words coming out in a huff.
“Yeah. There’s, uh, this party his label is hosting this Friday,” Jackson said, quieter now as if he was trusting you with a big secret. “We’ve both been invited and, even though he said he’s not going, I’ll drag him there myself. One of the producers owns this club downtown, so we’re getting a private lounge, and, you know, it seems like a good spot as any for a serious conversation. Away from the maddening crowd, so to speak.”
“Yes, yes, that sounds perfect,” you were nodding frantically. “Are you sure you can get him to come, though? Jaebum isn’t really someone that gives in to persuasion easily.”
“That’s true but alcohol makes this much easier for me,” Jackson replied. “He won’t miss a chance to get drunk. Especially amidst all that’s happening, you know?”
“Yeah. Right.”
“So, anyway,” he added quickly after catching the discouraged tone in your voice. “I’ll send you the address and let the security know you’re my plus-one.”
“Okay,” you inhaled deeply, “thank you so much. I-I—you have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
Shuffling was heard on the other end – from the sound of it, you assumed Jackson was avoiding a group of people that just walked past him – before he replied, “it’s alright. You can pay me back by getting back together. There might be a million-dollar song on the line here, yeah? He can’t write it if he’s not with you.”
“I—”
“I’ll see you Friday,” Jackson said. He must have known you could never find what to say whenever the topic of Jaebum writing a song about you was brought up. “Don’t overthink this, okay? Jaebum might not show it, but I have no doubt that he’s dying to talk to you, too.”
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Friday turned out to be an eventful day. For one, it was your official last day at the gallery – handing in the employee badge that you’ve worn around your neck for the past few years was rather bittersweet: relieving, on the one hand, but also rather glum – but it was also the night of Jaebum’s party. It truly felt like today was going to be the last day of your old life – one last hoorah before you started a new era – and you even debated getting a haircut, to really imprint the change that was coming.
As it turned out, you didn’t have any time for a haircut. You barely had enough time to decide on an outfit before, packing up your phone, wallet, keys, panic, and anxiety, you walked out of the door of your empty apartment and headed downstairs to catch a cab.
The ride to the club wasn’t very long, so you didn’t have enough time to rehearse the words you planned to tell Jaebum one more time, but that didn’t really worry you much. You had a feeling your entire thought process was going to end up in shambles as soon as you saw him, anyway.
Once the cab stopped and you stepped into a busy street, it took you a good minute to find Jackson – if he wasn’t waving his hand like a madman, you’d have probably missed him – and then another minute to actually reach him as the people, crowding outside of the club, were very intent on pulling you to the back of the line.
“Hi, sorry there’s such a commotion here,” Jackson said once you finally made it to the door. “I’ve told them it wouldn’t be smart to throw a private party at a club that already goes over capacity every Friday night as it is but no one ever listens to me. Should we go in?”
You nodded, too out of breath to actually respond, and followed him inside. The security guard merely glanced at you before nodding and allowing you two to enter – Jackson, clearly, was a familiar face – and, before you could even prepare yourself properly, you were suddenly listening to the same loud, organ-clenching EDM song that Jaebum was probably listening to.
“Alright,” Jackson stated—and then repeated himself louder when you squinted your eyes as if that could help you hear him better. “Jaebum is upstairs. He got here first and I told him to wait for me in the lounge.”
“Okay—”
You had already turned towards the staircase at the back of the club but Jackson grabbed your hand. “Ah, hold on—you need a drink before you go see him. Let’s take a quick detour to the bar, yeah?”
You had to admit, that wasn’t such a bad idea, so you allowed him to pull you towards the bar where a few girls were already dancing on the bartop lit up by dozens of neon-LED lights. The atmosphere in the club was buzzing with life and it was so electrifying, you were surprised to find yourself loosening up even before you had your first drink.
Jackson took the liberty of ordering while you were too busy watching the captivating dance moves of one of the bartop girls – for someone who seemed as drunk as she was, her movements were surprisingly smooth and, honestly, rather captivating.
“I’m sorry if that’s out of line for me to say,” Jackson spoke, distracting your attention, “but you look different. How have you been doing?”
“Oh. I’m—well, I’ve been trying to move on from the things that made my life miserable,” you said but weren’t sure how much he heard because, just as you started to speak, the DJ changed the song, and the gaggle of young-adults next to you proceeded to screech at the top of their lungs. “Uh, unfortunately, I can’t move on from my own self, so I’ve been trying to make a change in my life instead. I-I guess that might be why I look different.”
“That’s good!” Jackson nodded enthusiastically, not hearing all that you’ve said but definitely catching the most important parts. “I didn’t say it was a bad different. What have you changed so far?”
“I’ve, uh—” once again, you got interrupted by the bartender bringing you and Jackson the drinks he’d ordered, “I’ve quit my job.”
Jackson’s enthusiastic smile suddenly faltered, “oh, shit. You did? What are you doing now?”
“Nothing, really. Searching for a new one,” you replied with a small shrug. “Something behind the stage, preferably. I’ve had enough customer service experience to last me a lifetime.”
He chuckled at this, picking up his drink and encouraging you to do the same. Somehow, you’ve never tried rum before but, after just a sip of the Cuba Libre in your hand, you couldn’t really tell why. It tasted far more like coke than rum and yet you could still feel the buzzing effects of the alcohol as it entered your bloodstream.
“Yeah, I suppose galleries don’t get the best specimen when it comes to clients,” Jackson said once he emptied his glass. “What about your exhibition?”
“Oh,” you took a final sip and put the empty glass down – carefully, so the girl dancing on the bartop nearby wouldn’t accidentally kick it over, “that’s not happening. I’ve said some pretty fancy words to Jiho the last time I saw him, so it’s over. I’m not really hosting one anymore.”
Jackson noted that you didn’t look overly upset about that – in fact, he was sure he saw you smile when you mentioned the last conversation with Jiho you’ve had – but he’s been around enough artists to know how deep the wounds inflicted by a crushed dream could be.
“Well, why don’t you come to me?” he offered.
You frowned, unsure what he meant. “What?”
“To work, I mean,” he explained. “You already know how big my family is on art. We’ve been investing in artists that aren’t just musicians. Actually, my very first job was modeling, did I ever tell you that? My parents hosted this whole photoshoot for me when I was, probably, two months old? The photographer said I was a star.”
You laughed. “Oh, wow, over twenty years in the modeling industry and you’re not even thirty. That’s impressive.”
“I know, right?” he played along, smirking. “But, anyway—why don’t you think about it? Not modeling, I mean. Photography. My family—they’re nice people. We look out for each other and it’s always art that comes first for us.”
It felt like a rather witty—and subtle, no doubt—way to chastise you for choosing to work with someone who thought of publicity before thinking of the art, and you felt your face heat up as you looked away from him.
“T-that’s good,” you commented awkwardly, not having expected to get scolded—yet again—on your decisions by someone who wasn’t Jaebum. You’d prepared yourself for his opinion only. “That’s a great attitude.”
“It is. I think so, too,” Jackson said, not noticing—or, choosing not to notice—your embarrassed state. “And you’re a talented artist. I understand that your mind is probably elsewhere right now—”
“Yeah,” you stretched nervously, “sort of.”
“—but do know that your dream isn’t entirely hopeless, okay?” he finished. “If you want something enough, there will always be a way to make it happen. I’m here for you.”
You’ve heard these words before but they seemed to have a different meaning tonight. Perhaps because you finally realized what the thing you wanted more than anything was.
“Thank you, Jackson,” you said, the thoughts of Jaebum being nearby doing the work that the rum and coke didn’t. You felt positively intoxicated already. “Seriously, I—I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it,” Jackson waved his hand and then helped you stand from the bar stool as soon as he realized your mind could only be distracted from Jaebum for so long. “Now go. Talk to him.”
You exhaled shakily, closing your eyes for a few moments to mentally prepare yourself. “Right. I’m going.”
“Everything will be okay,” Jackson reminded you, “as long as you focus on what’s really important.”
You nodded one last time and then allowed his warm smile to push you towards the stairs, leading up to the VIP lounge where Jaebum thought he was waiting for Jackson.
With each step that you took, coming closer and closer to seeing him, you kept thinking about what so many people have said to you the past few weeks – if you wanted something enough, you could find a way to make it happen. They’ve all been talking about your ambitions in life – the exhibitions and the career as a photographer – but, the truth was, those were the things you’d have liked to have but they weren’t exactly the things that you wanted.
What you wanted the most in life – with ten more steps separating you from Jaebum – was to have a purpose. To have it and not to lose it. And you knew what the purpose of life was because you had it found it way before you met Jiho or even started to think about hosting any exhibitions.
Love.
As corny and cliché as it was, that was it. Everyone knew it but they liked to pretend that they didn’t. They searched for something else – money, work, children – but, at the end of the day, it always came down to love. The strongest emotion a living creature was able to feel, so much stronger and all-consuming than any shape or form of anger or hatred.
Knocking on the door and waiting, you were able to understand that love might have started wars but love ended them, too. Love was the beginning and love was the end. And – as you watched Jaebum’s red eyes appear behind the black door of the private lounge room – you knew you didn’t want your love to end. You knew you couldn’t lose your purpose in life.
“Jaebum,” you exhaled, the loud music from the club downstairs almost drowning out your voice. He stopped short at the sight of you. You couldn’t see it but, inside of his chest, a heart that seemed to freeze when he left your shared apartment, was slowly beginning to beat again. “Can we talk?”
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arcticdementor · 3 years
Link
I linked this at instapundit some time ago. But from the fact that a friend sent me this link today, I presume it’s not widely known. The link I put at instapundit was from American Thinker. And for once their title was the most accurate thing ever: Executive Order Canceling the Constitution.
If you’re wondering how that is possible, wonder no more. You know how our government freezes assets of enemy governments? Like Iran’s assets that the FICUS is dying to unfreeze ASAP?
Well, the veneer-thin coat of legality on this bullshit relates to that. At the same time that Dementia Joe and The Commie Ho are giving money and actual nuclear tech to declared enemies of the US, they are declaring US citizens who so much as dare talk against them as enemy collaborators and traitors. And because they’re owned by China (though anyone who thinks that stopping fracking and the keystone pipeline is not a big sloppy kiss to Putin needs their heads examined. It’s in fact the kiss of life, since the only thing Russians have worth anything is oil and they were in deep trouble before China stooges stole our elections) they are of course doing it by screaming Russia, Russia Russia!
All they have to do is make a list of those they consider to be Russian agents. The executive order itself says you can’t dispute your inclusion in this list.
(c) This order is not intended to, and does not, create any right or benefit, substantive or procedural, enforceable at law or in equity by any party against the United States, its departments, agencies, or entities, its officers, employees, or agents, or any other person.
Oh, yeah, all your property will be impounded, and everyone is forbidden from doing business with you. On the say-so of corrupt agencies and people who have been lying to us for years.
And there’s nothing you can do, and anyone who helps you faces a similar fate.
This was signed on the 15th of April. Do you think there aren’t already things going on to make this work? Do you think that we’re not all already on that list?
Do you think it’s a coincidence you’ve not seen this bullshit anywhere? (And btw the link on top is to the government itself.)
Now, if they were sending goons to collect you, those of you who haven’t lost all your guns in a tragic boating accident would shoot, and it would be on like Donkey Kong.
But that’s not what will happen, and that’s why I’m writing this and asking everyone of you who has a blog and who knows they’re probably already on the list to share it. Or of course if you’re brave enough not to mind if you’re on the list. Note the “your spouse and adult children” too, which is intended to stop you doing anything, for the love of your kids.
I’ve seen this before. Very few people know that the “revolutionary” governments in Portugal froze bank accounts and assets of anyone who spoke out against them. One day you’d go to your bank to remove money, and you couldn’t. Your bank account was frozen as an enemy of the state.
Oh, you have a mortgage? Kids in school? Bills to pay? How terrible and sad it is that you are now functionally a pauper.
As for suddenly finding no one would give you a job, I never even figured out how word went out on that, and I don’t if anyone ever did.
Now, the times we’re living in? Will anyone notice a large number of people becoming suddenly unemployed, and/or having their house foreclosed upon? Help? Well, all they have to do is send a few people who look like government agents to your neighborhood and ask your neighbors (and friends, and associates) questions while strongly implied you’re a traitor working for a foreign power.
Your weapons? Well, then. Surely, you’ll sell them long before it comes time to …. well…. to starve I suppose.
Oh, but surely states will oppose this?
If it’s done the way it was in Portugal, most people won’t even be aware it is going on. Whatever the mechanisms are for flagging foreign enemies in the US — and they are there, and have been, from when our agencies were slightly less corrupt than they are now — will just be deployed, as they have always been, but against anyone who publicly and loudly disapproves of the Junta.
And the thing is it will be done behind the scenes, quietly. Through extorsion, and cancelling and whisper campaigns, to discredit and destroy their enemies, and taint them with the label of foreign agents, all without a legal process or any sort of ability to confront their accusers.
At some point, they’ll “notice” the ten million or so new homeless, (hell, the opening of the borders might disguise this, rather neatly, too) and out of their “humane concern,” they’ll create places you can go and be housed and fed.
Do I need to tell you it’s a trap?
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This is just a way to round up desperate people. It might also in the end be a way to get rid of the homeless, which rest assured they intend to, once they’re done using it to drive the country’s cities to shit.
Paranoid? Did you read that Executive Order? If not, go do it, I’ll wait.
Now will this be applied ruthlessly and efficiently? Guys, this lot couldn’t shoot a lame fish in a barrel. No, but it will be applied irregularly, annoyingly, and deployed as an instrument of terror to make a large number of people shut up and go along, for fear for their livelihood, their kids, their friends.
It will be, as what they’re already doing to the military and police, a shit show designed to cow people into silence and into fear of losing everything.
Will it work? Oh, for a while at least. I mean, it is working on our military and police.
In my case it puts me in a bit of a pickle, as I don’t like camping, and I’m not young enough to survive long out there. But that’s okay. Personal survival is desirable but not important.
So, I know in the long run they can’t win. In fact, the harder they push, the faster they fall.
BUT–
If this goes into action, as stupid and imperfectly as it will be implemented, it will hurt and perhaps kill a lot of people.
If you’re at risk:
1- Have an alternate identity if you can. I don’t even know how to go about that, except perhaps a ring around the rosy of dbas, trusts and corps. Remember, they’re not nearly as efficient or good at tracing things as they think they are. Our secret services were redesigned by a man who can’t figure out how to go through a gate with an umbrella. And he hired people who think he’s smart.
2- Be ready to decamp at the drop of a hat, if it becomes obvious your financial life is frozen, and there’s nothing you can do for money. Decamp where? Well, not abroad. As I pointed out above, if the wheels come off here, they’ll come off and explode abroad. If you can own something outright through a trust or a corp or something, this might be a place to go. If you can’t…. have you considered winter camping gear?
3- Don’t leave yourself defenseless. Don’t sell weapons. Don’t consign yourself to the tender mercies of the government.
Oh, yeah, and keep your clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark.
4- Other than that? Find a way to keep being heard. If all you can do is paint the words in blood on phone poles do so. But again, they’re not nearly as smart as they think they are. Find new identities and new ways back on line.
All you have to do is survive this for a year, maybe a little more. And the way to survive it is not to act the way the left would, which is the way they expect everyone to act.
Don’t surrender. Don’t give up. Don’t ask for help.
And keep coming back when they least expect it.
If that EO doesn’t show you they’re not Americans, they’re insane, and they mean to be dictators, I don’t know what will. Make sure people know the powers the Junta is arrogating to itself. Make sure they can’t do this quietly.
And may G-d have mercy on America.
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purplelurkinghini · 4 years
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won’t find me perching here again
Firstly, I’m sorry you’re scrolling past this. But not as sorry as I am for everybody in the group chat yesterday that happened to scroll past the beta version of this.
Secondly, once the clock stroke horny o’ clock, I left only to write over 1500 nasty words in one sitting.
Finally, enjoy some Professor Jonathan Crane X AFAB!Reader. Or don’t.
You heard the dawn break. Well, you heard something, but it sure wasn’t the sun groaning as it rose. It was last night’s date.
He’s been in your bookstore many times before, but he only introduced himself once.
“Jonathan Crane,” he folded in half over the hand you’d offered and kissed it. “Professor of Psychology.” He must’ve been justifying his purchases, yet he’s been buying fiction books in equal amounts, so English Literature was your second guess. Serial killer had been your first. “Are you closing all by yourself tonight?”
You covered up your laugh with an uncharacteristically coquettish move as you raised the hand he send shock waves through with just his lips to your mouth. He always came in just before closing time to make the biggest purchase of the day. It’s not like he hadn’t witnessed you handle the establishment all by yourself before. “I’m a big girl, Professor. I can tie my own shoes, close my own shop and everything.”
“I’m not making your job any easier, am I, child?” He made a show of looking at his wristwatch as if he wasn't aware of the time. “And it’s late. Let me make up for my poor timing by driving you home.”
You’d tell the other employees you didn’t mind having to deal with him by yourself. You’d tell them you only put up with him because you could always get him to spent even more money than last time. You’d tell them he was your favorite customer because of that. It had nothing to do with him listening to you ramble on and on about your recommendations. Nor did it have anything to do with the decadent cadence of his voice when he read the blurbs at the back of each book.
You told yourself you only accepted his warm kindness because you didn’t feel like waiting for the train in a cold empty station. You told yourself you had to offer him some tea after droving you all the way to your neighborhood. You told yourself it was just common courtesy to give him a good night kiss right on the lips as he was putting his coat back on.
You lied to yourself as he carried you to the bedroom. You lied to yourself until you couldn’t do it anymore, until he tossed you on top of the comforter and made a mess of your covers, but not as much of a mess as he made of you.
Now, satiated and sore, you returned to reality only to have the realization that the man responsible for your ravished state was up and out of bed. Not only that, but he was shuffling around, turning things over, zipping up his slacks.
“Really now?” He sounded more like the professor who kissed your hand and less like the beast who bit into your shoulder.
He was looking for his shirt, the same one you’d fallen asleep in. But you couldn’t return it just yet. You were still asleep, remember?
As the sound of his footsteps faded, you listened for the bathroom, the kitchen and, with a squeeze of your heart, the front door opening and closing. It never came.
And what did come, you never expected: the sound of your whisk. And, later, the sound of your toaster. You tried to make sense of it all, as if you were hearing them being used for the first time from your bedroom. And it was the first time. Nobody has ever prepared breakfast for you before.
You rolled onto your back and let the smell of eggs, toast and his cologne fill your nose. Then you released your heart and let it fill with affection. And, as you stretched, you let yourself be filled with hope. Hope? When was the last time you got this naked and let your soul go for a skinny dip in those tempestuous tides? Hope, huh?
“Good morning,” you leaned against the door frame lazily with a lull of your sleepy head.
“Good morning, Briar Rose,” he set up the table for one. Just one? “I hope you like omelette.”
“Briar Rose?” You questioned his choice of literally references in the same breath as his table set-up. Your heart had to suffer another squeeze as you braced yourself. “I love omelette. Won’t you have some?”
He had been cooking with nothing but a kitchen towel covering his left shoulder. You could see that all the scratches - your markings - were starting to fade. It wasn’t fair. You had his teeth tattooed onto your flesh for all the weeks to come, for all those cold, lonely nights.
“I’m afraid I’m running late as it is.” To start, he had to wipe his hands on the towel before putting it back on the rack. Next, he had to put your hair back behind your ear to reveal your shoulder. His shirt had fallen off of it, or maybe you let it slip. He had marked his territory the night before. You hoped - there’s that word again - that he hadn’t forgotten because you yourself wouldn't be allowed that luxury. “I’ll need my dress shirt back.” He then pushed himself away as if he hadn't been that close in the first place.
But he had been closer. Close enough to carve himself a place in your chest cavity. Close enough to leave you walking on lame legs. So close, you were sure he’d drilled himself a place inside you only his cock could fill.
“No.”
“No?”
“You can’t have your shirt back until I change. And I won’t change until I’m done eating.”
He crossed his arms, two wiry things, in front of his chest, a flat surface. But those were the same arms that carried you across your apartment as if you weighted nothing. And that was the chest you dug your nails into, but never gave up any blood.
“I don’t have time for games, child.”
“I don’t play when it comes to food,” you settled in your seat. “That’s why we’ll be sharing.” You pulled out a chair and patted it. “Unless you really did sprinkle poison onto my eggs.”
“Serves me right for trying to be a gentleman.” The professor seemed to have no problem playing along. He sat down and dug in without giving you a lecture about lateness first.
Before you could swallow your first bite, he was choking on his. His fork fell to the floor as his hand started scratching away at the skin of his throat. His eyes were wide and watery and his face was red and fiery. Your own food got trapped in your asophagus as you cried out. “Oh, fuck!”
His throat bobbed and a laugh bubbled to the surface. “I got you good, didn’t I?”
“What?” You were choking and, unlike the little prank he pulled on you, it was not an act.
A glass of water was your salvation. It was the least he could do. Maybe he thought two would make everything right because he filled up a second glass right after.
“I thought you were dying. I thought-”
“You thought I took a bite out of a poisoned omelette I’d prepared especially for you?”
“I get it, okay?” You chugged the contents of the glass before sighing. Relief. “You scared me.”
“Did I?” He didn’t take his seat back, so he was at his full height looking down at you at only half of yours. “Look at me,” he pushed your hair past your shoulder again. He was admiring what he’d marked as his own. Again. “Look at me,” he pressed his thumb into the tender flesh.
Your eyes were two fully dilated pupils drowning in tears and your breath was short and loud.
“There it is,” he had his hand around your shoulder, his thumb burying itself deeper into the bruise. As it slid up, the shirt fell further down. And when his fingers found your throat only to tightened their hold, half of your chest was exposed. “It suits you.”
The tears that had been trapped in your eyes were falling freely. The hand that had been holding the glass was at his wrist. “Wait,” you shattered the silence along with the shards spreading across the floor. “What are you-”
“If I wanted you dead, it would have been with this look on your face,” he heaved as if he were the one being strangled. He spoke as if he was the one forced to struggle. “Oh, what are you doing to me, child?”
“Please-”
“I was supposed to be in my lab last night,” he forced you to your feet and your plate to the floor. “I was supposed to be making a breakthrough,” he threw you on top the table. He never once let go of your throat. “Not all up in your cunt until the ass crack of dawn!”
You couldn’t see clearly through the tears in your eyes or past the sunrise shining in his spectacles, but you knew this couldn’t have been the man that kissed your hand, held the door open and drove you home. This was the beast that nearly broke your bed.
“At least,” his grip loosened on your neck only to tighten in your hair. He pulled until you poured out sweet, sweet sound he got drunk off of last night. “I got to hear you scream.”
“Professor?”
“You’ll scream for me again, won’t you?” And while he was treading his fingers through your tassels instead of pulling and smoothing his hand around your neck instead of squeezing, he wasn’t being any less threatening. Any less alluring.
“No.” And while your spine was shivering and your words were wavering, you still locked your ankles around him
“No?”
“I’m not af-f-”
“Is that why your chin is wobbling in my hand? Is that why your legs are shaking around me?”
“I’m not afraid.”
He said he didn’t have time, but he must’ve been lying. If he had to waste all of last night because you were too wet, he would have to waste this morning as well. You were dripping.
“Then let’s play a game then. You scream, I get my shirt back.”
You would have screamed right then and there, a morning call for all your neighbors to wake up to. But the game would be over all too soon.
“And if I don’t?”
“You will.”
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More Than Words (Eleven)
Probably tissues again for this one, but not too many, hopefully the tears are tears of joy at the end?? Generic TW because sometimes descriptions of grief/mourning can be difficult to read. 
MTW MASTERLIST HERE
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Peter remembered the day they laid Uncle Ben to rest. 
He wasn’t old enough to remember his parent’s funeral-- or maybe he’d blocked it all out like the grief counselor had suggested to May-- but he remembered Ben’s funeral as it had been yesterday. 
He remembered the flowers and the way the church smelled, the too bright sunshine that was ill fitting to such a terrible day, the condolences that had meant nothing because no words could make losing Ben any less painful. 
Peter remembered staring down at the familiar face in the coffin and wondering where Uncle Ben had gone, cos the body in front of him wasn’t his Uncle, the body wasn’t family, it was just a body without a soul and not the man Peter had loved like a father. 
Peter remembered the way Auntie May had gone through the following weeks as if on auto play, her movements robotic, her eyes sad through every day chores.
 “Life goes on, Peter.” she had whispered when he crawled in her bed at night to cry. “Life goes on whether my world has stoped turning or not. Sometimes the routine is the only thing that keeps me together, so I’ll get up tomorrow and do the dishes just like I always do, do laundry and grocery shop. Life goes on even after heartbreak, and sometimes the routine is the only thing stopping us from giving up right then and there.” 
Peter had taken his Auntie’s advice and got up for school the next day even though he only wanted to lie in the dark forever. He remembered the hushed way every one had moved around him in the halls, the teachers that made a point of coming by to check on him and he remembered the day he told his physics teachers, “I’m not accepting the internship. Physics won’t save the world. Why should I be studying in a lab when people are dying out there every day for no good reason?” 
Aunt May had cried when Peter shoved all his science textbooks in the bottom of his closet and turned his attention towards journalism, towards listening to the police scanner and making charts and graphs about the rise of crime in their part of the city. He’d spent the day of graduation interviewing people in one of the worst neighborhoods, trying to understand more about the world Uncle Ben’s killer had come from, and what could be done for change so people weren’t driven to violence for the sake of a few dollars.
A degree in journalism had given the Omega a chance to write papers about the homeless in their city, articles about rising housing costs and stagnant wages and the resulting hopelessness, scathing editorials about the rich taking everything and leaving only crumbs for the workers trying to survive. 
Grief over losing Ben had turned into an obsession with righting the wrongs in the city, and the obsession had led directly to Peter investigating the Hammer Corporation ‘employee housing’ and then exposing the billionaire’s corrupt influence among the poorest parts of town. 
Ben’s funeral had been what spurred Peter towards a career trying to change the world, and seeing Aunt May go on day after day though her heart was broken beyond repair had encouraged Peter to wake up every morning and work even though it had so often felt like a losing battle. 
Peter remembered all of it-- the blinding grief and the stubborn determination, every difficult step forward and the melancholy tainting each memory left behind. He remembered nights crying and days lying about everything being okay, the depression he thought would strangle him, the fear that put him on his knees in despair. 
And he remembered Aunt May smiling through her tears and whispering that life had to go on, that the world kept turning, and sometimes a routine was the only thing keeping her together. 
Routine. 
Bea and Arthur’s stalls needed mucked out, the goat would be screaming to be milked. There were eggs to gather and the kindling box to refill and wood to chop. Coffee to start and breakfast to make, meat to chop up and dump in a pot to make stock for soup. 
Routine. 
There were a hundred things to do today and Peter should get started on them.
He didn’t even know how long he’d been sitting with the Alpha’s head on his lap, feeling for a nonexistent pulse and a ceased heartbeat. It might have been hours since Peter had woken up to find Wade gone, but he hadn’t been able to move away. The Omega’s mind had gone immediately to Ben’s funeral, immediately to the unsettling thought he’d had all those years ago looking down into his Uncle’s coffin-- 
--It was just a body in front of him, not the spirit and soul of someone he loved. 
Just a body. 
His Alpha was gone, but life would go on. His world had stopped turning but there were chores to do. The routine would keep him together, keeping him from falling to pieces and giving up. 
“You aren’t you anymore.” he whispered, the words steady and awful. “You look like you, but you aren’t my Alpha. You’re just a shell of him, not his spirit, not his soul. I--I can’t feel you.” 
Peter put a hand to his own heart and shook his head. “I can’t feel you anymore.” 
He was numb clear through to his toes, stiff from sitting in the same spot for so long, freezing despite the warm coals in the fireplace. His tongue felt thick, his head fuzzy, labored gasps sounding as if it were far away. It took every bit of his waning strength just to breathe, to blink and Peter was grateful for the blurry edges that crowded his vision and became a detachment from everything awful in front of him. 
Soon the grief would come in waves, soon the Omega would collapse as his soul twisted in agony over the loss of his mate, soon Peter would be inconsolable and losing himself in anguish but for right now it felt as if someone had wrapped him in gauze and thick blankets and nothing truth could penetrate the barrier. 
There were chores to do, and he should do them before the hazy denial turned to heartbreaking acceptance. 
Life goes on even if my world has stopped turning. 
Numb. Peter lay Wade’s head-- not Wade, this wasn't Wade anymore-- Peter lay the Alpha’s head gently on the cabin floor and stepped away all together, moving to the now tepid water over the fireplace to rinse his hands over and over and over. A piece of him wondered if he would ever feel clean again, but he was too numb to wonder for too long. 
Fuzzy. He changed clothes and wrapped them into a tight bundle to be buried later next to Wade’s the Alpha’s bloody pieces. No sense keeping them, not after all of this. They’d only be a reminder and Peter knew at some point, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He was fuzzy right now and blurred at the edges but some day it would all come rushing in sharp and jagged and he didn’t want the clothes around when that happened. 
Muffled. Peter made his way through the snow to the barn and pushed the door open, clicking and trilling at Bea and Arthur. The horses barely stirred and he thought perhaps his tongue wasn’t working, maybe his ears weren’t working cos he’d hardly made a sound at all. The entire world was muffled, not even the goat’s pissy bleating reaching his ears at full volume. 
Suffocating. The scent of hay usually made the Omega smile, but today Peter couldn’t breathe when he stood in the loft. Every inhale was difficult, every exhale nearly painful and it was the only hurt Peter could register, the only one penetrating the fog that settled oppressive over his entire being. 
Heavy. His movements were sluggish, or maybe it was his mind that was sluggish but the entire world seemed slow. Peter’s feet weighed so much he could barely lift them, his hands so ungainly he had to try three and four times before finally grabbing a pitchfork. His heart pounded in his chest as if trying to escape from the pressure building behind his ribs and when Peter leaned against Arthur’s side after feeding the gelding, he thought maybe he was too heavy to ever stand again. 
“I tried.” he whispered thickly, and the words echoed like a stranger had yelled them into an empty room. “I tried, but I didn’t know what to do. I tried.” 
Closing the barn doors was harder than opening them, the simple act of turning from the structure and facing the house again making the suffocation rise high in the Omega’s chest and into his throat. Peter had to open his mouth just to draw some air and even that wasn’t enough to stop the spots dancing in front of his eyes and the way his feet suddenly refused to take another step forward. 
I can’t do this. 
I can’t do this. 
I can't do this. 
And then just as quickly as the numb had set it, it all rushed out of him, ripped away and tossed aside so he could feel everything again. The suffocation eased and Peter cried out at the shock of ice cold air. His limbs lightened and the weight on his shoulders fell away, and as everything that was muffled poured in and clamored around his ears and mind, baring his bruised heart and tattered soul to grief, the Omega pitched forward onto his knees, dug his fingers into the snow and--
-- “Pete.” 
The entire world stilled, and Peter’s heart beat once, twice, painful in it’s abruptness before it steadied into rhythm again. 
It can’t be.
“Omega.” 
No. 
Wade was standing in the doorway of the cabin, bloody bandages hanging in tatters off his side and from his thigh, fists clenched with the effort of staying upright, hazel eyes shifting between shades of red as the Alpha tried to come back to himself. 
“My mate, are you alright?” Wade’s breath was wheezing as his lungs finished knitting themselves back together, his leg shaking as the muscles reattached but as soon as he was able, he took a step towards his Omega, and then another, his hand outstretched pleadingly. “C’mere sweetheart, let me see you--” 
“No.” Peter held up a hand but it wasn’t to reach for his Alpha, it was to stop Wade from coming any closer. “No.” 
“What’d’ya mean no, baby boy? Please just let me--” 
“No.” Peter knew his legs wouldn't support him, so he stayed kneeling in the snow and he knew the Alpha in front of him couldn’t possibly be Wade, so he kept a hand up and shook his head. “I don’t know who you are, but you aren’t my Alpha. Don’t come any closer.” 
“It’s me, Pete.” Wade could see the terror in his Omega’s eyes, could see the way Peter was biting his lip bloody to keep from crying out. “Sweetheart, I promise it’s me.” 
“It’s not you.” Peter sounded calm, but his lavender and honeysuckle sweetness was buried beneath harsh pain and heartbreaking fear, tainted by the stink of denial and a twisted sort of acceptance that told the Omega that Wade was dead which meant this Alpha-- this person-- could not be his mate. 
It’s not possible. 
“It’s not you, just like it wasn’t Uncle Ben at the funeral, it was just a body, not his soul. It wasn’t him and this-- this isn’t you.”
“Pete--” 
“Is this denial?” Peter's dark eyes glazed over a little, and he swayed like he might collapse as he asked, “Is this denial? Am I hallucinating now because I can’t handle what’s waiting inside the cabin? Because this can’t be real.” 
Wade didn’t know who Uncle Ben was, but he knew his mate was only a moment from splintering apart so he ignored the burning ache in his side and the way his still healing leg throbbed in protest and broke into a run, heading right for his Omega.
“No no no--” Peter tried to scramble away, both hands up to try and fend off whatever was rushing towards him and his voice pitched in a scream when the Alpha caught him up into a hug. “No! No no no! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me--!” 
“Listen.” The order was rumbled, growled, and Peter’s head fell back helplessly as his very instincts arched towards the familiar tone. “My Omega, listen to what I'm saying, come here, come here.” 
Peter was still fighting when Wade hauled him close and pinned him against his neck, he was still fighting when strong fingers wove into his hair and forced him still and he was still fighting, sobbing, knowing none of it could be true when he dragged in an open mouthed breath and tasted darkest licorice, and warm red cedar. 
No no no. 
No, it can’t---
It can’t--
“...Al--Alpha?” 
“Oh my god.” Wade wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist and held his mate hard enough to bruise, huffing loudly as he scented up and down the Omega’s neck and crooning, trilling in encouragement as Peter took another deep breath, and then another and another. 
“Alpha.” 
“It’s me.” Wade fell backwards into the snow, ignoring the cold and wet against his mostly naked body in favor of bundling Peter up into his lap and holding his mate as tight as he could. “Baby boy, I promise it’s me. It’s me, I came back. I’m so so sorry I left you, but I’m here. I’m here. I’m back, it’s me.” 
The Omega’s sweet scent flooded rich with gratitude and then with no warning at all, dropped full with rage and Wade howled in shock when Peter balled up his fist and hit him hard. “Ouch! Omega!” 
“You were dead!” Peter yanked out of Wade’s arms and scrambled to his feet, pointing a shaking finger at the Alpha’s chest. “You were dead! I held you and your heart stopped, I felt it! How are you here? Is it you or some zombie version of you? Why didn’t you tell me you’d be alright?” 
“Pete--” 
“You were dead!” Peter was screaming now, all the numbness washed away in a blur of anger and confusion. “I tried everything to save you and nothing worked! You bled out on the floor and when I checked your pulse it was gone! You died! How could you do that to me!?” 
“Sweetheart.” Wade got up too, hands held out palms up and peaceful. “Pete I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I thought you knew I would heal. I’m sorry.” 
“I knew you would heal!” Peter was still practically screaming, his voice already turning hoarse. “But healing means not needing stitches for cuts, or never getting sick. Being gone is not the same as healing! Did you know you would make it through? Did you know you would die and come back?” 
“....yeah, baby.” Wade took a step away when he saw how angry his mate really was, when he realized just how much Peter had gone through. “I’m so sorry, my mate. But yeah, I-- I knew I’d come back if anything happened.” 
“When?” the Omega demanded. “When did you learn you could survive even death? How long have you known?” 
“Since Vanessa.” Wade worked to keep the words even as he touched a patch of nearly faded scars over his heart. “When I lost her, I tried to-- tried to follow her but I came back every time.” 
“How  many times?” Peter’s voice cracked as he stared at the old scars, then at the still dark scars at Wade’s side. “How many times have you come back?” 
“Thirty one.” Wade swallowed hard. “This one makes thirty two. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, my mate. I didn’t think it would ever happen and I didn’t want to frighten you by talking about it and I didn’t think--” 
“You didn’t think I would sit up all night and feel your heartbeat get weaker?” Just that fast, the anger drained from Peter and left his scent dull, flat. “You didn’t think I’d check your pulse at least once every two minutes? Didn’t think I’d panic because you don’t keep any medical supplies around, and even if you did, I had no idea how to save you?”
“I could feel you.” Peter was whispering now, the words ragged from his scream sore throat. “I could feel you slipping away from me, and then you were gone and I couldn’t feel you at all. You were gone and I couldn’t feel anything. Not you, not-- not anything. I was all alone.” 
Wade closed his eyes, and the Omega finished, “I could hate you for this.” 
“Pete.” 
“Fuck, I could hate you for this.” Peter pushed right past Wade and stomped towards the cabin. “I can’t believe you did that to me. I can’t believe you never told my you’d be okay even if you got attacked. I can’t believe you never---” 
Wade was on his feet and at Peter’s side when the Omega collapsed, smoothing back Peter’s longish hair from his forehead as he was sick over and over into the snow. There wasn’t anything left in his system to throw up, but Peter still gagged, spat up bile and held onto his stomach as it wrenched and heaved. 
“My mate.” Wade scooped up a handful of clean snow for Peter to suck on, ran his fingers in soothing circles on Peter’s back until the Omega had stopped spitting and coughing. “Pete, I’m so sorry. Come here, baby boy. Come here and let me hold you.” 
This time Peter didn’t try to resist when Wade pulled him close, this time Peter dug his fingers into the newest scars and sobbed when Wade’s fangs landed at his bonding spot and dug in until all Peter could feel was the twin points of pain proving his Alpha was here, Wade was here and they were going to be alright. 
“Pretty Omega.” Wade stood up and brought the Omega with him, cuddling Peter close and crooning into his ear. “Sweet Omega, such a sad Omega, it’s okay. Everything’s alright, I promise. M’so sorry Pete, so sorry.” 
He tipped Peter’s head up and scented over the Omega’s neck, growling and rumbling softly until Peter gave him a shaky purr in response. Gentle bites as they crossed the threshold of the cabin, barely more than sharply tipped nibbles as Wade avoided the living space altogether and simply headed for bed. Peter shuddered and held on tighter when Wade lay him out on the blankets, and locked his arm around the Alpha’s neck, whining plaintively when Wade tried to pull away. 
“No no no please.” Anger forgotten, blurred edges brought back into sharp relief and desperate to keep his Alpha’s scent close, Peter whimpered and arched his back, trying to stay close. “Don’t let go. Alpha don’t let go. I can’t--- I need--” 
“Sleep sweetheart.” Wade left a purposeful bite over Peter’s pulse and the Omega mewled in response. “You’re exhausted and I need to clean up so you don’t have to look at any of this when you wake up. Get some rest and--” 
“The last time I closed my eyes, you left me.” The Omega said quietly, firmly, and Wade’s heart felt like it shattered right there in his chest. “I’m not sleeping without you.”
“But now you know I’ll always come back.” Wade could barely speak past the lump in his throat, his scent twisting with grief for his mate. “I’m sorry you had to learn that at all, but at least you can sleep and know that I’ll always be here when you--” 
“The last time I closed my eyes, you left me.” Peter repeated, just as heartbreaking as the first time around. “I woke up and you were gone so I’m not sleeping without you.” 
“Pete--” 
“No, Alpha.” 
“Okay.” Wade wound his fingers into Peter’s hair and pressed a grateful, sorrowful kiss to the Omega’s lips. “Okay okay okay. Stay sitting right here where it’s warm, sweetheart. I’ll only be a minute.” 
Wade poured what was left in the pot out onto the floor, then went into the lean to for some sand. He scrubbed at the lingering stains with the pile of bandages until the wood lost it’s dark red hue, and tossed everything into the ashes to cover the smell. Later tonight he would clean out the fireplace and bury it all in the yard, but for right now, a quick clean up would have to do. 
Mindful that his Omega hadn’t once looked away, Wade stripped out of his underwear and tossed those into the ashes as well, knowing the scent of sweat and lion and death would ever come out again. He unwound the rest of the tattered pieces from his abdomen and leg to reveal wholly knit together skin and only faint bruises where he’d been ruined before and with a quick trip outside to fill the basin, Wade washed himself right there in the doorway where Peter could keep an eye on him, lathering up with their soap and rinsing off with the cold water. 
He patted dry only enough to slip into a clean pair of sleep pants and a long sleeve shirt, then made quick work of brushing his teeth and when Wade turned towards the bed and saw Peter reaching for him, he didn’t hesitate to climb beneath the covers and gather his mate up tight. 
“Tomorrow I need you to tell me everything.” Peter mumbled, plastering himself over Wade’s heart and counting the beats under his breath. “Everything. I want to know what happened and how you came back, how long you were gone. I want to know everything.” 
“I know you do, Omega.” Wade grimaced when Peter’s fingers found the still sore scars again. “I’ll tell you everything I know about my healing factor, about my mutation, anything I can answer, alright? I promise.” 
“I’m not sorry I screamed at you.” The Omega said next. “If I didn’t need to hold you so badly right now, I’d make you sleep outside. You deserve a swift kick in the balls for putting me through that and I’m going to yell at you more tomorrow. A lot. I’ve never been so scared in my life.” 
“You time traveled, Pete.” Wade tried for a smile and was rewarded with the tiniest bump of affection in his mate’s scent. “What do you mean you’ve never been so scared?” 
“I was never afraid of time traveling because you were here with me.” Peter admitted. “But when you aren’t here with me I-- I don’t know what to do. Don’t leave me again.” 
“I won’t leave you again.” Wade swore, and then softer, “‘Do you really hate me, Pete?” 
“Alpha my Alpha.” Exhaustion crept up quickly over the Omega, slurring his words and slowing the rhythm of his fingers as he kneaded at Wade’s side. “I could never...hate...you…You’re my-- my mate.” 
“I’m your mate.” Wade repeated, and waited until Peter was well and truly asleep before rolling them in the bed and tucking his mate up tight into his body. They had a million things to talk about tomorrow, a million moments where Wade need to reassure Peter that he was here and it was real and that the worst was behind them, but for right now, it was enough just to listen to his mate’s quiet snores and wipe the last remnants of tears from Peter’s cheek. 
“I’m so sorry for putting you through all this, sweetheart.” he murmured, and then with a barely audible whisper and the lightest of kisses, “I’ll never leave you again, my mate. You’re mine and I--” 
The Alpha sighed and pressed closer, willing his soul to settle now that he could hold his mate again. “I’m yours.” 
“I love you, Pete.” 
***************
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Just A Normal Day at Your Neighborhood Arcade
AKA when your local neighborhood arcade is unknowingly also a place where two infamous legends meet up to play against each other.
Also why they’re HOT?!
His name is Gerald, and today is his first day working at a local neighbourhood arcade on New Mexico. He’s working as a part-timer worker with pretty decent pay, which is rare these days. His day duty is also quite simple; overwatch the place and make sure the visitors don’t cause much trouble while playing.
Seems simple enough, he thought, eyeing the nearly empty arcade. Today will be one peaceful day, huh…
“Hi there, Johnson!” One of his co-workers, Jason, waving at him while passing by his station, one of his hands carrying a red toolbox. He waved back at him, eyes lazily scanning the area around the mechanic as he stopped and put down the box beside some large arcade machines for Tekken 7.”Good luck on your first day here, I’d reckon you might need it.”
“What are you up to, Jay?” Gerald half-shouted, earning a glance from the mechanic.
Jason loudly hummed, eyes shifting back at the machine he’s working at. “Re-checking these fighting game machines so their performances on tip-top shape when both of them using them.” He answered the part-timer’s question, a small chuckle escaped from his lips. “Those two won’t stop nagging me if the controllers have a slight delay on them.”
Gerald raised one of his eyebrows. “Those two? Who?”
“Ah, well-”
“-and y’know how Chell is when she’s very determined, so she kept her distance to Gladys less than a meter, basically gluein’ herself to our cold albino queen!”
“Darn, that reminds me of when Alyx trying to get Hawk to smile, but most of her attempts failed and-”
The part-timer’s head turned to the source of the new voices that came from the front entrance. A massive-looking brunette-haired man with a black hooded suit and coat pants with an orange-coloured tie was talking to his slightly shorter companion, a lighter and slightly longer length brunette-haired man with a red plaid flannel shirt with the sleeve rolled to the elbow and paired with a pair of blue denim jeans and a black newsboy cap.
They definitely not looked like somebody that play in an arcade, one is too formal-looking and other looks like one of those farmboy helpers.
“Oh, welcome back, both of you!” Jason chirped, eyes still focusing on the machines. “How’s the last week’s match? Who won?”
The plaid flannel man pointed at the hooded suit man. “Gords beat ‘em up, and I got the second place.”
The mechanic heartily laughed. “Of course he is, as expected from North America’s Tekken legend.”
Gerald’s ears perked up. “These guys are famous?”
“Oh, I’m not really.” The hooded suit man shrugged, then nudged the plaid flannel man. “But this man over here was one of the youngest and most renowned archaeologists at the age of fifteen years old, now working as an archaeology major sub-teacher at Michigan State University and also a pro gamer.”
The plaid flannel man stuttered for a second before he got a grip. “A-anyway, we’re trainin’ together again for Tekken World Tour later,” he paused for a bit, his expression now a bit apologetic, “we’re sorry for last month, our friends got a bit...wild…”
Jason laughed out loud. “Don’t worry, your bosses paid more than the damage cost and now we got additions of a Japanese retro puzzle arcade and a racing car arcade.” He briefly shifted his eyes again, now at the two men while smiling softly. “I don’t mind both your friends’ vicious battle last month. In fact, it’s been a while since this arcade got that much rowdy and the visitors were enjoying their rivalry.”
The hooded suit man huffed out in relief. “Oh thank you, they’re feral children, alright.”
“Uhhhh, I’m sorry to disturb your conversation, but who are you both?” Gerald raised his voice, getting the two men’s attention. Both men went silent, before practically sprinting towards him, eyes sparkling with delight.
“We haven’t introduced ourselves yet, so of course you don’t know!” The hooded suit man started to flaunt a bit. “The name’s Gordon Freeman, but call me Antoine, honey bee~” He winked his green eyes at the part-timer, making his face heat up.
OH GOD, HIS GAY SOUL IS SCREAMING TO HUG HIM-
“And don’t take your eyes off me there, good-lookin’” The plaid flannel man tilted his chin with his finger to meet his bluish-green eyes, he could see the man’s smirk widened a bit as he tipped his cap down a bit, “the name’s Johnny Grady, nice to meet you too, pardner.”
Gerald immediately backed down from his station, stuttering badly as he covered his reddened face with both palms.
Goddamn, he’d already met two hot dudes on his first day already? What kind of fever dream he’s in now?
“Both of you, can both of you don’t flirt with the new staff, please?” Both men paused and looked behind them, Jason scoffed as if he’s disappointed. “Because of you both, the last one resigned because he questioned his sexuality so much after you both flirting with him so much. The last time I saw him after that, he’s waving a bisexual flag at the local pride fair.”
The part-timer slowly raised his hand. “I’m gay, though.”
Both men quickly turned their head at him, eyes widening for a while before grinning to each other. He could hear the mechanic’s loud sigh from his position. “...fine, but don’t overwhelm him.”
All of the sudden, he got hit by both men’s flirt attempts, each one managed to steal his heart bit by bit. His inner self slowly dying from all the hits it took and finally passed out as his outer self curled himself into a ball on the floor, his whole face was as red as a beet. Although he didn’t see them, he could see the piercing gaze, thirst for more flirting attempts, but his co-worker’s loud whistle stopped the gaze.
“Once again, please don’t overwhelm the poor boy!” Jason’s tone took more of a disappointed parent as he scolded both men. “Now look at what you did, he’s overheating! Leave him alone for a moment and go play here. I’ve placed an adapter for your console, Grady.”
“Goddamn, Jason. Thanks for your service!” And with that, the men walked away from his station. He was lying on the floor for several minutes, accompanied by both men’s excited gasps and shouts as Tekken 7’s arcade noises playing in the background.
It took him most of his willpower to get up and observe the men playing. At first, he wasn’t interested in any of things they’re playing, but as time passes, he focused on the notebooks they’ve brought with them as they scribbling down combos or put down characters’ key weaknesses and how to cover them. Over time, they watched some videos of the previous tournament and listing out strats for their foes. Though they’re also listed things about each other, there wasn’t any kind of bitterness feelings between them. In fact, he could categorize them as friendly rivals.
It’s been a while since he witnessed this kind of rivalry.
“You’re okay now?” Jason’s sudden voice startled him a lot, almost make him scream, but his common sense managed to get ahold of his composure. The part-timer nodded in response. “Good looks like they’re going to take their leave.” The mechanic pats his back. “Great job at handling their flirts for the first time, most employees’ responses were either faint or having an existential crisis.”
Ah, is that so…
he couldn’t blame them, their flirts were indeed that powerful.
“They’re both pro players from different org.” He pointed at the hooded suit man- or Antoine, he recalled. “That man is known as The Player in Hooded Suit, GorgeousMan from Black Mesa. He’s one of some North American players legend who got acknowledged by overseas players.” He then shifted his finger to the plaid flannel man- or Johnny. “As for him, he’s also known as The Wild Card Player, Rick from Aperture Games. Like Freeman, Grady’s got history to always score on minimal Top 8 or above that.” He lowered his hand, a smile still plastered on his face. “I’m proud to have them playing in this arcade.”
“Sounds like they’re a great person…” Jason slightly nodded, agreeing.
Few minutes later, both men were done packing their things and starting to head out, but not before Antoine once again winked and Johnny finger-gunned, both towards him. His heart fluttered, not as much as before, but it’s enough to warm his heart. He waved at them and they waved back at him with smiles plastered on their face.
Ah shit, he couldn’t leave from this job now, he’s fallen for two dudes he’d just met...
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celawrites · 4 years
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Day 20
It’s 3am when I get a call from someone. I’m half asleep and I answer the call. At first I don’t hear anything. But the quiet sniffing from the other side of the line wakes me immediately.
“Z?”
“I-I’m sorry it’s j-just I don’t have anyone else to t-talk to”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be here for as long as you need”
The sniffing on the line stayed there, and the silence that lingered provided a sense of comfort for him. Eventually, his ragged breathing turned into soft snores, and only then did I hang up. He had another anxiety attack. It happened pretty often considering that his brother had the grades of a genius. The unspoken pressure cracks down on him at the worst of times. He was lucky to have someone to talk to, plenty of people don’t have anyone.
I fall asleep again shortly after. It’s 6am when I wake up again. My morning passes like normal, and I head out again. Not before checking up on Z though.
Clown: How are you? Are you feeling better?
Z: Yea Thank you
Clown: Get ready We’re dropping by McDonalds in a bit
Z: Just me?
Clown: Of course
Read at 6:09
The drive to his house is silent. I don’t play any music, it doesn’t seem fitting to do so. I find him waiting in front of his driveway, pacing around.
“Hey”
“Hi”
“Sorry about last night. I didn’t have anyone else to call, and I kinda-”
“Stop apologizing. We all have our moments. I’m glad you trust me enough”
“Who do you call? You seem so calm, yet I’m pretty sure you’re the most turbulent”
I pause. Then I realize that most of the time, I calm myself down by falling asleep.
“Do you not call anyone?”
“No. I usually end up falling asleep after a while. They’re not that bad”
“It’s good to have someone to talk to. Your words not mine” Z hums.
“Eh. I would rather keep things to myself. I don’t like calling people at 3am.”
“You could call my brother.”
“He isn’t empathetic enough”
“He’d kill you if he heard that”
“I’d let him. Easier for all of us”
“Pfft”
When we get to McDonalds, he orders an oreo Mcflurry, and I only grab two cups of coffee.
When we get to school, Madison is already flirting with Sun again. He speeds over when he sees the coffee I’m holding.
“Cress you lifesaver” he mumbles, grabbing his cup.
“Only for you”
“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you”
“sUNNNN” Madison rushes over. I hear a quiet ‘and there goes my peace’
“Did you grab anything for me?” Madison asks. I hand her a chocolate pastry.
“Thank you!” her voice is sickenly sweet. It nearly makes me throw up my coffee.
“So Sun! Are you free this Friday? I wanted to catch up with you, and I’m only here for a week and I wanted to know if there was anything new in your life. Oh you should give me your number! That way we can call even when I’m not here” Madison rambles.
Sun shoots me a pleading look of save me and I stifle a laugh. “I’m hanging out with Cress this Friday. She mentioned something about a new cafe around here”
At this point, I’m borderline dying. “Mhm. You can skip though. I’m sure you two have alot of catch up on”
“No no! You’ve been talking about the cafe so much lately, I’ve actually grown rather curious about it.” Sun saves himself.
“Alright-”
“Can I join you two then? I mean it’s not a date right?” I laugh when she asks. Sun only glares at me.
“What if it is?”
“Then you’ll third-wheel!” She grinned. I cackle.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t come.”
“Why? I mean you still like me right?” He pauses while I finish the last of my coffee.
“I’m not too sure anymore. You’ve changed” I scoff. She hasn’t changed one bit. If anything, she’s manifested and become even worse. But I suppose that’s also change.
“But I’m still the same person! You like me!”She whines. “Give me this week to prove to you that I’m still the same person!”
Sun doesn’t say anything in response, and she takes that as a silent yes. The first bell rings, and I wander off to my first period. There’s a lot of things that happen today, but my favorite has to be during lunch.
Turns out Madison came back because she was suspended from college for plagiarism. I wonder what. This came out of the conversation from lunch.
“Did you hear? Madison got kicked out of college?” It’s my table during lunch today.
“I heard she plagiarized someone else’s work. She failed to prove that she was the writer Serenity”
“What book did she try to plagiarize?”
“I think it was Canadian shenanigans.  I wonder why she wasn’t able to prove herself. I mean, we saw her post the book chapter by chapter. I hope her appeal works”
“She’s Serenity?” I pipe up.
“Yeah. She was talking about how her book was finally getting the recognition that she deserved last year. But Serenity had never shown her face so we actually aren’t sure that she’s her but we currently have the most evidence that’s for her.”
“Oo” I’m dying inside. All my books were published under the name Serenity and the only piece of evidence that proves I’m her is the award that was shipped to me. It sits on top of my desk to this day.
“I know right! I can’t believe she wasn’t able to prove it!” Another girl whines.
“I hope she gets her appeal, I have a signed edition from her. It’d be a shame if she had actually plagiarized.” Pebble mumbles. “The book was really well written. It almost reminded me of your short story from 8th grade”
“Hilarious. I wouldn’t name myself Serenity, not to mention that I don’t have the tolerance to publish a book”
“Hm. Anyways, did you hear? Sun has a new crush apparently. Danny forced it out of him but he never got the name”
“Really?”
They carry off in the conversation and I head back to my locker. In the corner of my eye, I spot Madison cornering Sun and trying to force a kiss on him. My face contorts in disgust before I wander over.
“Hey Sun!” His body visibly relaxes.
“Cress. I was wondering when you were gonna join me.”
“Sorry, the girls were discussing something interesting”
“Hm? What was it about?”
“Serenity. The author. You didn’t tell me you were her Madison!” She gives me a smile, a smile that looks like she’s lying.
“Sorry! It’s just I only told the students here and I didn’t want to draw too much attention”
“Oh, that’s cool though! I really hope your new work does well!” She freezes. She probably hasn’t been keeping up with the blog’s post. I had posted that I had a work in progress and a short clip of the book. My followers are hilarious, almost immediately jumping to conclusions.
“Ah thank you! I have big plans for it” She beams. Sun drags me off and we start to wander around the grass area.
“I like you” My cheeks flush red and my eyes wander to the ground.
“You sure you’re not saying so that I would get a way out?”
“Your fault for saying that we were hanging out on Friday. There isn’t even a new cafe around here”
“We’ll find one that you’ve never been to then”
“Why do you care so much? The girl you like finally likes you back. Shouldn’t you be over the moon right now”
“Would it be selfish to say that I want to stay on the moon?” I actually don’t realize the weight of those words until the last day.
“Go further. Go on a date with her. You liked her for so long, and you chased after her for so long, don’t be weird.”
“I stopped liking her”
“Who do you like now? Is it Steph? Omg she’s really cute you should totally ask her out”
“I can’t with you”
“Neither can I”
The bell rings and we rush back to the building. Class ends quickly and soon, I’m in bed at 6pm.
3am.
I wake up and scREAm. I’m craving many things and one of them is affection. Curse me for being single.
I wander out of bed, and get ready for McDonalds.
Clown: MCD?
Read at 3:37am
I wander off to McDonalds, carry in a conversation with the employee, and head to my school to vibe. Soon, the sun starts to rise.
Previous : Masterlist : Next
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Part One.
Mikail awoke lying in the coarse, damp grass of the wastes.
His entire body ached horribly. Particularly his stomach...
He hastily pushed himself upright and pressed a hand to where the wound had been, the pain pulsing from that spot- But there was nothing, no torn fabric, no blood, just a searing ache. Like a healing wound rather than a fresh one, but much worse than he remembered.
That was...Strange, but good enough. He wasn’t bleeding out in the middle of nowhere.
With a groan, he turned and sat heavily on the grass. It hurt too much to move, and he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket.
Dead, of course. Awesome. Mikail sighed and ran his hand through his hair, and then got to his feet. He struggled to do even that, clutching his stomach as whatever was left of the injury he received protested. He could see his van through the fog- He was in the same spot he’d entered, even. 
As he dragged himself to the van, he glanced at his watch. It was 11pm, as opposed to being 1AM when he entered two nights prior. With that he could safely assume time had passed, despite it seeming frozen while in the city. He was also glad to see at least his watch was still ticking, he was fond of it.
Mikail hauled himself into the front seat and put the key in the ignition, but the engine choked when he turned it. He raised a brow, turned it off, and tried again, pumping the gas pedal in the hopes of getting it to start. When it didn’t, he sighed and rubbed his face.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and then got out- Which is abdomen really protested to, he nearly fell over once his feet met the ground. Limping and leaning on the side of the van as he went, he staggered to the back and opened it to grab his tools, and then popped the hood.
It took him an hour- Just between his body protesting any movement, and everything he had to do- To get the van to start. Fortunately just refilling some fluids out and doing some cleaning did the trick.
Feeling exhausted and not pleased at the long drive ahead of him, Mikail climbed back in the front seat and started the engine up. He turned the van around, and drove off along what passed for the ancient road he’d arrived on.
He went through a three-quarters-full tank of gas before he reached his destination- A small, out of the way seaside town. It was a pleasant enough place, and Mikail had passed through it on his way here. He was far, far too tired to enjoy it, though, having failed in his attempt to sleep in his van on the side of the road.
He got a hotel room, and dragged himself into it. He wanted to just collapse on the bed, but decided to at least look in the mirror first.
First thing he noticed was the new, partially healed scar on his face, that trailed along his jaw and disappeared under his turtleneck.
Mikail hastily took off his shirt, and found the majority of his front covered in a broad, teal scar. A deep mark marred the spot just under his ribs, where the knife had entered.
It felt like a dream, now. He somehow couldn’t quite recall the details, his memory thin and unclear. But this was a clear indicator that what had happened was very, very real.
Staring at his reflection, Mikail took a deep breath, weighed his options, and left his hotel room.
He grabbed his laptop and phone charger from his van first, having forgotten both in his utter exhaustion. He returned to his room and plunked himself on his bed, attempting to turn on his laptop only to find it dead. He plugged in both his laptop and his phone, taking off his gloves for once only to wearily rub his face.
He lay back on his bed, feet still on the floor and staring up at the ceiling while he waited for both devices to charge. He tried to piece together what he could remember into something cohesive, planning on writing it down as soon as his laptop would turn on. 
Mikail almost worried, as he lay, that he’d fall asleep like that. But somehow, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed. It’d been three, four nights at least, but he didn’t feel as sleep-deprived as he should. But he knew he still felt hunger and thirst, from his drive, so that was normal. Perhaps this was just a persisting effect, it happened in his line of work. Daymares and sleeplessness were all too common.
After ten minutes he decided his devices had charged enough to turn on. He powered on his phone and set it down, as it liked to take ages to actually get to a state of use, and then turned on his laptop.
He logged in and opened a blank word document, hastily writing down what he could remember. It wasn’t an official report, of course, just something for him to refer to when he went to write one later. Which reminded him...
Mikail leaned over to grab his jacket that he’d tossed on the bed, checking the pockets to find his small notebook missing. It figures...
He set aside his laptop, finding his phone to be charged enough to make a call without running the risk of it dying if the call went too long. He scrolled through his contacts, gaze lingering on the name of his ex-matesprit for a moment too long, before he tapped his boss’ name and started the call.
It rang, and rang, and for a moment Mikail worried his boss wouldn’t pick up before finally the ringing stopped.
“...Hello?”
“Good evening, sir. I’m checking in after my visit to Dubhithe...”
“Is this a joke?”
Mikail blinked, unsure of how to respond and having to take a moment- Closer to two- To think.
“...No, sir.”
“...This is not funny. Impersonating a former employee--”
“Tagise? This...This is Mikail. What are you talking about, for-” Mikail stopped mid-sentence. He hadn’t even looked at the date.
“It’s...It’s really you- It’s been a sweep, Mikail.”
Mikail’s breath hitched in his throat, a lump forming and making it hard to breathe. He took a strained breath in,  and then exhaled, his entire body slumping.
“Oh, god.” He murmured. He felt dizzy, and had to take a deep breath to keep his vision from swimming.
“We...We had no choice but to presume you dead...”
“No- No...I know. I-- God. Time...Time must pass differently in Dubhithe, because I spent two nights there. Whatever’s influencing that city...”
He heard Tagise sigh, and rub his face on the line. “Where are you?”
“Uh...” Mikail sighed, struggling to recall the name of the town. “Thievesport, the closest town to Dubhithe.”
“I’ll arrange a place for you to stay when you get back. We had to clear out your apartment, Akalei had a key so she handled that- She might’ve kept something.”
Mikail sighed, his heart sinking at the mention of his ex. “Yeah. I’ll...Do that. Sorry...I’m sorry about-”
“Don’t apologize, Mikail. I’m just glad you’re still alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said, but come see me as soon as you can. And...Get some rest, Mikail.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll try.”
“See you in a few nights.”
Tagise hung up, and Mikail slowly lowered his phone. He glanced down at the screen, considering calling Akalei right away...And then he slowly set his phone face-down on the bed. He kicked off his shoes, closed his laptop, and turned to crawl under the covers.
He couldn’t keep his eyes open, now. His mind was blank, stunned, and since he knew the alternative to be frantic, racing thoughts, he decided to use this shock to his advantage and sleep.
Despite that, it took him an hour to fall asleep- But sleep came, and by god he was grateful for it.
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We’ll See About That - Ch 1
Warnings: major character death, smoking, swearing
Summary:
Conner Kent is dying. Clark is hell-bent on using Kryptonian technology to find a cure, not yet at the point of desperation that would drive the Big Blue Boy Scout to ask him for help.
But, after watching his own son’s heart break at the prospect of losing his best friend, Bruce realises Conner’s other father figure is the boy’s only hope.
More than that, Bruce thinks, Lex deserves to know.
In which Bruce Wayne fights for Lex Luthor because he knows all too well what it’s like to lose a son. Angst ahoy!
*
‘The last time we were this quiet was at Jason’s funeral,’ Lex says.
And, for the second time in Bruce’s life, Lex Luthor breaks his heart.
Pairings: Lex Luthor/Bruce Wayne, TimKon
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, Jason Todd
Word Count: 2034
Chapter 1 under the cut >>>
‘What could I have done better?’ Bruce asks quietly.
'This is about Superboy, isn’t it?’ Jason replies sharply, 'You want to tell Luthor.’
His second son has always had a knack for cutting through the bullshit, a trait that Alfred would say is a reflection of Bruce. Were it any other day, it might have made him feel proud. Today, it humbles him.
The sun is rising over Gotham’s bleak skyline as father and son share cigarettes and pointed gazes atop a secluded rooftop ledge, the only terms of the uneasy alliance between them being that neither will tell Nightwing about the cigarettes.
’Lex,’ Bruce replies equally as sharply, 'was the only man brave enough to stand beside me at your funeral.’
If that touches a nerve, Jason doesn’t show it.
His helmet is off, much like Bruce’s cowl is drawn back. Black hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders mirror each other; a subtle challenge evident in the tension in their backs. Who takes the last cigarette? Who gets up to leave first? Do they part ways, or head in the same direction?
The cogs turn in both of their heads, synchronising like clocks without a word being uttered. A plan unfolds in tandem. One ashes their cigarette, then the other.
When Jason finally speaks, Bruce senses the apprehension in his tone, though it’s a near-perfect imitation of apathetic even to his mentor’s ears.
'I’ll keep Tim distracted,’ Jason says.
What goes unsaid is far more powerful, communicated in the briefest of glances Bruce’s way before Jason stands and returns his helmet to his head.
The shiny red thing is a relic of days past. Days when Batman was still the feverish daydream of an angry young boy. Days when the taste of Lex Luthor was still fresh on his lips.
He deserves to know, Jason’s eyes say.
Perhaps Bruce is imagining it, but he thinks they might also say, I wish someone had been there to put us back together.
*
'You’re here to tell me not to break your son’s heart,’ Conner says.
Bruce is seated next to him on a patch of yellowing grass, somewhere amongst the vast nothingness that spans the width and breadth of rural Kansas.
The cheap two-door he’d rented from a town a few hours north of here is parked behind them on a shoulder lane, shielding them from the prying eyes of truckers on the dusty road.
Bruce had thought better of the expensive suits he normally wore, and now finds himself in ill-fitting jeans and a pale blue polo shirt. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt over it all that makes him feel a few decades younger than he is.
It’s cold and foggy; early evening.
'I’m here to tell you to ask your father for help,’ Bruce counters.
The ensuing silence speaks volumes. Bruce notes clinically that at no point does Conner think he might have been talking about Clark, nor does he deny that Lex is his father.
'Your son didn’t really die,’ Conner says eventually, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.
It’s a deflection tactic, Bruce knows, or perhaps just a low-blow designed to knock Bruce off his game. And it might have worked, had The Joker himself not been employing the same tactic against him for nearly half a decade.
Bruce briefly contemplates telling Conner everything he’s wanted to say since he found out Jason was alive. Perhaps, That’s not my boy, or, The little bird I knew and cherished never came back to the nest.
Instead, he finds himself thinking about the man he’d sat atop a grimy Gotham rooftop with that morning. His son, certainly, but not the one he lost.
So he says what he thinks that man on the rooftop would want him to say:
'I think Jason would be insulted to know he’s still thought of as the boy who died that night.’
Conner doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, it’s with another protestation, just as half-hearted as the first.
'Lex Luthor is an evil man.’
'Evil,’ Bruce says slowly, chewing on the word, 'is a hyperbole Superman is quite fond of.’
'And you’re the right man to judge that?’ Conner quips back, voice pitching upwards, 'One exploitative billionaire to another?’
Bruce lets out a wry laugh. It comes out sounding more like the type of short bark a dog would make if it felt threatened.
'Certainly not,’ Bruce concedes.
He finally turns towards Conner, his demeanour something approaching friendly.
'I hardly think Lex Luthor’s ex-fiance is the right man to judge the virtue of his past deeds,’ Bruce says boldly, surprising himself not for the first time since this exchange began.
There’s a pause, during which the sun descends fully below the horizon and they are engulfed in near-complete dark.
Bruce waits for Conner to speak, but instead he finds himself speaking. Perhaps it’s the bat in him; emboldened by the dark.
'But perhaps I’m the right man to offer you some insight into your father’s humanity.’
Another long pause. The wind stills as though Mother Nature herself is holding her breath alongside Bruce.
Just as Bruce is starting to frantically cobble together another moving speech, Conner exhales. A long, deep sigh.
'I’m dying,’ he says.
There’s no sadness in it, just a bone-deep resignation that damn near rips Bruce’s heart out.
'You know what your father will say, don’t you?’
Conner responds with a tight nod.
'We’ll see about that,’ they say in unison.
On the way back to the car, Bruce finds himself saying something else that is far too honest for such a young man to bear:
'As for Timothy.’
He hears Conner suck in a pained breath, wonders if it’s the illness plaguing him or the pain of thinking about the boy he loves.
'You Luthors have a certain knack for breaking the hearts of Wayne men,’ Bruce says plainly, 'I doubt I could stop you if I tried.’
*
In the car, Conner asks the practical questions; the ones that come to mind only after the gravity of the situation has settled on your shoulders:
'How did you find me?’
'Kryptonian scanners are quite good at picking your genetic signatures from amongst the other lifeforms on this planet.’
Bruce’s hands tense on the steering wheel as he braces for the next question, and for the answer he knows he won’t be ashamed of even though he ought to be.
'So Clark sent you?’
The bleak greys of mid-evening Kansas speed by out the window. The moon and the stars are still obscured by cloud cover, though they’re yet to see a drop of rain.
It had felt somehow wrong to do anything but drive from here to Metropolis. A waste of time that Lex would chastise them both for, Bruce was sure. But there was something Bruce couldn’t shake about the notion that every boy ought to experience a cross-country road-trip at least once in his life. Maybe they’d have a greasy breakfast at some non-descript gas station and forget their capes for a few short moments.
Superheroism seemed like a burden too great for a dying boy to bear. Though perhaps not as burdensome as dying itself.
'The Watchtower is equipped with Kryptonian sensors,’ Bruce finally says.
'Partners in crime, then.’
Another dozen miles of road pass.
'Is Dick with Tim?’
'Jason is looking after him.’
'Is that wise?’
'No less wise than letting him date the half-Kryptonian son of Lex Luthor.’
*
They arrive at LexCorp’s head office a day or so later. The gas station food has been mediocre, and the car rental company has been ringing him off the hook.
Neither of them have slept, and it shows in their eyes.
A nameless Wayne Enterprises employee brings them fresh clothing – a suit for Bruce, something relaxed but fashionable for Conner.
They change in a parking lot that’s entirely too close to the Daily Planet for Bruce’s liking.
It feels a little too much like they’re changing into their costumes for a mission, and Conner looks a little too much like Clark in this light.
He thinks of a hundred missions in Metropolis that started just like this one, long before the Justice League was formed – before they’d even taken on protégés like Conner and Tim.
They waltz into LexCorp fifteen minutes later like they own the place, exiting a top-of-the-line sports car (Bruce would be lying if he said he paid any attention to car manufacturers) that the Wayne Enterprises employee had exchanged for their rental.
Bruce is unsure if the receptionist at the front desk recognises himself or Conner, but by the time they reach the sleek elevator at the opposite end of LexCorp’s glossy atrium, she is chittering into a telephone receiver.
Bruce hears something like, Yes, Mr Luthor, as he guides Conner into elevator first, a tentative hand clasped on the boy’s shoulder.
Lex knows by now, Bruce thinks as he watches the floor numbers tick up one by one. He’ll have these precious seconds to prepare.
What else could it mean, when Batman arrives on your doorstep with your son in tow?
'He knows who I am,’ Bruce thinks to say a few floors before the hundredth.
Conner doesn’t speak, but nods almost imperceptibly. Equally as imperceptibly, he leans closer to Bruce, toward the hand on his shoulder.
The hundred-and-first floor is Lex’s. The gentle ping of the elevator is like shrapnel tearing through their heads. Conner flinches, Bruce squeezes his shoulder.
The doors slide open, and Lex’s face is so pale Bruce is sure his heart stops when he sees it.
Mercifully, however, Lex has eyes only for his son.
They teeter there, the three of them, for a few heartbeats too long. Bruce wonders if this is how people who aren’t bats feel when they stand on the edge of a cliff.
Then, Conner does something that surprises all three men. He leaps into his father’s arms, nearly knocking him off-balance.
Bruce is there to catch Lex’s elbow and keep him right way up. It’s a scorching hot moment of contact; skin-on-skin because Lex’s dress shirt has been hastily rolled up around the elbows.
Bruce swallows it down and turns his back to the father and son, allows them their privacy.
Conner is whispering something like, I’m dying, over and over. In stark contrast to the resignation of yesterday, now Conner sounds terrified. Beneath the anxious fog that has settled over Bruce’s mind, he is faintly aware that Conner’s newfound terror comes from the realisation that this is it. Turning to Lex is the Hail Mary they had all prayed they would never have to make.
Bruce is reminded of Clark in the past, the way he would so callously say things like, Lex Luthor? I wouldn’t go to him if I was dying. Bruce files that away for later; to ruminate on the impression that has left on Conner, to chastise Clark and remind him of his responsibilities as a mentor. If, after this, he still has someone to mentor.
'We’ll see about that, son,’ Lex says.
There is comfort in it – perhaps more than there ought to be. Lex’s confidence is unwavering, even in the face of crisis. Difficult? A few seconds. Impossible? A few minutes. But Bruce is sure he is scared; that any moment the cracks will begin to show.
Bruce glides across the room unnoticed, and finds himself idling awkwardly in the middle of it. Perhaps it is the sleek, futuristic furniture that Lex has decorated his office with. Is that a couch, or a table? Either way, it puts Bruce directly in Lex’s line of fire the moment he spins around, and Bruce supposes the room is designed with these exact moments in mind.
'How did this happen?’ Lex demands, voice booming throughout the sparse, cavernous space.
Bruce takes a moment – selfishly – to breathe deeply. Lex watches him with keen eyes, every muscle in his body going rigid at the thought of Batman needing to steady himself before this conversation.
'Truthfully,’ Bruce says.
He grimaces, because he knows not even the ever-fatalistic Lex Luthor will have prepared for an answer this grim.
'We have no idea.’
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iamkatehardy · 5 years
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At Last (Kray Twins x Reader) - Chapter 2
Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of violence
Author’s Notes: I’m Sorry it took me so long to update, I promise I’ll try to do it more frequently, and spice things up in Chapter 3!
Your feedback is always appreciated, whatever your opinion is <3
You can find Chapter 1 in my Masterlist ❤️
You had been working on Esmeralda’s Barn for some time. The Krays were more than just your bosses; the employers-employee relationship was quickly replaced by a warm-hearted one. Little did they know when they hired you that it would be a hell of a ride.
Before your Première on the club’s stage, you refused to stop working on the bar; you wanted to perform the tasks you were originally hired to, until the minute you’d receive their definitive order to stop and become exclusively a singer.
Reggie had told you an infinite amount of times that it was completely ok if you decided to engage in your rehearsals only and leave the bar, but you politely declined hid offer every single time, you wanted to prove your value on stage first. Besides that, working cleared your mind from your problems, and spending more time in the club meant you were safer.
After long hours of work in the bar, and putting everything in place for the next night, you’d finally rehearse. You’d spend hours on end composing and arranging songs meticulously, until your fingers were sore, your voice showed some hoarseness or your eyes were so puffy you couldn’t keep them open any longer.
Reggie’s marriage was definitely on the rocks, so he spent a lot of time on the club as well. Sometimes neither of you left until the sun was up. He spent most of his time alone in his office, upset with the situation and with himself, wondering where he went wrong with Frances. Before his sadness and rage consumed him from within, he’d come to sit at his usual table with a drink on his hand, to watch your performance, trying to set aside his problems for a while. You knew what it meant when Reggie’s bright eyes turned red, and you knew he didn’t deserve any of that, considering what you knew from his way of being.
One day you just couldn’t take it anymore, he had been too amiable and considerate with you for you to stand to see him that miserable. You came down the stage and reached out for him, putting your cold hands on his shoulder.
“I know I have no right to intrude in your life like this… But I really can’t help it; I absolutely loathe seeing you like that, Reggie…”
“And I can’t help feeling like this (Y/N). You don’t know the weight of a failed marriage…”
“Actually, I do, more than I’d like to…” – You rubbed his shoulders softly. – “And if you want to cry, or talk, you don’t have to do it on alone, I am here to dry your eyes…”
He looked up at you in surprise, and then hugged you by the waist, laying his head on your stomach; you ran your fingers through his slightly messy hair, protectively, as he just let tears flow freely.
You wouldn’t mind spending hours comforting him, if that would have any results. You had no idea why would a relationship with a man like Reggie be doomed; all you could see in him so far was only good.
Your instinct to protect the twins, perhaps because they protected you as well was something else. You treated Ron with endless love and patience, as if he was an adult-sized baby , which seemed to work, because he actually listened to your advice and became very fond of you. With Reggie it was different, you adored him from the depths of your heart, and you had started to develop feelings for him; the more you tried to avoid it, the more it grew inside you. His friendship was probably all you were going to get from him, and though it wasn’t nearly what you wanted, having him near and being gifted by his smile would have to be enough.
The day you’d officially make your debut in the Esmeralda’s Barn finally arrived, and a mixed of different feelings washed over you. You were nervous, excited, frightened, happy and a bunch of other things, all in equal proportions. As you sat in the dressing room, getting ready, you thought about singing for Reggie, the very thought of him made you unwind. Sometimes you wondered if he had the ability to read minds, because he had just showed up behind you; you saw his reflection in the mirror.
“How sneaky, Mr. Kray! I didn’t hear you coming in.” – You laughed, putting your earrings on, observing him through the mirror.
“Well, that was my goal. I wanted to surprise you.” – He stepped closed.
“Or causing me a heart attack maybe…” – You glared at him and then shrugged, giggling and turning on your chair to face him.
“I just wanted to wish you good luck, though I’ve been told many times that talented people, like yourself, don’t really need it my dear.” – He delivered you a gorgeous bouquet, with about a dozen delicate scarlet roses.
“Oh, thank you Reggie, you’re such a sweet! How did you know they were my favorite?” – You touched them carefully, smiling excited.- “My suspicions are now confirmed, you read minds! They are beautiful!”
“Not nearly as beautiful as you are.” – He smiled, taking your hand and kissing it gently, then planting a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips rest there for some seconds. – “You’ll sweep people off their feet!”
“Always so charming…” – A blush crept up your cheeks and you put the flowers in a vase with water.
“I better go now; I really want a front-row seat.” – He winked and then left.
“Oh Dear Lord, why do you do this to me?!” – You looked up at the heavens, asking for help. – “I’m married; HE’S married and loves his wife so much… Just, no.” – You slapped yourself lightly, to wake yourself up from your fantasies. After taking a sip of a drink that Teddy brought you earlier, you inhaled sharply, before going on stage.
The moment had come, this as your final test before the club’s birthday. Everyone had high expectations on you, and you didn’t want to let them down, especially the twins.
Fighting your demons, you faced the crowd, swallowing hard; Reggie gave you a warm reassuring smile; Ron gave you a nod, his own way of trying to raise your spirits; and Teddy, being his usual crazy self, clapped enthusiastically. Their support meant a lot.
From the moment the first note of the song was played, everything faded from your mind, the good, the bad, everything. Well, everything but a special someone. For a moment in time, there were only you, the melody and the words that slowly wrapped and mended your soul, just the kind of therapy you needed. Just you, and the love coming out of your lips on the form of a song. Your performance didn’t let any of your friends down, neither the people in the club, who gave you a standing ovation. You felt absolutely overwhelmed by their positive reaction and courtly bowed. You didn’t even think of the unwanted attention this night could bring you.
Ron immediately got up, coming forward and offering you his arm. You smiled, linking your arm on his and walked with him to the table, in order to celebrate your success.
“Do you think you could teach me how to sing? I’d like that.” – He looked at you with curious eyes.
“We can arrange that, yes.” – You smiled and rubbed your thumb on his cheek.
“That was fucking amazing.” – Teddy clapped and gave you a sly smile. – “Come on, today is the day, say it!”
“Yes, it was amazing indeed.” – You chuckled.
“ Ah ah ah ah ah! No, you forgot that magical adverb of intensity: fucking amazing.” – He made his priority since day one to make you say or do something that wasn’t lady like, so he was dying to hear you swearing.
“You’ll never give up, will you? Cheeky little thing.” – You rolled your eyes biting your lower lip. “Fine. It was fucking amazing, and I fucking loved it.” – You shrugged and laughed.
After some drinking and mingling, someone brushed past you, but you couldn’t see his face, just feel a familiar smell. You felt a chill down your spine, a crippling bad feeling, but the night was going so great you decided to ignore it. It was probably just your anxiety kicking in.
Reggie mingled with some clients for a while, but he was dying to talk to you, so he came to hug you, whispering in your ear.
“I am in awe (Y/N).” – His warm breath in your ear made you close your eyes for a second. – “Absolutely thrilling, love. What you did back there was pure magic, and t just confirmed my huge will of having you performing on the club’s birthday, and all the upcoming nights, for the matter. If you don’t get better proposals, which after tonight is a strong possibility.”  - He kissed the top of your head and then held your hands on his, caressing them.
“Your offer is the only one I’ll be considering and accepting, I like it here very much, thank you for the vote of trust.”  - You raised his hands to your lips and kissed them softly.
After socializing with them for a while, you started getting tired, so you headed to the dressing room. Arriving there you noticed another bouquet lying in the dressing table. The white Lilies resembled the ones you used to have in your house, the ones your husband always brought you, to compensate you for the harsh beatings. There was a card, a black R written on the front, you thought maybe it was Ron’s, to convince you about the singing classes, so you smiled and grabbed the card. When you opened it, you completely froze.
“I’m thrilled to see you again, my beloved wife. Knowing that you are, and will always be, mine, makes me the happiest man on Earth. We’ll be together soon; Together until death do us part. – Raymond”
It could have been a bad joke, but no one knew about Raymond, and it was his handwriting. You dropped the card and looked all around you, grabbing a silver letter opener in case he was around, and you started hyperventilating. The thought of him being there, where you thought you were safe, completely freaked you out, and his final words in the card didn’t help.
Reggie noticed your absence, so he came to check on you. Seeing you absolutely in shock, he got worried sick. He approached slowly and took the letter opener out of your hand.
“(Y/N)?” – He caressed your arm gently.
“He’s going to kill me.” – Your eyes were wide, your face showing pure horror, tears streaming helplessly down your cheeks, a lump in your throat. You couldn’t even make a sound.
Reggie didn’t understand, you hadn’t talked to him about Raymond.
“He… He was here, he’ll come after me.” – You stuttered, looking around.
“Who was here, darling?” – He wrapped his arms around you, and tried to understand the motive for so much distress. You held on to him for dear life.
“My husband. This time he’ll kill me” – You sobbed.
Reggie was confused when you mentioned a husband, you never did before. He covered your salty cheeks with kisses.
“No one will hurt you (Y/N), I would never allow such a thing, yeah?”
“You don’t understand, he was here, in this room…” – You picked the card and shower him.
He analyzed the card, rubbing a thumb across his lips, in deep thought.
“It won’t happen again…” – He lifted his eyes to you. – “I promise you, I’ll be alert and no one will hurt you. I am here for you, always.” – He enveloped you in his arms again, bathing you with his warmth and his comforting smell, his arms protective when wrapped around the vulnerable woman in front of him. – “Listen, you are one of the most delicate, yet powerful woman I’ve met. You deserve to be unconcerned and happy, and I’ll take care of that, yeah darling?"
“No… He just won’t stop, no matter what. He loves to see me terrified; he loves to have me begging, while he’s beating the shit out of me. The terror and despair feed him.Believe me, I’ve learned the hard way that next time that possessive psychopath won’t stop until he kills me, you read what he wrote. He thinks I’m one of his belongings, one he vents his anger on, when things don’t go as planned, until he snaps and ends my life.” – You laid your head in his chest, sighing, desperate.
The bruises on your face and wrists on the very first day you met were now explained. His blood was boiling, at the thought of someone hurting you that way.
“Trust me (Y/N), I won’t let anything happen to you, ever again. I’ll be watching you the whole time in here, I’ll be taking you home myself, I’ll stay with you if needed… Whatever will make you feel better, love.” – He stroked your hair, and he made you forget about the world outside, as you melted in his arms.
The following days were everything but easy, the thought of Raymond being around, or coming after you were daunting. There was a maniac waiting to strike and you didn’t know if you, or Reggie, could do anything to help it. It made you feel uneasy.
Reggie informed Ron about the situation, honestly he thought your husband deserved whatever Ron-style treatment his brother would give your him ,if he caught him anywhere near you.
He took care of you himself though, always aware, and ready to bail you out of any harmful situation. You complicated his mission, because you insisted you’d keep living your normal life, working and singing as usual.
This whole situation made Reggie forget about his own problems, his main concern was now his need to ensure you were safe, he couldn’t quite put his finger why, but right now you came first.
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aion-rsa · 4 years
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A Hopepunk Guide: Interview with Alexandra Rowland
https://ift.tt/2NNmRO5
We talked to author Alexandra Rowland about hopepunk, a term she coined in 2017.
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This interview with Alexandra Rowland was part of my research for "Are You Afraid of the Darkness: A Guide to Hopepunk," a feature written for Den of Geek's New York Comic Con print magazine that delved into the hopepunk term, first coined by Rowland in 2017. I recommend beginning with that article before diving into this full interview transcript.
Den of Geek: What is your current definition of hopepunk?
Alexandra Rowland: Well, there's the glib answer: “Hopepunk is the opposite of grimdark”, and there's the more nuanced answer: Hopepunk is a subgenre and a philosophy that “says that kindness and softness doesn’t equal weakness, and that in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion.” (from my essay,“One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives,” which is the closest thing that I've written to a hopepunk manifesto.) Whichever you choose, it's important to remember that punk is the operative half of the word – punk in the sense of anti-authoritarianism and punching back against oppression.
Has that definition of “hopepunk” changed since you first coined it in 2017?
Yes and no. The heart of it hasn't changed at all, but my efforts to remind people of the angry part of hopepunk definitely have grown. The instinct is to make it only about softness and kindness, because those are what we're most hungry for. We all want to be treated gently. But sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to stand up to a bully on their behalf, and that takes guts and rage.
Do you consider hopepunk a genre or something else?
I mostly talk about it in the sense of a subgenre, yes – similar to how we use the words grimdark or cyberpunk. But it's important to remember that the sorts of stories that we tell (and how we tell them) reflect our values and perspectives on the world, or at least a value or perspective that we're striving to understand in some way.
By telling hopepunk stories, we necessarily have to be asking questions like, “How do we care about each other in a world which so aggressively doesn't care about so many of the people in our communities? Who do we consider community, and is that definition too narrow? How do we fight back against the people who want to make us sit down and shut up?”
By asking ourselves these questions, hopepunk expands from simple “genre” to an entire life philosophy. It sticks in the back of your head and changes you, a little bit.
What are your favorite examples of hopepunk?
Sense8, Meg Elison's The Book of the Unnamed Midwife, the Russian movie Stilyagi – these are all amazing (and sometimes difficult and emotional) works. But as far as I'm concerned, the face of hopepunk is Sam Vimes, a character from the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett. He's a gritty, hardened cop who is introduced when he’s lying blind-drunk in a ditch. He's tired, he's flawed, he's jaded and cynical... And yet he still, right at the basement foundations of his heart, believes in something. He gets out of the ditch, sobers up, gets his life in order. He holds onto his principles with a white-knuckled grip because he knows how easily they could slip away from him. He knows how easy and comfortable it would be to let himself become corrupted by his cynicism. But he stands up, sometimes against whole armies, and refuses to budge from what he knows is right and just. He is the very embodiment of: “No, you move.” And they do. The whole world does.
How intentional was that initial post? Was “hopepunk” something you had spent a lot of time thinking about before you wrote that initial Tumblr post?
Hah, the first Tumblr post was just that glib line “Hopepunk is the opposite of grimdark” and it was entirely off-the-cuff. It wasn't until a few hours later, when people were reblogging it and saying, “Wait, I think there's something here and I think I understand it instinctively, but can you explain so I can be sure?” that I started actually examining what I meant and discovered that oh, actually, yeah, this is important and it's something that I care about deeply.
I have seen some criticism, generally, of the overuse of the word “punk” as a suffix. Do you ever wish you had used a different word? Were there other words/phrases you considered?
We think that “punk” as a suffix has been overused because many of the recent genres that have invoked it did so for aesthetics (ie: to reference “cyberpunk”, the first instance of the compound), rather than because it meant something, and that’s annoying. Cyberpunk is punk. Steampunk is not – in fact, steampunk often reinforces the imperialist, colonialist narrative and ideals, which is the opposite of punk.
I have never wished I used a different word. The purpose of language is to communicate meaning clearly, and “hopepunk” seems to have carried its own meaning with delightful efficiency.
Do you think there’s something specific to Tumblr as a social platform that allowed hopepunk as a vibe to flourish?
I think that the very format of Tumblr was part of it – while Tumblr is terrible for having an actual conversation with someone, there's one thing it's really good for: you can write an essay as long as you want and then people can share it effortlessly. With Livejournal and Dreamwidth, you could do the former, but not the latter. With Twitter, you can do the latter, but the former is tedious in the extreme. That said, hopepunk didn't stay on Tumblr very long. People were crossposting screenshots of the post to Facebook and Twitter within the first 48 hours.
I think that hopepunk as a vibe flourished simply because it was the summer of 2017. We had a new president and the world was terrible and frightening. We didn't know what was going to happen, and whether it was too late to change anything, and so many of us were looking around for... something. Guidance, or comfort, or a promise that Good would eventually triumph, or ways that we could make a difference and heal the world. We were starving for stories that would tell us how and why to resist. I didn't invent the vibe – the vibe was already there and already burning. All I did was name it.
Were you surprised by the amount of attention this Tumblr post and hopepunk as an idea has gotten?
Initially, I was just vaguely bemused that anyone was listening to me, but at the same time I understood intellectually why hopepunk was resonating with people. Simply put: they were hurting, and hopepunk was a thing that helped comfort the hurt. In hindsight, I'm just very happy – when so many people find a philosophy like hopepunk meaningful and compelling... it sorta restores a bit of your faith in humanity, doesn't it? Maybe all is not yet lost, if there are enough people around to say, “Oh. Yes, this.”
Why do you think there is a need for an idea like hopepunk right now? Do you think culture is becoming more or less hopepunk?
There is a need for hopepunk because our president is a fascist. Because there are children dying in concentration camps within our borders. Because Jeff Bezos makes nearly nine million dollars per hour while his warehouse employees risk homelessness. Because we think it's normal that people should go bankrupt if they get ill and need medical assistance, or that they should get an Uber to the hospital instead of an ambulance. Because climate change is real. Because children have safety drills to practice what to do in case of an armed shooter in their school. Because racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism exist. And there is a need for hopepunk because it reminds us that these dragons can be slain. Because it reminds us that there's power in a union, that communties banding together can make a difference. Because the moral arc of the universe bends towards justice. We've beaten them before, and we can beat them again, and the next time after that. The work is never finished, and the fight is never permanently won. But we keep fighting anyway, because it is the fight itself, not “winning”, that’s the point.
As to whether we're growing more or less hopepunk... It is easy to embrace despair and to think that the world is unrelentingly terrible, but at the end of the day, we're all just human. As individual humans, we haven't appreciably changed in tens of thousands of years. We still struggle with personal flaws and failings, we're still rude and inconsiderate and selfish, and we're still all making the same mistakes that our ancestors were making hundreds and thousands of years ago. And yet, as a society, we haven't managed to kill each other off yet, and we do keep striving relentlessly towards something better.
Do you think of hopepunk as a reactive idea? Does it have to be in relation to grimdark/noblebright or is it something bigger than that?
I think that all genres are reactive -- the purpose of storytelling is to show us possibility, and authors, since they are humans living in the world (sounds fake, I know), naturally react to the social context around them. Trends in horror movies, for example, reflect the shared cultural fears that we face. In the wake of WWII, the horror genre was fixated on the monstrous side effects of radiation. In the wake of 9/11, we got a spate of horror movies about airplanes.
Grimdark and hopepunk are reactive to two opposite social contexts -- they are the man standing at Julius Caesar’s shoulder as he rides his chariot through the cheering crowds, whispering to the emperor: “This too shall pass.” In some contexts, it is a warning (grimdark). In others, a comfort (hopepunk).
You are involved in lots of fandom spaces. (Love your Good Omens fanvids! Thank you for your service!) Do you think transformative fanworks tend to be more hopepunk than mainstream works or curatorial fandom?
Oh absolutely. I think of transformative fanworks as Marxist creativity. It is a group of people literally seizing the means of production and making the canon anew in their own image, often because so many of us haven’t seen ourselves reflected in mainstream media. Also I just have big feelings about Art being an ongoing conversation, and how Fan Art is a valid and legitimate part of the conversation and that it deserves to be acknowledged and honored. (And on that note, thank you for the lovely compliment!)
Tell me about Choir of Lies. Would you consider it hopepunk?
A Choir of Lies is the standalone sequel (meaning they’re a thematic pair but you can read them in either order) to my debut fantasy novel from last year, A Conspiracy of Truths. They are about fake news and the power of stories, and Choir specifically is about fantasy tulip mania, grief, recovery from trauma, and how we use stories to heal ourselves. It was deliberately and explicitly written with hopepunk in mind -- problems are solved by communities rather than by heroic individuals, and sometimes the most important and meaningful thing that you can do is to make a small and simple gesture of kindness, something on the scale of holding out a hand to help someone who’s tripped. Small, yes, but important -- and to the person who is receiving the gesture, it might change everything.
More generally, do you intentionally try to write hopepunk stories?
In general, yes, I do tend to. I write about characters being emotionally vulnerable with each other and relying on communties and networks of support, and characters who knowingly engage with systems of power and oppression. I write about ways to solve problems that don’t involve violence. I write about ethics and what we owe to each other. I write about basically good people being flawed and messy and broken, and about basically awful people having complicated moments of shining grace and humanity. I write about characters who are smart and who think about themselves and their impact on the world, and who wonder out loud how they can do better. I write about characters who care, ferociously, about other people.
What else are you working on right now?
Ongoing projects include my two podcasts: Worldbuilding for Masochists and Be The Serpent (the latter of which was nominated for a Hugo Award this year!). I’m always writing something or other, but nothing that I can talk about publicly yet in any detail, beyond that they’re book-shaped things.
Kayti Burt is a staff editor covering books, TV, movies, and fan culture at Den of Geek. Read more of her work here or follow her on Twitter @kaytiburt.
Read and download the Den of Geek NYCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!
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Interview
Culture
Kayti Burt
Nov 6, 2019
NYCC
NYCC 2019
from Books https://ift.tt/2pQD39k
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