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plus-ultra-oneshots · 4 years

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Don’t Shut Me Out {AoyamaXFemale!Reader Oneshot}

Don't Shut Me Out

AoyamaXFemale!Reader

"Will you allow me in, mon amie~?"

.:+:.

".... Uh, no offense (Y/N), but that totally didn't make any sense... Like at all." Mina mumbled, her head tilted at you and looking extremely unsure after listening to the jolting, sort of hushed and very nonsensical string of words you had just blurted out- all in an attempt to give your input to the conversation..... But clearly none of it had managed to get across, because everyone was shooting you confused and exasperated looks.

".... Not that she ever makes sense 99% of the time anyway..." Mineta mumbled with a shake of his head toward you, and you swallowed, doing your best not to show you'd heard the comment. Though it was hard not to react to it when several of your other classmates nodded slightly in agreement, and it took a lot to not wilt. You started tapping your fingers together pensively, your eyes dropping shyly away from Mina and to the floor.

"O-oh... Uhm, really...?" You mumbled in reply, chewing the insides of your cheeks and feeling your stomach knot.

This wasn't the first time you'd tried speak up and join in a conversation, or even just comment or ask a question and this happened- everyone looking at you, completely confused and not at all sure what you had been trying to get at. And it wasn't their fault either, you just had a terribly hard time trying to articulate what was on your mind to pretty much everybody.... And pretty much all the time.

You tried your hardest, but it seemed that maybe you were socially awkward to such an extreme that it was near irreparable. You'd been that way for as long as you could remember and no amount of practice or time had done much to help... it had even seemed to be getting worse as of late, being here at UA.

It was such a prestigious school, and you were still slightly reeling at the fact that you'd been admitted. With UA being as big as it was, and filled with so many amazing people, the pressure was so high and you were so scared of messing up. You wanted to do well and get along with everyone- but you kept misstepping and losing your cool when you really needed to stay calm, and it happened frequently. And because you were making mistakes so often, your nerves were getting worse and it showed more and more when you tried to interact with everyone..... Thus the talking and not making sense, or saying the wrong thing.

And as much as Mineta's comment sting, he was still right. About 99% of all your attempts of conversation, or interaction with your fellow students, had ended up incoherent or just a terrible train-wreck from start to finish. And it was even worse in Hero Training, not being able to communicate in high-stakes situations was making you a huge burden on the rest of the class, and had a few times put everyone at risk of completing the lesson at all.

You could tell you were wearing on everyone's patience, and you didn't mean to be. But still you couldn't find a way to be normal, and more and more you were losing the will to even keep trying to talk to anyone.

You sighed silently and your posture wilted just a bit, still tapping your fingers together and forcing a small, apologetic smile as you looked back up at Mina. ".... I'm sorry, forget I said anything then... It wasn't important anyway..." You hummed quickly, already turning on your heel and intent on retreat, so you could spare yourself further embarrassment.

You didn't even attempt to join into the conversation after that, you just tucked yourself away in a corner of the room and busied yourself with schoolwork. You hardly ever looked up from the desk, and then your eyes still stayed glued to the floor when class ended and it was time to head back to the dorms..... Which meant you never saw any of the glances that got thrown your way from a very sparkling blonde boy.

When the next day came around, and you failed to form a sentence clearly enough to warn Jirou of a projectile headed her way in Battle Training (which promptly hit her in the back of the head), you felt your stomach work its way into a million knots, and shrank under the annoyed looks received from your classmates.

"Come on (Y/N), you couldn't even manage to say duck or something?"

"Seriously, you're supposed to be watching our backs."

"... I... I'm sorry...."

".... It's fine, I guess we shouldn't have expected anything different from you anyway..."

But I'm.... I want to help.... I just....

You kept your mouth shut the rest of that day too, avoiding everyone, and eye contact especially. You ate lunch alone, hating yourself for your lackluster social skills and that you couldn't seem to improve them. No amount of trying had seemed to help before now, and in fact the opposite seemed to be happening- the more you tried the worse you were getting, and the more of a burden you were becoming on the rest of the class...... So why try anymore at all?

You figured everyone else would probably really like a break from you too.

So you kept to yourself, holding your tongue when conversations sprouted and keeping away from answering questions posed by your teachers. You avoided everyone wherever was possible, and found the most secluded places on campus available to study and eat. When class was over, you went straight back to your dorm room, skipping passed the first floor and ignoring whatever group thing was happening in the common area..... Eventually you were even treading lightly around Alliance Heights, scurrying in and out of the kitchen and communal baths only when you were certain no one else was there. Days went by and you'd barely spoken more than 50 words, even just to yourself..... It was maddening, and terribly lonely.

But the worst part of it was how easily everyone in class seemed to keep on living their lives without you there to interrupt them. And in reality, it almost seemed like they didn't even notice you were gone..... It was better for them, without you stumbling over your own words or blurting out the wrong things at the wrong time (or failing to blurt out the right things when needed). You could have simply vanished and ceased to exist, and they would continue on without even a misstep, or a second thought of you.

That realization hurt, so much

And you couldn't get it out of your head once it had been planted there. It consumed your every waking hour, making it impossible to focus on class, or the other students, or even on where you were putting your feet as you walked. It felt like the world was closing in on you from all sides, crushing you and folding you into some tiny, inconsequential little speck. And that there was something watching and waiting for you to be so crumbled and so far wasted away, it would be so easy to sweep you under a rug in some dark room no one could find, and just leave you there.

Left alone in the dark and no one would ever come looking... Why would they want to?

You were feeling increasingly more like that inconsequential speck of dust, useless and nonexistent in a world that would do just fine without you there. You fell so far into your own head and all those nagging, awful thoughts that you didn't notice anyone at all. Not when some of the people in your class started to realize they hadn't seen you much lately, looking for you in the room for a few seconds only to shrug when they couldn't see you. You didn't notice the way your teacher's eyes narrowed at you and your suddenly withdrawn behavior.

And perhaps worst of all, you didn't even notice the several times that Aoyama slid into your path or from the side, bright and shinning with all his unearned confidence and just trying to catch your attention for even a moment. He was one of the few who had taken immediate note of the way you seemed to pull away from everyone (soft-spoken Koda and stoic Tokoyami being others...), and since then had been doing his utmost to get you to pay attention to him.

You know, because gazing upon him in all his magnificence was sure to wash away whatever dark cloud was weighing you down~!

But half a dozen failed ventures later, where he never even earned the slightest glance from you, had him both a little put-off, and made him think he needed to come up with a different plan.....

Generally you at least gave him a glance and a smile when he came into view like that, and you were actually one of the few in the class that hadn't learned to just ignore his eccentric behavior, and actually seemed to sort of enjoy him popping up (and he kinda loved that about you). You didn't say much even to him (not that you said much to anyone really...), but the way you smiled and listened to him with your utmost attention was also something he loved about you. He would like to consider the two of you quite content with one another, and even that you were friends.... Which was why your sudden change in behavior caught his immediate notice.

Recently you didn't even look at him, or even seem to be aware he was there either, which was not at all like you. Your eyes rarely seemed to raise off the floor nowadays, and the slightly hunched and tense posture you had adopted had him concerned. Since the start of school he'd never seen you looking so withdrawn, and now when rarely he did catch a glimpse of your (E/C) eyes, they looked dull and so full of sadness.

He wanted to help perk you up a bit, and had been trying in the way he knew best- but none of that seemed to be getting through. Perhaps he needed to be a bit more direct? He had figured he shined so bright he usually didn't need to be direct.... But maybe whatever storm cloud hanging over you, had created a new kind of shadow that could even outlast his brilliance.

Aoyama pursed his lips in thought, holding his chin in his hand and watching as you quickly made your way out of the classroom not three seconds after the end bell.

There was definitely something wrong, you were acting so solemn and reserved... And you almost seemed like you were afraid to even be near anyone. He of course knew you were shy by nature and had a hard time talking with everyone- but your fumbling had never bothered him in the slightest, and he thought of it as one of your more charming traits. And deep down he also knew you were friendly (you had always been so with him, in your own quiet and awkward way), so he had a hard time imagining why you would suddenly quit interacting with anyone at all.... It must have been so lonely.

Aoyama clicked his tongue a bit, his indigo eyes moving toward a familiar head of black hair before he began beelining toward Yao-momo. The girl looked up as he approached, her head tilting in question as he pointed at her gracefully.

"I am in need of some of your assistance, mon amie~!"

.:+:.

You were laying on your bed in your dorm room, the lights off and staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. You'd come straight here after class and just fallen atop the bed, your mind never stilling, and your emotions never fading either. Your stomach was in knots from hurt and sadness and all sorts of things, and you couldn't even fathom the idea of dinner right now..... Least of all when the prospect of food brought with it the fact that you'd inevitably run into someone downstairs, and you really didn't want that.

.... Or would they even notice if you came down at all? You supposed it was possible for you to go down and grab something to eat with not a soul ever realizing you had come and gone.... You'd already faded so far out of their lives, and there wasn't a way to stop yourself from doing so.

It was better that way, right...? You wouldn't be making a fool of yourself anymore, if nobody knew you were there.... You wouldn't muck up and say the wrong thing, or too many wrong things either.... Because there was no one left willing to talk to you, or wanted to..... You didn't want to, out of fear.

But damn it.... Why did it hurt so much? This?

...... I.... I don't wanna.... Be alone...

....but.... I just make things harder for everyone.... I can't do it....

... I wish I was better.... At just talking to people... Anyone even... B...but....

.... Shit...

Your breathing had stalled, quickly trying to keep the stinging in your eyes at bay, and the tears that would come with it. You shut your eyes tight and covered your face with your hands, rolling over on to your side and folding in on yourself.

.... Don't cry... Don't cry....

.... I.... Just..... I don't.... Mean to be so bad at everything......

.... I've been trying for years to be better.... But nothing's worked... And now....

You hissed, your throat tightening as you kept holding your breath.

..... I just.... Don't want to be so.... So much of a burden on everyone else.... I want to be better...

You felt yourself shake, a low whimper rising in the back of your throat and so dangerously close to toppling over the edge with your emotions.

.... I want to be.... Worth being... Missed.....

TAP TAP TAP

You stiffened, your eyes snapping open and hands holding your head as a rhythmic knocking suddenly invaded the silence and your thoughts. You froze, your body stiff as a board and struggling to come to terms with the noise and where it was coming from... Because it didn't sound enough like some one knocking on your door. It was a softer, lighter sound.... Like someone tapping on glass...?

...e...eh...?

You turned slowly, your eyes wide and glittering as you glanced back toward the balcony door, and your heart leapt into your throat.

There was someone standing on the balcony, a dark shadow outlined by the setting sun.

You went cold, your heart stopping and blood turning to ice.

THERE'S SOMEONE ON THE BALCONY...?!

THERE CAN'T BE SOMEONE-

TAP TAP TAP

The knocking came again and you jumped, sitting straight up in bed now and bristling in fear and panic.

MY ROOM IS ON THE FOURTH FLOOR

HOW THE HELL-?!

W-WHAT... WHAT DO I DO...?!

You were freaking out (and rightly so), you had no idea what to do or what was going on- how were you supposed to react to someone showing up on your balcony out of nowhere?!

You were debating on screaming, passing out, or booking it out of your room to look for help when the figure knocked on the glass one last time, and then promptly pressed his face up against it, shielding either side of himself with his hands.

"(Y/N) mon amie, I come bearing gifts~!" He trilled, smiling in his signature way and not at all bothered by his choice of entrance(?). You froze for a second time, your eyes whiting out and your panic wiped clean, dumbfounded.

.... Aoyama....?

You blinked, once, twice, and then several times over as your eyes matched with his, and he lit up, still smiling, his face still smushed against the glass.

...

.... Y...you..... You're.... Kidding....?

"Will you allow me in, mon amie~?" He smiled, and you wilted entirely, your face going blank and your mind doing the same. You lost all of your posture, the sudden adrenaline coming and going and the shock (and not eating anything for several hours) making you feel light-headed- so much so you tilted, straight off the bed, and hit the floor with a thud.

Aoyama's smile tightened, eyes wide and sweating up a storm as he watched you fall off the bed and hit the floor, and for a few seconds he stayed where he was, completely stunned.

Maybe he'd been a little too direct...?

You'd only blanked out for a few seconds at best, and by the time you forced your eyes open, Aoyama had already let himself in through the balcony door and taken a knee beside you. He now looked just as freaked out and flustered as you felt, and extremely apologetic too as his hands hovered in air, unsure of whether to reach out to you or leave you be.... After all, he'd give you such a fright you'd fainted, so maybe direct contact wasn't a great idea.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you so...! Are you alright? Are you hurt....?" He told you quickly, his usually effortless smile now very strained and near gone as he quickly looked you up and down. You blinked, your heart fluttering and instantly all nerves and little else- naturally so, since this was exactly the sort of social situation and interaction you were so bad at handling, and worse because you were still very jumpy about him being on your balcony without warning (or logical reason!).

You were up and sitting on your heels in no time at all, your heart beating madly in your chest and eyes averted from him as you stumbled for some sort of reply or answer. You meant to tell him you were fine and you weren't hurt, that you'd just gotten a little freaked out all the sudden but it was fine.... Of course little of that actually came out of your mouth, though.

"Y-yes...! I mean no... Ah, well it's just... Y-you being there, I just...... you were on the b..balcony.... A-and I haven't... I... Fell, but.... Why.....Uhm...!"

That was probably the most incoherent and complete and total gibberish that had ever come out of your mouth, and you quickly hid your face in your hands out of mortification.

Aoyama blinked, quiet in place for a few seconds and slowly settling to sit on his heels in front of you. He placed his hands in his lap and gave you a few seconds to just breathe, before tilting his head at you when you mumbled a hushed, and shaky 'I'm sorry'.

Sorry? For what did you have to be sorry for? This whole turn of events was his doing, yes?

".... You needn't apologize mon amie, I am the one in the wrong. I promise I will not give you such a fright ever again." He hummed, and you swallowed, shaking your head slightly.

"..... N...no..... I... I meant...... Sorry... That... B...because....." You started slowly, and he tilted his head further in question, but you were still hiding your face.

.... Damn it...

"... S...sorry.... That.... That I'm so.... So bad at..... Talking....... That.... I'm so..... S...so.... Awkward.... It... Its terrible....." You managed at last and his eyes widened, looking a slight bit taken aback at how rueful you sounded.

"Hmm?" He hummed softly, and you hissed, your head bowing and your shoulders hunching.

"...tch.... I.... I know.... Everybody hates..... H..how bad I am... At t...talking, or... Or doing anything.... I... I know I'm confusing... And annoying.... I.... I just....." You whispered, your voice straining more and more with every word and he paused, his expression softening.

".... Is this what's been bothering you, (Y/N)?" He asked lightly and you stiffened at it, your heart skipping a beat. "... You been awfully quiet the last week, and you've been so very unhappy looking as well..... You've been avoiding everyone, hmm? I've been wondering what it is that's made you begin to pull away, and why you seem so sad." He murmured, and you swallowed gritting your teeth and hunching over just a bit.

You didn't answer him, and you didn't even attempt to. Even if you could somehow manage to get a proper sentence out, you wouldn't really know what to say. As it was, you weren't even sure how you felt about him noticing your odd behavior, or how you felt about him.... Did he actually care...? About how you were feeling...?

But wasn't it that everyone didn't really...? That you weren't even there...?

The silence stretched for a long time and his lips pulled all the way down until his smile was gone entirely. He frowned faintly, eyes glittering and brow knitting as he saw you hesitating.... And you seemed all the more tense and uneasy for it.

"Please don't shut me out, chérie." Aoyama murmured gently, and you felt your heart skip a beat. You looked up from behind your hands at last and he smiled faintly at you, but he looked so somber just then, and it was so unlike him. "I am worried about you, and I would very much like to lighten your spirits, and assist you whatever way you need... But I can only do so, if you let me in, and allow me to know what is weighing you down." He murmured, and you swallowed again, your eyes falling uncertainly to your hands.

".... W...why.... Do you.... Want to....?" You asked after awhile, and he paused, before smiling at you.

"To return the favor to you, for all your kindness toward moi, of course~!" He replied, placing a hand on his chest and some amount of his glittering demeanor returning. "You are always so very happy to listen to whatever I have to say, and it is quite lovely how you don't ever ignore me, like the others in the class do~" he hummed, though there was a slight edge to his voice at the last bit. You blinked at him, your eyes widening just faintly at the response and a little surprised with it.

.... Does it really mean that much to him, that I don't brush him off....? And that I listen, even if I don't say much at all in return....?

You did enjoy talking to him when he approached you, to be honest. He always did the bulk (if not all) of the talking when you two were with one another, and that was a huge load off for you. He was so bright and cheery, and he had so much confidence and wasn't easily disheartened by near anything at all- which was the opposite of yourself.

And he was also a bit of a dork and much less smooth than he would like to think he was (the coming in through the balcony instead of the door being one such example..). And despite his somewhat odd mannerisms, he made you smile and he just seemed to lighten things up so effortlessly.... And he hadn't ever been short with you, or exasperated by your awkwardness either.

Why he'd been so nice to you, you were never sure... But maybe that was it? Because he felt you had been kind to him?

... Because listening to him, and never being put off by his antics, meant so much more to him than you could have guessed?

....Huh...

"You are wonderful, mademoiselle, it would be a pleasure to brighten your day in whatever way I am able~★" He went on, his hands raising as he gestured toward you in that dazzling way that was so commonplace for him... You felt your lips twitch upward at the corners, just a bit, and your face felt like it flushed a little too.

..... He's actually a really nice person, once you look passed the eccentricities....

....and.... He noticed how off I've been too.... I didn't realize he cared enough to be paying that much attention to me.....

You smiled a little more at the thought, and he noticed it- which of course made him glitter and shine all the more.

"So? What do you say, ma chérie?" He hummed, his chin resting between his index and thumb as he leaned in a little closer. "Will you permit me to know what is bothering you? So that I may help~?"

You hesitated a few seconds more, before slowly nodding your head. You told him what was going on, how you felt like such a burden on the whole class and how you couldn't do anything right. You told him how frustrating it was not to be able to interact properly with others, and how much you knew you got on everyone's nerves all the time- and how sorry you were for all of that. You told him how you'd decided to just stay out of everyone's way and not bother them, and how it had seemed to you that no one in class had even noticed you disappearing.

You told him everything, and it took you a long time to calm down enough to form the sentences in a sort of clear way. And Aoyama was patient, he listened quietly and let you have as much time as you needed to say everything on your mind, and he never looked annoyed by your stumbling.

When at last you'd managed to get through it all, you both sat in silence on the floor, your eyes on your hands in your lap and Aoyama watching you quietly. He let out a quiet breath at length, earning your eyes when you heard it, and he gave you a small, gentle smile.

"Thank you for telling me, chérie." He hummed, "I think I understand now... but I promise you, you are not a burden on anyone, and none of our classmates would be so indifferent if you were to disappear. Even today several of them wondered where you were, and of course I have been worried about you long before now- you are not as easily missed as you think, (Y/N)." He told you gently, "But I do realize that not even I could convince you so easily, so instead I will endeavor not to simply assure you through words, but also through action~!"

Action?

He grabbed a plastic bag he had brought with him and set on the floor when you fell, and you glanced to it in surprise- because you'd never noticed it before then. But you weren't focused on it very long, because Aoyama held his other hand out toward you, gesturing for you to take it and you blinked, a little unsure...?

"I said I came bearing gifts, no~?" He smirked, "Allow me to pamper you for tonight, mademoiselle~! And I also promise that I will do my best to tutor you in the ways of shinning brilliantly~!" He grinned, a glint in his eye. "Who better to teach you to gleam than moi~? The most sparkly of all~★"

You smiled faintly at the words, your eyes glittering in amusement. You nodded once and slowly took his hand, and he seemed to brighten a tad further that you had.

Despite it being hard to do so, and being wary of telling anyone- you did feel a million times better after telling him what was wrong. So spending more time with him seemed nice, and besides.... Your interest was kinda peaked for what he had planned..... And you supposed being 'pampered' wouldn't be terrible.

"Magnifique~!" He chirped, and pulled you up onto your feet with complete ease, directing you to take a seat at the chair in front of your desk and quickly setting to work unpacking that bag he'd brought.

It was full of sweet buns and other treats, as well as a variety of brushes and combs and other hair accessories, even nail polish too (all gratefully borrowed from one Yao-momo, or otherwsie taken from his own collection).

You watched him unpack everything in a mixture of interest, surprise, and even mild excitement as every new thing came to sit on your desk.

He handed a sweetbun your way and grinned. "You have not eaten, yes?" He asked lightly, and you smiled, accepting the food gratefully.

He circled around to stand behind you, brush in hand and indigo eyes gleaming as he caught your gaze via the mirror on the desktop.

"I will create a look that elevates your already stunning beauty~" he told you, and you felt yourself flush a little at the words. "And tomorrow, not a soul will be able to keep their eyes off you~! Together you and I will blow them all away, and I will most certainly help you earn your confidence~!"

You nodded, your (E/C) eyes flashing and a bit of determination making its way into your core. Unlikely as it seemed, he was already giving you a bit of hope- and igniting some flame in you to really try... You wanted to try, because you really wanted to be better.

And maybe with Aoyama helping, you could do it.

The whole thing was amazing, the gentle way in which he brushed your hair and parted it, running his fingers through the stands and weaving braids.... him playing with your hair was much more enjoyable than you could have ever guessed. He worked away diligently, talking like he usually did as he did so, and you just listened, eating the sweets he had brought for you. Once that part was done with, everything was just as enjoyable when moved on to painting your nails, and then helping you pick out an outfit, and all manner of other things.

He complimented you about four dozen times all through the night, and every time it made your heart flutter and your center warm. He was so kind, and so gentle, and eventually you'd relaxed so much you weren't stumbling over your own words nearly at all.

For the first time in a long time, your were genuinely having fun interacting with someone.... And with Aoyama it was more than just fun, it was content, and it was unbelievably pleasant and it was almost... Bliss, actually.

It was truly one of the best nights of your life, if not actually the best.

And the next day he met you before class, helped you get ready, and then proudly showed you off to everyone else in 1-A, smiling and commenting on your looks with that same unbelievable confidence and calm he seemed in endless supply of.

You grabbed hold of his hand as everyone smiled and complimented you, still very nervous about talking to anyone or even being the center of attention. Even if you had decided to try and be better, and he'd promised to help, actually doing it was not as easy as saying it.

Aoyama knew that, and smiled at you, winding his fingers with yours, and staying stuck to your side even as everyone else grabbed your attention away from him. He would be there, holding on to you and acting as reassuring, and supportive as he could- and he would never lightly let you go.

He saw the way your smile began to grow, first from nervous and shy and then eventually to something gentle, and so very warm and bright..... he felt some bit of the warmth your smile gave off warm his soul, and he gave your hand a small squeeze.

You were absolutely beautiful..... The most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

.:+:.

First time writing anything with Aoyama and as in depth as this... I hope he isn't too OOC? qwq

Anyway, hope you like! <3

.:+:.

PLUS-ULTRA-oneshots Masterlist

#bnha #bnha aoyama #bnha yuga #yuga aoyama #my hero academia #my hero academia aoyama #aoyama oneshot #bnha oneshots #oneshot #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia oneshot #writing prompt #angst #fluff

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scriveyner · 4 years

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kinktober (2020) #3

Prompt #3: Mind Control

Explicit, SSKK/AkuAtsu, ~3600 words

"I feel…so weird," Atsushi said, voice barely registering as a whisper. It was the first words he'd managed in an hour, seated huddled in on himself on the floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped tight around his legs doing what appeared to be his best impression of a rock. Akutagawa had left him sitting there with his back to the couch and forehead pressed to the top of his knees, uncertain what to do with him.

Read on AO3 or

He'd taken a hit in the fight they'd found themselves in; a burst of strange, magenta energy that was undoubtedly from some ability user they hadn't identified on the field of battle—but the blast had barely staggered the weretiger, never mind slowed him down.

They were working together flawlessly now, benefits of missions run under the radar, secret meetings between the two of them that neither of their organizations were officially expressly aware of, and Atsushi hadn't missed a beat despite the direct hit, moving to Akutagawa's directions without hesitation.

Then, the clean-up…and when it came time for them to part, Atsushi just stood there, gaze somewhat vacant and unfocused. It was an unsettling expression worn on the weretiger's face, and when Akutagawa went to leave him to his own business, Atsushi instead followed silently behind him, trailing like a lost duckling.

Now at least he spoke, some modicum of normalcy restored as he sat in the main room of Akutagawa's flat. Akutagawa was dressed down now, home for whatever remained of the night; he cocked his head, lowering the book he'd been skimming while keeping an eye on Atsushi's weirdness. Atsushi was still seated on the floor and silent once again, and he might have misheard except that Atsushi had raised his head.

He was inviting Akutagawa to engage with him, clearly, but he couldn't see the weretiger's…or the ability's…endgame. "You were struck by an ability," Akutagawa said, and Atsushi lifted his tilted-forward head, actively attentive. "A pathetic showing, by the way. Your situation awareness is lackluster."

Usually, Atsushi would grow defensive to Akutagawa's derision, warranted or otherwise, and would snap a retort in anger—but he said nothing, although even in profile Akutagawa could see his brow furrow angrily. "Speak your mind, weretiger, don't sit there and make faces like an infant with gas."

Immediately, Atsushi snapped off, "the ability would have hit you if I hadn't gotten between you and it, asshole." He blinked, and said, surprised, "why couldn't I say that before? Ugh, I feel so weird."

Akutagawa tilted his head the other way, put his cheek to his fist, elbow resting on the armrest of the couch as he regarded Atsushi; still not looking in his direction but glaring at the wall and trying to figure out the origin of his malaise. "Weretiger," Akutagawa said, "look at me."

Atsushi twisted and shot him a withering look. "What? Why are you being so bossy all the sudden, what gi—"

"Shut up."

He immediately silenced mid-word, mid-syllable, and the look on Atsushi's face cycled through surprise and then went straight through to sheer anger, eyebrows twitching as he tried to force out the remainder of his thought.

Hmm.

"Stand up," Akutagawa said, and without a word Atsushi rose to his feet, turning to face Akutagawa. The expression on his face was almost comical at this point, mouth pressed into a flat line and anger turning his face a quite lovely shade of purple. "Interesting," Akutagawa mused idly, letting his eyes travel up and down Atsushi's figure very obviously, if only to piss him off further. He sat forward, finally. "I believe I understand the nature of the ability's effect now, if nothing else."

Atsushi remained silent, and Akutagawa smirked. "You may speak."

"WHAT THE FUCK," Atsushi didn't move, hadn't been released to do so. He ws trembling with the anger in his voice. "Akutagawa what the fuck are you doing me, fucking stop it."

"I am not doing anything to you," he said, although there was a heavily implied yet he left dripping off the end. "It seems that our phantom ability user has some sort of mind control power, or perhaps," he flickered his eyes over Atsushi's figure again, "it's more akin to being a puppet, as you certainly are still in possession of your mind."

"Well, fucking stop doing it," Atsushi said angrily. "Let me go."

"You're the one who followed me home like a lost little kitten."

Atsushi fumed silently. "Because of the ability."

Akutagawa honestly shouldn't be enjoying this, but he was anyway. He sat back and folded his hands in his lap. "Are you certain that was because of the ability?"

"Why the fuck would I want to go home with you?"

Akutagawa's mouth twitched. "You have developed an exceptionally filthy mouth, lately."

Atsushi didn't respond to that, snapping his mouth closed and glaring, and Akutagawa considered it for a moment, cocked his head, and said, deliberately, "why did you follow me home?"

"Because I wanted to remain by your side." Atsushi's eyes almost bugged out. "What the fuck, why did I say that!?"

Oh, this was going to be a fun evening. "Don't be obtuse, you know exactly why you said it." Atsushi resumed fuming quietly as Akutagawa weighed his options. He could always just leave Atsushi facing a corner until the ability wore off, or until Dazai turned up to collect him and negate the ability's effects… but why do that when they could have some actual fun?

He took a breath, looked Atsushi in the eye. "Do you trust me?"

Without hesitation, without blinking, Atsushi said simply, firmly, "yes." He didn't even look startled or surprised at his own answer, which was unfortunate because that was not the answer that Akutagawa expected from him. He'd honestly expected a 'no', or even a 'fuck no', as that seemed to be Atsushi's favorite vocabulary term of the evening, so an explicit indication of trust was literally the last thing Akutagawa was prepared to hear.

Atsushi noticed his surprise, his mouth tilting into a small, tight grin. "Weren't expecting that, huh?"

Ruffled, Akutagawa glared sourly at him. "Nothing you do surprises me, weretiger." He stood, and they were eye to eye for the moment, before Akutagawa tilted his head, indicating they were going to be moving the conversation along elsewhere. "Follow me," he instructed, and before he could help himself, added on, "we'll see just how far that trust extends."

Atsushi stood just inside the door of Akutagawa's bedroom He had followed obediently, straining against each step with every muscle in his body and not having any measure of success. It was maddening, being trapped in his own body and boxed into the whims of fucking Akutagawa, and Atsushi was already thinking up deeply unpleasant things to do to the ability user who cursed him with this…that is, if he could ever track them down.

Akutagawa's bedroom looked distressingly normal. He'd never spared a thought for what Akutagawa's living arrangements must look like, but this was just a regular bedroom. A very normal looking, regular bedroom. Granted, it was a very nice one, given its location in Port Mafia headquarters; an entire wall was floor to ceiling windows, giving a spectacular view of the Yokohama bay and skyline, and instead of dizzyingly bright overhead lights that would have washed out the view, the room was lit instead with dimmer track lighting.

Atsushi realized Akutagawa was watching him look the room over. "Surprised?" he asked, and Atsushi didn't like how his first reaction was to spit out an appropriate response answering the question but found, somewhat pleased, that he was able to stifle the reaction. Akutagawa didn't seem to notice or mind, as it wasn't actually phrased as a direct command, just a question. "Come here," he said, standing in front of the bed; and this command Atsushi could not ignore, crossing the room to present himself before Akutagawa, cheeks flushed crimson.

They stared at each other silently, beneath the dim lights.

"So," Atsushi said, anger still tinging his tone. "You gonna force me to have sex with you? That why you brought me back to your bedroom?" Not…not that he was particularly averse to this idea, suddenly—and Atsushi didn't know if that was him or this whole mind-control deal deciding he was horny for him—but either way, Akutagawa didn't need to know.

He better not fucking ask.

"I could," Akutagawa said thoughtfully. He hadn't moved to lay a finger on Atsushi, and instead sat himself on the edge of the large, impossibly-soft-looking bed. God, a bed with a mattress. Atsushi had the urge to make a nest in its sheets and never emerge. "But there's no fun in just…ordering you. You'd just do whatever I said, and that's boring."

"Then what are we doing?"

Akutagawa kept giving him these considering looks, and it was beginning to drive Atsushi mad. The contempt and barely disguised disgust he was accustomed to, but whatever it was that was happening right now in Akutagawa's head he couldn't grok and he didn't like it one bit. "Why don't you," Akutagawa said carefully, eyes locked on Atsushi's, "tell me?"

Atsushi said, without a beat of hesitation, "strip."

The smirk that settled on Akutagawa's face was intolerable. He started on the buttons of his shirt, still half-watching Atsushi. "And here you were, worried about me forcing you," he hummed, clearly amused.

Atsushi swallowed, flushed hard, hated that he was exposed just that quickly. "I hate you," he muttered angrily. "I hate this stupid ability effect. Can't we just call Dazai-san?"

Akutagawa's fingers paused on one of the last buttons holding his shirt closed. He looked up at Atsushi properly, his expression neutral. "Weretiger," he said, "take out your cock."

His shoulders stiffened, but his body moved to obey the command, loosing his belt and popping the catch on his trousers, exposing himself with a flush of shame on his face. Atsushi was partially hard and hated it, but at least Akutagawa's verbal commands had no apparent actual control over his level of arousal.

Akutagawa rose to his feet, stepped in close. Atsushi didn't move as Akutagawa sank to his knees before Atsushi, he couldn't move if he wanted to, rooted in place as Akutagawa stroked him lightly, the heat of his hand electric on his sensitive flesh.

Atsushi swallowed hard, closed his eyes. Akutagawa's smirk was in his voice now, though, and Atsushi couldn't escape it. "Look at how quickly you grow hard, weretiger. Is my hand alone so pleasing to you?" He opened his eyes at the command, against his instincts, looking down to see that Akutagawa was looking up at him, watching his face.

"It's good," Atsushi croaked, answering the question as ordered, and Akutagawa continued to watch him closely. Atsushi wet his lips and closed his eyes again, savoring Akutagawa's strong grip, until he spoke again. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to suck me," Atsushi said without opening his eyes. Akutagawa didn't like that, and he knew Akutagawa didn't like putting his mouth on Atsushi, preferred to use his hands but fuck, he asked what Atsushi wanted, didn't he?

All the air left Atsushi's lungs at the soft lips brushing over the head of his cock, parting around it, the broad, flat tongue pressing over the slit and sucking lightly. He tilted forward, eyes flying open, hands flailing for Akutagawa's head.

"Do not touch me," Akutagawa said, barely lifting his mouth from Atsushi's cock, and his hands froze in midair, curled into fists and left him without anything balance on or against; and he trembled in place as Akutagawa curled his tongue around the hot, velvety skin of his cock, sucking lightly the entire time.

Atsushi solidly lost track of time while Akutagawa's mouth was on him, a hot furnace enveloping a fixed point, shaking as he frantically raced toward the edge of his arousal—and then Akutagawa pulled off him, stroked him with his hand again, delicately wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand as Atsushi gasped and somehow stayed on his feet.

"You are not permitted to come until I tell you," Akutagawa ordered him pointedly, and Atsushi's entire lower body seemed to clench. Done fastidiously cleaning his mouth, Akutagawa rose to his feet, pressing Atsushi's erection back against the loose hem of his shirt with his palm. "Now," he said, "you strip."

Atsushi did as commanded, dropping his shed clothing to the floor all around him. He swallowed, flushed red; it wasn't like he had never been naked in front of Akutagawa before—but, truly, most of their encounters were brief, half-clothed quick fucks hidden away in alleys or on rooftops. He was vulnerable and exposed, now, and he really didn't like it.

Akutagawa slowly shed his own clothing to match, until he too was naked, and…he was even more vulnerable than Atsushi like this, cut off from his ability. Some measure of trust, indeed. Atsushi swallowed again, mouth dry, tried to even his breathing and only managed to gulp air like it was water. Akutagawa was hard as well; his thin frame pale in the moonlight. He ached with the idea of touching him, the need, the want…and Akutagawa's smirk, razor-sharp still, was the fine line between them.

"Tell me, weretiger," Akutagawa said, naked and unafraid before him, "tell me what, exactly, you intend to do to me."

Atsushi looked him in the eye. "I intend to push you down on the bed," Atsushi said, starting, felt the thrill of the words echoing in his chest at the same time his brain begged him to throw the brakes. "Where I will put my fingers in you to make certain you can take me. I'll suck you through to a climax, and then I will fuck you so thoroughly and so well that you won't even be able to walk to the bathroom under your own power after." God, how the fuck was he saying all this with a straight face, Atsushi wanted to sink into the floor and die of embarrassment despite the fact that his cock was clearly in support of this game plan, twitching and growing stiffer with each completed thought.

Akutagawa's lips parted while listening to Atsushi describe what was going to happen. He wet his lips, swallowed, and stepped forward, catching Atsushi's jaw in his hand and holding his gaze. "You presume much."

"I don't presume," Atsushi said archly, matching Akutagawa's tone. "I intend." His hand seemed to move of its own accord, he couldn't recall having been released but Akutagawa didn't seem surprised when he captured his wrist, pulling his hand away from Atsushi's face. Akutagawa's expression changed, shifted, but he didn't withdraw or try to pull away. "Are you going to stop me? You can."

Akutagawa's usually dull eyes were glittering. "You will fuck me," he commanded, tone as imperious as ever, "as you described, and harder." He wasn't done with his thought, but Atsushi knew, he knew where Akutagawa was about to go with his thought and lunged forward, already commanded once. His mouth covered Akutagawa's before he could say "make it hurt;" he'd said that exact thing before, sprawled on spread knees, face pressed to a dirty concrete floor…and despite everything, Atsushi didn't want to hurt him.

Debauching a usually prim and stiff expression, on the other hand, he was immediately down for.

They kissed, and kissed more; Atsushi's hands coming up and cradling Akutagawa's head, soft kitten kisses and deeper, savoring slowly the taste of him. They'd never really gone slow, never bothered to, and suddenly Atsushi felt the need to make sure that Akutagawa was very well and thoroughly fucked. They were already backed up to the bed and Atsushi pushed him down, stood there for a second with Akutagawa looking up at him, face flushed and chest heaving.

Without prompting, Akutagawa fell backward on the bed, hitching one leg up, his heel pressed into the edge of the mattress, legs cocked wide and exposing himself. It was an invitation, explicit and obscene, and Atsushi took it immediately, dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed and stroking Akutagawa's cock with a firm hand. The shudder that drew from Akutagawa was exquisite and he smirked, before putting his mouth on him.

Atsushi's dick was always bigger than he remembered. Akutagawa's head pressed back into the mattress, eyes squeezed shut as he fought his body's response to the intrusion. It didn't help matters that he had gotten impatient with the foreplay, demanded to be fucked now and had managed to forget for that split second that Atsushi was bound to follow his commands to the letter. He withdrew his fingers immediately and replaced them with his cock.

And, god, it was big.

(It didn't look that big.)

Akutagawa writhed, pinned, knew if he said to pull it out Atsushi would; even without this he couldn't stand to hurt Akutagawa and that weakness was something he despised even if, in the moment, he appreciated the sentiment. "Fuck," he pushed through clenched teeth, gave in and wrapped his arms over Atsushi's shoulders, held tight as they just existed, joined together for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a span of seconds.

Then, without waiting for any verbal indication from Akutagawa, Atsushi began to move.

He'd gotten good at this. Akutagawa had been training him since the first time he'd climbed on the weretiger's dick in the back of a warehouse still covered in the blood of their enemies. He'd been fumbling then, uncertain and tentative; now his strokes were strong and sure, each one pressing deeper inside, each snap of his hips as he pushed Akutagawa's legs back against his chest drove him that much closer to the edge. When Atsushi hiked his hips up even further, so that he was driving his weight down, into Akutagawa, it forced him straight past that razor's edge and over.

Akutagawa released, quick and messy down over his stomach, but he couldn't catch breath because Atsushi kept at it, fucking him relentlessly hard and yanking him straight through his climax. He tilted forward more, kept Akutagawa's ass in the air with his body, bracing himself on his palms and grinding down deep. Akutagawa realized with a blurry horror that the weird noise he kept hearing was his own panting, gasping voice; the raw vocalizations tearing from his throat unfamiliar to his ears.

He couldn't focus or think about anything else other than the cock splitting him in two, impossibly deep and hard; somehow the stimulation started to draw him toward another climax too fast, too fast. His fingers claws at Atsushi's back, legs jerking, caught in a spasm and unable to get away. "I told you," Atsushi said, staring down at him with a strangely clear expression, voice gone sex-rough in that specific way that just settled deep in his chest, "that I was going to fuck you until you couldn't walk," he leaned in close, still grinding deep, and said in the same low, pitched tone, "Ryuunosuke."

Akutagawa's hips pushed up against the weretiger's overbearing weight, jerking with the pain of another climax come too quickly—mostly dry, his cock giving a pathetic dribble even as Akutagawa choked out another sob. He couldn't…he couldn't, this was too much, Atsushi never slow, never giving him a moment to breath and collect himself, he had to be so hard he couldn't take It and he hadn't yet, he hadn't….

…oh, oh; Akutagawa arched his back like a bow, slid his hands up Atsushi's back and somehow found the words he hadn't realized that he'd lost. "Fuck, fucking…ah," he gasped, as another stroke slide along his prostate, lighting him up again, attempting for another dry run, "you can come inside me, fuck, fuck—!"

He hadn't even quite finished the thought and Atsushi loosed a choked, hitched growl; trying to get deeper and bottoming out even as his cock surged hot and pulsed deep inside. Akutagawa held on, unable to anything but ride out Atsushi's blindingly intense orgasm, so much so that when he finally passed through the other side he dropped Akutagawa to the bed beneath him, sliding off Atsushi's dick with a slick, obscene pop—and then collapsed straight down atop him, unconscious.

Akutagawa panted to the ceiling, amazed that Atsushi's weight hadn't crushed his ribs, and wrapped his arms around his weretiger. He knocked his forehead against Atsushi's, but Atsushi was well and truly passed out, so he kissed Atsushi's sweaty forehead and, as comfortable as he could be under Atsushi's warm weight, joined him in blissful unconsciousness.

Dazai frowned, looking Atsushi over, before touching one finger to his forehead. Atsushi winced, and for a split second that magenta shimmer appeared around him again, before being enveloped by a brief white flash and dispelling, Dazai's nullification ability doing its duty. "Huh," Dazai said, surprised. "You were being affected by an ability."

Atsushi wrinkled his nose. "I don't feel any different."

Akutagawa, arms folded and leaned against the couch for support, said, "shut up, weretiger."

"Hey, go fuck yourself." Atsushi looked surprised, and then pleased. "Oh thank god."

"Why should I," Akutagawa said with a tight smirk, "when I know you will do it so much better than I ever could?"

Atsushi's face flamed scarlet, and Dazai's eyebrows lifted, looking between them with a knowing—and amused—expression.

"Asshole," Atsushi hissed at him, still bright red, and Akutagawa covered his clear amusement with a cough, unable to gracefully retreat on his still-wobbly legs.

#bungou stray dogs #sskk #akukatsu #kinktober #lemony fresh #mildly dubious consent #if only for the fact that there's some measure of mind control involved #next few prompts might be a hair slower to be posted depends on how busy work is this week

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anjels001 · 3 years

Text

The Queen of Knights - Guinevere SI

[A/N:I am not English writer, I user Grammarly so if you see any errors let me know!!😉🤭 ]

[A/N: I accept constructive criticism so I ask you to comment if you liked it or not, because your comments help me to improve my writing even more.]

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Waking up in a different body, in a world totally different from yours that was in the past is not fun at all. Especially if it is expected to fulfill certain expectations .... Well, I was never able to do what is expected. This is the story of how a girl won the love of her people, won a witch and saved her enchanted prince.

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Metal-to-metal beats were heard around him. left, defend, and counter-attack. The intense smell of iron hung in the air. Dodge, defend, kick, and strike. The cries and moans of the fallen, both allies and enemies, afflicted my soul. Defense, dodge left, redirect the blade and attack the opening. The sacred blade weighed in my hand recognizing that it was not its handler, the handle was wider, its blade was longer and wider, something like that would only be an issue for me, but.... she agreed with the job next to me. Dodge, defend, defend, deflect, and counter-attack. I was not surprised when I discovered that the enchanted swords had a small degree of sapience. Dodge, Strike. It was to be expected that of a weapon created by Faes. "Arthuuuuu!"

My internal monologue is interrupted abruptly, when I raise my sword, I defend myself from the attack launched by a red and silver missile.

Applaud.

The strength of the blow that would have brought me to my knees now was just a small cut, I thank you internally for Merlin's lessons and Lancelot's training, but still for myself if it weren't for my stubbornness and my constant requests for his teachings they have no strength to protect my beloved.

"Modred" I answer inside the helmet, my voice comes out hoarse and in the same deep tone, of my beloved, thanks to the illusion of sound. "Recognize father, recognize me as your son, recognize me as your heir!" Screams the boy.

This is magic for you. Its swings were wild and powerful, its attacks were intense, never leaving an opening. I was on the defensive, a little more and would be discovered, that's what happens if everything I did, all the sacrifice would be in vain. No, I can't let that happen, the Battle of Camlann was inevitable, no matter what one tries, the only way my beloved survived was if someone took his place, it doesn't matter my apologies, right there in I knew this result. That's why as your queen, I took your place. With tears, I looked into the maddened eyes of the child who was yet another victim of the witch's plans, of the boy that my heart considered as a son. The boy who wanted nothing more than the love of his parents. With a hardened heart, I make my decision. Moving my sword aside, breaking the facade I took on, I leave a small opening on my right side. A suicidal move to use during a battle, any experienced warrior instinctively would take advantage of that opening. It Mordred perfectly met those requirements. Splash His sword went through my chest, completely ignoring the armor I wore. His body freezes in shock, leaving him vulnerable and giving the opening he needed. Excalibur shone slightly giving me the strength I needed to carry out the intended action. Splash. The sword of the distant future pierced his heart, the strength of this movement breaks the helmet of the knight of the tuition, leaving his face to be seen. A face that was so similar to my beloved's, but also so different.

His blond hair was disheveled, his emerald green eyes stared at mine through my lunch, with a spark of desperation and delight. I pull into my arms without hesitation. His weight, as well as that of his armor plus the armor he wore, ends up putting us on our knees. The spell that covered me dissipates, the armor that used to fit my body perfectly was now loose and wide. A surprised sigh came from his lips. Leaning his helmet on his shoulder, pulling his head to lean against mine, his body curves a little. "Forgive me". I sob "Forgive me, my little dragon". "w-why?" he asks me in a whisper. "Because your father loved you so much, as I loved you, but we couldn't let Morgana take over the kingdom, she would destroy everything, so we couldn't take it over". I murmur regretfully in his ear. "Lo-ve?" As if it were my own flesh, but I couldn't let Arthur fight you, it would destroy you" Me, ignoring the blood that drips from my lips "Forgive me... Mordred" His arms tighten around me as a last effort. "I ... lost ... you ... mom". he said on his last breath. His body softens like a puppet whose strings have been cut to the side. My eyes briefly look at the carnage around me. The floor was painted red with spilled blood, my eyes moved searching among the bodies of the knights, those who swore to serve and follow my beloved. "My king!" the familiar voice screams. I hear the sound of hurried steps, coming to my left, fear, and a battle of relief so that moving the helmet in that direction I see familiar armor.

At that moment the adrenaline that kept me upright decreases, my body leans precariously, but before I fall on my face I am caught by two familiar arms, which support me easily. "Who are you?" asks Sir Bedivere with a touch of coldness in his voice when he perceives the smaller figure in his arms who wore his king's armor. His hands move quickly to the helmet, removing it quickly, to reveal the fake one. "My Lady ?!" he exclaims surprised, horrified, and shocked by the figure he holds in his arms. His face was smeared with dirt and sweat by many men, his beautiful blue eyes were swollen and reddened by the tears he shed, his red hair was stuck in a messy bun, his little lips were quickly blue and his skin was extremely skin. "The others?" I ask in a whisper to Airgetlám's Shining knight, completely ignoring the loss of sensation in my legs. They were more important. "H-hurt but safe my lady". said the stunned knight. "I'm happy," I say, relieved. "Where's the king?" He asks. "In Camelot". I answer "This whole time was you, you took your place from the king". says the same instantly realize what I did. I smile at him, not being surprised by the discovery. " Why?". he asks in a saddened tone. "He would not return." I reply, moving my trembling hand to my neck, holding the pendant on my necklace, it was a small topaz stone in the shape of a tear. "Sir Bedivere, I ask you to return your sword." "No, my lady, I refuse to leave your side, hold on a little longer, my prana can help you and reload the sheath .." "GUINEVERE!" cries the desperate voice of my beloved.

'No' I think desperate 'he should be Camelot'! The familiar face of my beloved appears in my field of vision, his beautiful features were distorted in horror and despair. "Art ... I thought I left you ... in Camelot". I say, feeling the cold rise in my arms. "But I am here" I reply sobbing hugging "I am here ... when you should have stayed there as it was due". "I was never one to follow what was expected," I say. His voice was getting muffled, so he could no longer hear him. "I know". he said, "is one of the things I loved you the most, wait a minute my love, Merlin will be here soon". "Remember ..." he said ignoring the last sentence, "remember ... what I said to you in the Jardins ..... on our first date?" * snorts * "How could you not .... it was apart from that I knew how intelligent and charming you were, how you had a beautiful voice". "Sing ... sing for me ... Please". I ask with difficulty, it was increasingly difficult to maintain awareness. It took a moment before I heard it again. "Hey, Jude ..." Sings with a choked voice "Don't make it bad ..." Tears were streaming down his face... "Take a sad song ..." Raised one of my hands ... "and make it better ...." Give a tender kiss, before caressing her with your cheek ... "Remember to let her .." A few drops of water splash on my face ... "into your heart ...." His voice was distant. My vision died out, his beautiful face was the last thing I saw. Soon the darkness surrounds me. Then the light. Thousands of information and knowledge are recorded in my mind. Some that I already knew, others that were lost, and others that I haven't even heard of. My eyes open, for the first time since I was reborn I found myself again in the modern era. It is and I see that I was in a Warehouse, in front of my master. Sigh. There, lying on the floor, was a red-haired boy that I knew a long time ago, his eyes were wide and shocked by my sudden appearance. Hello shirou ... My lips part and I ask the infamous question of the suicidal nob. "I ask, You my master ? " "Eh?" problematic.

#fate/stay night #SI Guinevere #Fem power #It's all Zelretch's fault

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calligraphist-artemisia · 5 years

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The Sun Prince (Chapter 3)

Summary: It was an accident. A simple misstep that sent him plunging into the darkness and waking an ancient magic. Now Prompto has to deal with the consequences of making a deal with an Astral and learn how to control the magic blooming inside of him.

Also posted on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the username “kishirokitsune”

3. Spilling the Truth

Prompto numbly sat in the passenger's seat of the Regalia while Noctis slid into the drivers side and shut the door. The pressure to speak weighed him down so heavily that he had a hard time getting the words to come out right. Instead, Prompto stared blankly at his hands.

“Promto...” Noctis trailed off, frustration coating his voice.

For the moment, the prince was holding himself back, but there was an explosion building the longer Prompto remained silent. Noctis's temper was a fierce and swift one, usually burning out quickly when it came to his friends, but it was the first time Prompto was faced with it being directed towards him. How did Gladio and Ignis handle it? The very thought of Noct being mad at him made him feel sick.

“You've been acting weird ever since you fell into those ruins and now there's whatever that was!” Noctis gestured towards the road, his voice rising in volume. “What the hell was that? What have you been hiding from us?”

“I- I don't know,” Prompto stammered out the truth. He swallowed his panic and hoped that he could hold it back long enough to tell his friend everything that he was still keeping secret.

He started at the beginning, knowing it was the only way he'd stay on track and not forget any detail. Some of it Noct already knew about after their talk the night before, but Prompto repeated it anyway, though he glossed over his descriptions of the murals and winding halls of the ruins.

Noctis was surprisingly quiet through his explanation, only shifting slightly in his seat when Prompto got to the part where the walls were closing in on him. He made a curious sound at his plea to the Astrals.

“You offered up your camera? Wait, that's why you've only been using your phone to take pictures?” Noctis asked.

Prompto nodded. “Well, yeah. I didn't have anything else. Not sure the Gods really need a camera. I just had to hope its value to me was enough, and it must have been, because that's when Rhyos showed up.”

“Rhyos...” Noctis repeated with a frown. “I've never heard that name before. Guess he could be a messenger, like Gentiana, but none of that explains the light show you just put on.”

Ah.

Prompto remembered what worried him the most. Talking to an unknown Astral was one thing, but touching an ancient artifact was a whole different issue, even if it did happen at the urging of said Astral. “Um, okay, so there was one more thing in that room and I swear I didn't want to touch it, but Rhyos insisted that it would help me get out, so...”

Seeing was believing, right?

Prompto reached into the armiger for his bag, letting it fall into his lap in a shower of blue magic. He avoided looking Noctis in the eyes as he pulled out the crown, which cast a soft glow over the interior of the Regalia, and held it up with both hands so his friend could get a good look at it.

“Well, it's magic, that's for sure,” Noctis remarked once he found his voice.

Prompto tried not to let his disappointment show. He knew Noctis had already told him there were no records from the age of Solheim, but he'd hoped seeing the crown might jog his memory of a legend or a story passed down through the ages. The Lucis Caelum's had been around since the end of the Astral War; how was it they knew nothing?

“We should tell Ignis and Gladio about this,” Noctis said.

“No!” Prompto blurted out, earning a raised eyebrow from his friend. “I mean, not yet? I dunno... There's already so much they have to worry about with our lack of funds and trying to find the parts Cid needs to fix the boat, I don't wanna add to all of it. They don't need to worry about me.”

“You're their friend. The more you try and hide this, the more they're going to worry,” Noctis pointed out.

He knew that, but hearing someone else say it? That he and Ignis and Gladio were friends? Wow. It still blew him away.

Despite that, he still wasn't ready to tell them. He knew he should, especially after his accidental burst of magic. (Holy shit, he had magic?! He'd freak out more over that later.) But there would be so many questions that he had no answers to, and there remained that bit of fear in his heart that they would judge him for making an agreement with an Astral he knew nothing about.

That had to be, like, at the top of the list of Very Bad Ideas, right?

Noctis sighed. “Fine. You'll have to tell them eventually or they'll find out on their own. Trust me, they'd rather hear it from you.”

Prompto nodded. “So you really don't know anything about this crown? Or any crown from Solheim?” he asked, just in case.

“Nothing I can think of, but that's not really a surprise. My ancestors kept track of our history, but there was nothing left to remember after Solheim fell. Like I said, Luna might know more, just because she's the Oracle.”

The mention of Lady Lunafreya sent a shiver down Prompto's spine, which he shook off, unsure of why hearing her name would cause such a reaction. “Uh, yeah. Sounds good.”

Noctis was quiet for a moment, and then, very softly broke the silence. “We should get up to the cabin before the others come looking for us.”

Prompto agreed and stuffed the crown back into his bag and then into the armiger. After a quick look around to make sure the coast was clear, the two exited the Regalia and made their way up the hill to rejoin their friends.

-----

Ignis liked to think he was very good at reading others.

With Gladio and Noctis, it was quite easy, even without considering his many years of practice ad getting to know them. Noctis had a habit of broadcasting everything he was feeling or thinking, whether it was through his expressions or body language. He knew the prince was fully capable of masking his emotions, he simply chose not to. Gladio often did it on purpose, preferring the blunt approach over anything subtle, though when the situation called for it, he did have a masterful poker face. More often, he hid his true feelings behind another.

Prompto was.... different. Perhaps because of his common upbringing or maybe because of the sheer number of secrets surrounding him. Secrets that Ignis once attempted to look deeper into, only to be stopped by the Marshall himself, which made Ignis all the more curious about Prompto. All of that may have had a hand in his struggle to understand the blond and figure out his motives for befriending Noctis.

There was always a motive.

Except, naturally, for the utter anomaly that was Prompto Argentum, who only wanted a friend.

He never asked for anything. Never used his status as the best friend of the prince to get what he wanted. Never abused the power and status that came with their friendship. No, the worst Prompto did was encourage the Noctis's poor habits and cause a bit of a distraction when there was work to be done.

Ignis had gotten much better at reading Prompto over the years, especially once he gave in and accepted that he too had become friends with him, and it was with absolute certainty that Ignis knew Prompto was hiding something from them.

It was something new. Something recent.

And what was more maddening, was that Noctis was in on whatever it was.

“Quit thinking so loud, Iggy,” Gladio grumbled as he sat down in the camp chair next to him.

Ignis couldn't stop thinking about it. He hated secrets. They always found a way to swing around and bite him in the ass when he least expected it, sometimes literally. (Like the time Noct brought home a stray cat and thought he could hide it in the closet.)

“They're hiding something.”

Gladio raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly to where Noctis and Prompto were playing around with the chocobo's they'd rented for their journey through Malmalam Thicket. The pair were trying out new tricks and the large birds seemed content to let them do what they wanted. Gladio turned his gaze back to Ignis, who met his eyes and refused to back down.

He sighed, loudly and heavily, as though his whole evening was ruined by whatever Ignis wanted to talk about. “What makes you think that? They seem normal to me.”

“Are you really telling me that you haven't noticed?” Ignis asked. He thought for sure that the Shield would have picked up on it as well. He was normally so observant.

Gladio just stared at him.

Ignis refused to sigh. He kept his frustration tightly bottled up as he began to explain the oddities he'd noticed over the past few days. “Prompto has not attempted to take a single selfie mid-battle since we left Taelpar, nor has he asked to stop for a photo-op. In fact, I have not seen his camera once since he fell into those ruins. The only pictures he has taken have been with his camera.”

“Well there you go. He either lost it or it got damaged when he was down there. Noct probably offered to get a new one and now he's trying to convince Prompto that it'd be worth the money. Mystery solved,” Gladio said dismissively.

“I doubt it's something so simple.”

“Not everything's complicated, Iggy.” Gladio stretched his arms out over his head and then fully relaxed in his chair. “We'll just take on some extra hunts and get him a new one once we get back to Lestallum.”

But why hide it? Why not tell them something happened to his camera? Was he waiting for them to ask? Ignis had so many more questions, but Gladio made it clear he was done talking by taking out his newest novel to get in some reading before bed. Ignis would just have to mull things over to himself.

There was more to it than the camera, he could feel it.

-----

Prompto just needed a little time to himself, and heading back to the motel room early to take the first shower was the perfect excuse. He knew Noctis would spend at least an hour playing Justice Monsters Five, and Ignis and Gladio were unlikely to leave him there alone. It was too risky, even in an out-of-the-way place like Old Lestallum.

He took care of his shower first, washing away the dirt and grime that accumulated from camping and their trip through Malmalam Thicket. The warm water helped clear his mind as well, leaving him feeling refreshed and looking forward to a good night's sleep.

Prompto wrapped a towel around his waist after drying himself off, figuring he had a little more time before he had to get dressed.

He wiped down the mirror to get a better look at his recent injuries. Most of them were healed thanks to the use of the potions they kept on hand, but there was one that went particularly deep that still twinged when he moved his arm the wrong way. Prompto twisted around to get a better look at his shoulderblade, where there was a faint red line marring the freckles there. He nodded in satisfaction.

As cool as Gladio's scars were, he didn't want any to call his own. The clawmark from the bandersnatch would cause some discoloration for a while, but was well on its way to healing.

Prompto's gaze dropped to his wrists as he turned to face the mirror properly, but as always the sight of ugly black lines on the underside of his right wrist made him quickly look away. He forced his eyes back to the mirror instead.

There was a second face alongside his own.

Prompto screamed and failed his arms as he spun toward the intruder, his mind going blank in panic. He acted purely on instinct, backing up against the sink hard enough to bruise. “What-?! Who-?!”

There was a heavy sigh. “Are all humans this melodramatic? Here I am, gracing you with my divine presence and this is how you choose to greet me?”

Prompto clasped his towel in fear of it falling and revealing far too much of himself to the ancient being. “Rhyos?”

“In the flesh!” The Astral beamed at him, apparently pleased that Prompto remembered his name.

He looked different than before. Gone were the frayed, graying robes and in their place were tight-fitting pants, a red t-shirt, and a thick leather jacket. Heavy boots laced up to mid-calf. His long, dark hair was braided back to keep it out of the way and on top of his head was a pair of sunglasses. If not for the unnaturally bright red eyes, he could have passed as an average hunter.

Rhyos frowned as he looked him up and down, and Prompto flushed under the attention.

“D-do you mind?” he stammered out, gesturing towards the door. He squeaked as Rhyos grabbed his hand, turning it so he could see the barcode. Prompto tried to pull his hand away, but the Astral's grip was firm.

“What is this?” Rhyos asked.

“I don't know. I've had it for as long as I can remember and no one's ever told me what it means, just that I need to keep it covered,” Prompto said, fidgeting nervously.

And honestly, he hadn't wanted to ask. Maybe he did when he was really young, but he didn't remember that and he doubted his parents gave him a straight answer if he did.

Content with the response, Rhyos released him and waved a hand at the door. “Unless you'd prefer we carry on out conversation in here, as lovely as this room is, we should go sit and talk. I imagine you have questions.”

Yes!

Prompto swallowed his first response and nodded instead. “Could I get dressed first.”

Rhyos shrugged as he opened the door and walked through. “If you must.”

Only once the door was shut, did Prompto drop his towel and quickly get dressed. His mind whirled with thoughts. He had a great number of questions, but where should he start? How many could he ask before Rhyos's patience wore out? The Astral's mood was of the mercurial sort – constantly shifting in an almost unpredictable way.

He needed to figure out his most pressing questions, and fast!

But there was only so long he could delay, and Prompto left the bathroom without settling on what he wanted to ask first. Not that it mattered in the end, because his mind went perfectly blank at the sight of Rhyos sitting on one of the bed and examining a very familiar camera.

Rhyos looked up and gave him a fanged grin. “Come! I wish to take a, uh, what is it you kids call it these days? A selfie? Yes, come take a selfie with me!”

Prompto was starting to think the man was messing with him. He couldn't possibly be serious, right? He watched Rhyos pat the bed and lift the camera to an appropriate position.

Yeah. He was serious.

Figuring he had nothing to lose, Prompto joined him and hoped that his smile came across as convincing as Rhyos snapped a few photos in quick succession.

“Perfect,” Rhyos said as he looked them over. “I thank you for allowing me the use of the unusual device. I will admit, it took me time to figure it out, but in my defense, I have been asleep for two-thousand years.”

Prompto blinked in surprise as Rhyos pressed the camera into his hands.

“It is clear that it means a great deal to you, from all of the images that are stored within its memory. It would be a shame to keep it from you any longer,” Rhyos said, his voice unexpectedly full of fondness. “I must say, I am impressed by what humanity has accomplished and rebuilt in these long years, but then again, you mortals have always been the creative sort.”

“Uh, thanks?” Prompto said, unsure of what else to say to that.

Rhyos bowed his head graciously. “Now, where is the Crown of Solheim?”

Prompto carefully set aside his camera and then called up his bag from the armiger. From there, he withdrew the crown and held it out to Rhyos, who took it with gentle reverence.

“It has been a long time since anyone had worn this crown. Not since the dying of a golden age. The last to bear the honor was a young boy, one who I believed destined to change the tides and put things back the way they were meant to be.” Rhyos rubbed his thumb across the sun.

There was a moment of silence before Prompto worked up the courage to ask: “What happened to him?”

“It is not a happy tale, Prompto Argentum,” Rhyos said, turning red eyes onto the mortal next to him. “May I ask, how is it you are able to use the magic granted by Bahamut?”

“Oh, um, it's Noct's magic? He just sort of lets us borrow it?” Prompto had no idea how it all worked. He was sure Ignis had explained it to him at one point in time, but he'd been too excited about the entire event that he hadn't paid attention.

Rhyos tilted his head to one side. “So your body is already accustomed to the use of magic?”

“Uh...?”

“Fascinating,” Rhyos murmured, looking at him with renewed interest. “Tell me, have you experienced anything unusual lately? Dizziness perhaps? Trouble with sleeping?”

Did being sick count? It wasn't something Prompto would consider unusual, even if it left as quickly as it came on. No, that wasn't the answer Rhyos was looking for, and maybe in telling the Astral what he knew, Prompto would get some answers of his own. It was sneakier than he preferred, but it wasn't like Rhyos was answering his direct questions.

“I killed a daemon a few nights ago. There was this light... I still don't know how I did it,” Prompto said.

Rhyos grinned in delight. “That is the first manifestation of your gifts. You've proven yourself worthy of the crown.”

First manifestation.

That meant there was more than just killing daemons with light.

Prompto dropped his head into his hands with a low whine. “This can't be happening. Please tell me I knocked myself out when I fell and this has all just been some kind of hallucination.”

Rhyos reached over and pinched him.

Prompto yelped and jerked his arm away. “What was that for?!”

“To prove you're not dreaming,” Rhyos said simply. “Do you know why I saved you that day?”

“Because you're a kind, merciful god?”

Rhyos chuckled at the sarcastic response and Prompto wanted to sink through the floor. What was he doing, speaking to an Astral in such a casual manner? It had to be blasphemy.

“I locked that place away a long time ago, before the War of the Astrals began. Once, it was a temple. The largest and most decorated in all of Eos, right in the heart of Solheim. A place of worship for mortals, and a palace for the gods to visit when they wished to visit.

“It was a monument treasured by all, right up until it became clear that humanity no longer deserved to walk those jeweled halls,” Rhyos said, staring straight at Prompto as he spoke. “Bahamut himself could not pierce the barrier protecting it, and yet somehow you found your way in. Curiousity, Prompto Argentum, is what led me to save you that say and hand to you the Crown of Solheim.”

“I don't deserve it,” Prompto blurted out. “I'm just a commoner – a pleb – there's gotta be someone else. Someone better than me.”

“Nope.”

Prompto blinked and suddenly there was a warm weight settling on his head. “Wh- hey!”

“There is ancient magic at play here. You will find it easier to wield it the more you wear this crown. And trust me on this, if you wish to help your prince and save him and many other from what Fate awaits them, you will want those gifts the crown has to give.” Rhyos stood up, giving Prompto a good look at the massive bird covering the back of the Astral's leather jacket. It was primarily red and orange, though the long tail feathers and wingtips were painted with a rainbow of colors. “Besides, just think of how much bonding time you'll have with your prince charming while you practice your new abilities.”

Prompto gaped at him. “How did- What? No, Noct is my friend.”

Rhyos turned back to him, one eyebrow raised. “You've taken a great many intimate pictures of him, for someone you consider just a friend.”

He couldn't even deny it.

Prompto ducked his head as heat flooded his cheeks. He'd gotten a little carried away in the early parts of their pseudo-bachelor-party road trip, snapping pictures of Noct peacefully napping or gazing out over the ocean while he fished or laughing with his head thrown back at whatever joke Prompto just cracked. If asked, he figured he could brush it off as wanting to put together a fun wedding gift for Lady Lunafreya, but the thought fled his mind when he was actually confronted about it.

“I am afraid this is when we part ways. Your friends will soon return,” Rhyos said.

“What about your request?” Prompto scrambled to ask, remembering at the last minute that he still didn't know what the Astral wanted.

Rhyos took a few seconds to answer. “Perhaps next we meet.”

And then he was gone.

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #promptis #fanfiction #The Sun Prince #slow burn promptis

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adanicole04 · 5 years

Text

Power to the People: An Ideological Analysis

**this is a paper I wrote in college about the ideology of democracy, and tied to current culture. It’s been a couple years since this was written, but I remember this being one of my favorite projects, and I believe it’s still applicable today. Hope you enjoy! But please don’t steal it ;)

Introduction:

NBC’s Parks and Recreation character Leslie Knope is a passionate bureaucrat who personally renewed my faith in what government is supposed to be by consistently reinforcing what democracy means to her. It may be a little pathetic in retrospect that it actually took a TV show to do so, but in light of everything happening today, it seems pretty understandable. Considering approval ratings of Congress have been at a historic all-time low for several years now, it should come as no surprise that “this more negative attitude toward Congress mirrors other indicators showing that Americans are at or near record lows in their confidence in the executive and judicial branches and the federal government in general” (Connolly, 2016).

The American people are losing (if not already lost) trust in their government, and really, who can blame them? We’ve been lied to, deceived, and had our money stolen from us to be blown on government officials vacation homes while the rest of us have the worries of our basic needs to live constantly hanging over our heads. We are a people in need of reassurance; not of what our government is doing for us (because who knows if we are ever told the truth about that), but what our government was founded on: democracy.

After Donald Trump was elected president, there seemed to be enough interest as to what “Leslie Knope” would say, that an actual letter was written up in her name (by the writers of the show). There is a lengthy story about democracy, the central idea of this paper, of which I will discuss later. For now, I will start with the proclaimed point of that story.

“People are unpredictable, and democracy is insane.”

Critics, like random Quora user Carl Hancock, argue that democracy should be considered a concept, and that the ideology of democracy is limited to the belief of one’s ideal form of government (Hancock, 2013). And even Merriam-Webster defines “democracy” as a form of government (Democracy). Should democracy be restricted to a concept and/or form of government?

Foss (2009) states that “an ideology is a pattern of beliefs that determines a group’s interpretations of some aspect of the world” (p. 209). Our government should be reflected on the beliefs and values our founding fathers had for America: that we are free people. By limiting “democracy” to a form of government, we eliminate the potential belief system that essentially directs our government. Using “Leslie Knope Writes Letter to America Following Donald Trump’s Victory” as my main artifact, quotes from Parks and Recreation (Parks & Rec for short) episodes, and ideological criticism, I argue that democracy is (and should be considered as) an ideology.

Foss (1989) also asserts that the goal of a rhetorical criticism is to introduce an artifact and essay that transforms the lives of the reader (p. 26). My goal for this analysis is to embody the persona of Leslie Knope herself, and inspire American citizens to engage in the idea of democracy. I know too many people who actively avoid anything political, because it’s not only an untrustworthy area, but it’s also confusing due to issues exactly like this essay: what even IS democracy? My contribution is to simplify the rhetorical foundation of what government is supposed to be to provide confidence the people should have about it.

Context and Artifact Analysis:

Parks & Rec first aired sometime in 2009 while interest in politics really sparked after the 2008 Presidential Election. President Obama based his political campaign on “hope”, creating a positive aura around Congress. The creators of Parks & Rec were inspired by this and with the success of the politically charged show The Wire to produce a comedy about an optimistic woman starting her career in politics while highlighting the general failure of local government (Weiner, 2009).

This government-loving optimist named Leslie Knope was born, and she reminded us every week why government is important, and what it stands for. She was always consistent in her views of democracy, women in government, and breakfast foods. All of the characters were impeccably cast, but Amy Poehler brought upon a certain charm and admirable trait to her love of government. Personally, I related politically more with the character Ron Swanson, a firm libertarian. However, I really loved Knope’s idea of democracy, and how often she talked about it.

For instance, when visitors from Venezuela came to Pawnee, Indiana (the fictitious location of the show) to financially help build a park, one of the men tried to trick Knope into taking their money, videotaping the donation, so they could humiliate Americans back in their country. Knope hilariously stood her ground by reinforcing her American values by telling him, “I am gonna build that park myself, and it is gonna be awesome. And it's not gonna have a fountain shaped like Hugo Chavez's head spitting water all over everyone. Unless that's what the people want. And that, sir, is democracy.”

When it came down to the recent election of Donald Trump, it was embarrassingly comforting to have that same reassurance by her. Honestly, there are more than enough quotes from the show itself to discuss, but her letter to America was classic Leslie Knope rhetoric covering a very real issue.

To make her initial point, she almost immediately began with a story. She was in fourth grade, and her teacher conducted a mock election in which two fictitious characters were presented. One character was cool, promised things like extra recess and pizza with a candy bar crust, and the other was “bookish”, and promised to take things slow to be able to evaluate the problems of the school in a careful, intentional manner.

But before they voted, one student (Greg) asked if they could nominate a third candidate. Her teacher replied, ““Sure! The essence of democracy is that everyone—” and Greg cut her off and said “I nominate a T. rex named Dr. Farts who wears sunglasses and plays the saxophone, and his plan is to fart as much as possible and eat all the teachers,” and everyone laughed, and before Mrs. Kolphner could blink, Dr. Farts the T. rex had been elected President of Pawnee Elementary School in a 1984 Reagan-esque landslide, with my one vote for Greenie the Tortoise playing the role of “Minnesota.”

Knope then went on to say, “Winston Churchill once said, “Democracy is the worst form of government, except all those other forms that have been tried.” … The point is: people making their own decisions is, on balance, better than an autocrat making decisions for them. It’s just that sometimes those decisions are bad, or self-defeating, or maddening, and a day where you get dressed up in your best victory pantsuit and spend an ungodly amount of money decorating your house with American flags and custom-made cardboard-cutouts of suffragettes in anticipation of a glass-ceiling-shattering historical milestone ends with you getting (metaphorically) eaten by a giant farting T. rex.”

Even in her self-proclaimed despair, she finds a way to make us laugh. More importantly, Knope reminds us the importance of having our belief system of democracy serve as the foundation to how government operations should run, even if the results don’t sway in the direction we want or intend. Regardless, “democracy only works if people get involved” (Pilot Episode) because “the whole point of democracy is decisions are made by the people, as a group” (Canvassing).

There were also a couple of episodes in Season 6 where her idea of democracy was even further defined. In New Slogan, Leslie inspires the town of Pawnee to vote for a new town slogan. Obviously, she created most of the selections, and she encouraged the people to vote for one of the slogans. Well, matters took a brief turn for the worst when the local radio DJ “the Douche” suggested a write-in option of “The Home of the Stick Up Leslie Knope’s Butt”, and it led the polls. And why was there a write-in option you may wonder? “Because every election has a write-in option. That's how democracy works. I'm not a dictator. If I we're a dictator, I would throw the Douche in prison without a trial” (New Slogan). Once again, even though sometimes it makes her hysterically angry, her ideology of democracy guides practically everything she does, and every decision she makes.

Even when her archenemy Councilman Jeremy Jamm snuck in a meeting to vote on a bill that would take away voting rights to its new citizens (there was a town merger that joined the bordering town of “Eagleton” when their government went bankrupt) right before Knope’s recall election. Councilwoman Knope interrupted the meeting to filibuster it so it couldn’t pass. During the filibuster, she found out that the new citizens supported her actions, but would not be voting in her favor. She had to weigh the options out loud, but ultimately remained true to her beliefs. She could’ve stopped in order to have a better chance in the election, but instead she declared that “the right to vote is fundamental in any democracy, and this is bigger than me or anyone” (Filibuster).

Ideological Criticism:

By using the application of ideology to democracy, we can ensure a level of consistency that is desperately needed (and currently lacking) within political actions. As opposed to the restrictions the literal translation of democracy offers, the ideology behind it ensures that the “actions and their rationale are not isolated but woven into a broader fabric of understanding, anticipation, and value” (Brock, Huglen, Klumpp, & Howell, 2005).

During my analysis of the presented artifacts, it is clear that Leslie Knope has a deeply rooted understanding of democracy that is based on the idea of “the people”; that government cannot properly or fairly operate without the input of its citizens. The element that Knope presents is that we also need people within our governmental systems to uphold those beliefs and values. We need people to encourage group participation.

Although she explicitly speaks to females near the end of her letter, she acknowledges the misogyny protruding from Trump. Because this character is also quite the feminist, it probably would’ve been easier to cover this and other artifacts using a feminism approach. However, I’ve found that her hardcore belief in democracy is the basis of her rhetoric and actions. She encompasses the power within groups by simply using the word “we”; accomplished within this letter, and pretty much everything she does on the show.

“We will acknowledge this result, but we will not accept it. We will overcome it, and we will defeat it. Now find your team, and get to work.”

Democracy isn’t yet another form of government. It should be the idea behind every single decision made and action taken within the system. Political leaders and elected officials should stop and think, “Is this what the people want? AM I 100% SURE?” before signing or approving anything.

Using her anger as a tool, she encourages the beliefs behind democracy to fight the good fight in politics, and overcome this embarrassment that is our current president. When she says, “I work hard and I form ideas and I meet and talk to other people who feel like me, and we sit down and drink hot chocolate (I have plenty) and we plan. We plan like mofos. We figure out how to fight back, and do good in this infuriating world that constantly wants to bend toward the bad. And we will be kind to each other, and supportive of each other’s ideas,” she is literally describing her idea of democracy in classic Leslie Knope fashion. As the elected official in her town, she remains determined to improve lives through the power of the people, and through communication.

Conclusion:

Democracy shouldn’t be placed in a box, and set aside in politics. It should be the automatic default deciding factor for everything that happens in our government. Without the ideology of democracy, we have no real guide for how things are done. The values and beliefs behind it consistently point to the PEOPLE; not one person, not only elected officials. If anything, the elected officials should ONLY be acting in the wishes and demands of their citizens. No politician should have a final say in anything without the approval of the people first. Maybe that’s why our government is as screwed up as it is: because we have put democracy in a box, labeled it as a concept, and threw it in the dark and musty basement that no one ever goes in.

Politicians want us to believe that the notion behind democracy is some liberal tactic to take more of your money, and encourages welfare systems “for the good of the people”. This also discourages others to participate in government because people will blindly accept and trust that elected officials will do the right thing. Well, if there is no foundation of beliefs, morals and/or values, what (besides dirty money) is left to guide them?

Simple answer? Democracy. Myself, and others like Mrs. Knope (aka Parks & Rec writers) firmly believe that democracy is a set of beliefs grounding all political actions to be decided upon by the people. It is also the mutual understanding of myself and others like me that this can only be done through communication. Any politician has the “power” to draft a bill, and receive approval within the system, without ever reaching awareness of his or her citizens. In a fair and just democracy, that can no longer happen. Americans need to understand the true power of the people, and reconstruct our government to do the same. We are in desperate need of a government that works for us, not over us. We can only make this happen through the ideology of democracy.

#america #american #democracy #ideology #fourth of july #independence day #true democracy #parks and rec #leslie knope

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luckyfirerabbit · 6 years

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Embers: Jaune dies instead. Pt 1

If Pyrrha Nikos remembers anything about tonight, it will be the creeping claustrophobia of the transfer pod. In the first few seconds it wasn't even there, but now, nearly a minute of being under plexiglass, it vibrates through her chest and ribs, stammering her heart and threatening to snatch her breath right out of her lungs.

"Are you ready?"

She hears Ozpin, knows the inquiry is directed towards her though he sounds so distant. Her instincts ring towards the sound of his voice, compelling a quick, decisive nod.

"I...I need to hear you say it."

"...Yes."

"Thank you, Miss Nikos."

She doesn't know what's about to happen, what it will feel like, and the unknowing of it all is crippling.

She felt a fit of shakes encroaching and she breaks to a knee-jerk reaction to ground herself. She hears the mechanical humming of something behind her -maybe beneath. She feels static rushing across the small hairs on her body, making them bristle anxiously. For a moment all she sees is the green sheen of what lay beyond the plexiglass, the darkness of the vault ceiling, but then her vision snaps to one side to see the only comforting thing in the universe.

Jaune is there, shield and sword at the ready -much like she had taught him- to protect her.

Then the pain surges through her and wipes clean all the focus she had been clinging to. It's hot and cold and insistent. Trespassing and shocking. Oh gods above, everything hurts, so bad that it muffles the ringing of her own dragging scream with the rushing of blood through her ears.

Ozpin hurriedly continues his work at the console seeming unfazed save for the tight, sympathetic crinkle of his brow. Jaune twists around in one sharp jerk, his post forgotten, and he cries for Pyrrha without the faintest thought, like her name is it's own instinct.

"There's nothing more you can do, Mr. Arc, please," and the plea is biting, easily the hardest the young man had ever heard his tone.

It feels like pulling against the world, but Jaune will take up his previous task again, and not a moment too soon.

It's a flicker of something at the far end of the yawning corridor, a glistening in the heart of the darkest shadow beneath the archway of the entrance. Jaune doesn't know what it is or could be, only that something about it is inherently wrong. Something just as formless is telling him to move, encouraging his feet to step to the side and back, closer to the other occupied pod. And all the while Pyrrha stifles her agonized cries and it rings in his head, only stopping when a punctuated impact jolts his shield against his shoulder, a veil of sparks showering his face and ripping all of his attention to where that flickering had been. At his feet are shards of dark glass and the remains of crystalline fletching. A shattered arrow.

Pyrrha heard it too, somehow amongst the maddening maelstrom in her mind she heard the blasting fracture of glass that part of her had expected to be that of her own cell. But looking through the hot blur of tears she finds the plexiglass intact, so her head clips to the side again to try and make out something beyond her confines. Jaune is still there, his presence still holding some sort of solace over her, but that shatters too after a brief moment. Even as the pain sparks anew, all she can think about is Jaune as her mind -suddenly centralizing on a gut wrenching horror- acknowledges a new presence in the vault: Cinder Fall.

Without even realizing what she's doing, no longer accepting the crackling hurt in her soul as near-godlike power is scraping into her, Pyrrha pounds against the mere three inch plate that separates her from everything else. A frenzied, desperate action to coincide with the driving need to get out and help him. Every time her fists strike the plexiglass and it doesn't give, each impact a fresh charge of pain, the more the fear rises in her throat.

Cinder breaks loose of the darkness at the end of the corridor, seeming to glide across the floor on an unseen current. Jaune knows he's not ready, he knows he can't take her, but he's strangely unafraid. Even as haunting amber eyes clearly, deliberately bore into him, he finds no fear. He sets his shield and plants his feet, and inches forward with visible intent to stand in her way. A small shiver rolls through him when he sees a punctuating vibration in the air behind Cinder, sending her literally flying towards him with all speed. And once she's close enough for him to see it, his eyes are fixed on the bow in one of her hands.

Cinder draws as close as a breath to him, stopping with a wave of sparks as her heels skid across the floor. She expects him to swing with something, never minding what so long as he does it. As her momentum comes to a close on her heels, she sees him starting to move, the motion starting in the twist of his hips. At the same moment she pushes herself back and up, she calls the fragments of glass off the floor to her off hand, reforming the arrow as well as summoning a second from out of nowhere. Jaune swings with his sword just after she flickers out of reach, leaving himself more than open.

Pyrrha is wailing now, tears streaming down her face though the ripping onslaught of magic in her veins has finally eased. She watches helplessly, somehow clairvoyant and knowing what's about to happen. She knows and she's helpless and it's hell.

"Let me out!" she screams, her voice choked as she tries with all her might to force the pod open. "Please!"

She sees the flicker in the air, like the one Jaune saw seemingly seconds ago, though this time it's a pair of them as Cinder looses the arrows downward. Then Pyrrha's breath just stops.

Jaune is only fully aware of things when he realizes he suddenly can't lift his arms. He tries, gods know he tries, but now his sword and shield weigh metric tons and he can't raise them passed his chest. Part of his brain is wondering where the pain is, because he knows he's hurt and hurt bad now. Razor sharp cylinders of glass ripped through the space between his neck and both shoulders -pretty sure he should have felt that, but all he registers is a sharp burning and the loss of feeling beginning in his fingers. Then Cinder comes down on him, knocking him to the floor and it all comes screaming back.

As he lays there on his back, hands still gripping his weapon somehow, Jaune watches as Cinder seems to try to just stroll by him. No, can't let her, can't do that. He tries to get up, his sword arm swinging stupidly with metallic chimes ringing though the air as it scrapes across the floor. Unbidden tears roll down his cheeks when Cinder meets his gaze. She looks curious, slightly amused, but very briefly so. When he realizes his legs still work just fine, he tries to lean into a charge. He'll take three steps.

Pyrrha feels helpless again, her fists sore, gutted and breathless as she watches three seconds unfold like an hour. These three seconds will replace the memory of closed spaces and haunt her for the rest of her life.

Cinder swallows her amusement with an easy breath, in and out with no rush at all as her body moves in a natural progression. Her bow collapses into twin sabers, one in each hand like they belong there. She makes no effort to move aside as Jaune takes his third stable but heavy step, and instead she takes one step of her own, her hands dropping low but wrists turning to tilt the blades upward. Her response is so quick, so precise, Jaune appears to fall on her swords, the edges angled just so they slip into the opening beneath his breastplate and tuck within the cavity of his ribs. They wedge themselves deep as Cinder straightens, taking some of the boy's weight onto her shoulder. His sputtering gasps puff against her ear, each steadily shortening inhale-exhale becoming wetter.

Cinder hears the screams, the noise, and peers over Jaune's shoulder. For the moment she can forget Ozpin and the awful magic trick he just pulled to keep her magic out of her reach a little longer. She sees the girl writhing in the pod, her greens eyes bleary and vicious in equal measure. She feels that sadistic humor again, her thoughts leaning towards something perhaps irrelevant and perhaps not: had she cared about this useless boy? Even a little? The way she carries on certainly suggests it. Cinder Fall cuts a vile grin, certain Pyrrha is watching her as she thrusts the blades a little deeper, encouraging a wave of hot blood to splash down her back from Jaune's mouth. Then she steadily turns her head, kissing him on the cheek, mockingly sweet.

#Embers of Autumn #savage season #jaune arc #pyrrha nikos #cinder fall

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written-rebellion · 6 years

Text

Perfect Distractions

A/N: Thanks so so much to everyone reading! I get deliriously excited whenever I see another like or reblog, especially since this is my first time posting any sort of fanfic on tumblr <3 <3 Extra special thanks to @scotsmanandsassenach @annalisedemoodboards @aruza83 @laythornmuse @fishermanslass @marshmallow0810 @rancar47 @underhillhobbitgirl @leftcoaster88 @annagoober for the reblogs and lovely messages and comments! I’m so glad you’re all enjoying the story :D

Also! Tiny bit of housekeeping, I’ve figured out a completely arbitrary (but now set in stone) schedule, to posting the next few chapters - just so my writing can stay ahead of the posts going up. You can expect new chapters every Thursday and Sunday (until/unless I hit some fatal attack of writer’s block). :)

Claire hates magnets, Jamie hates autopilot, and as always, all the facts of this fanfic are contrived specifically to make fluffy university/modern-day au scenarios. Please let me know what you think! #MurtaghMadeMeDoIt

Part One: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] | Part Two: [Chapter 1]

Part Two: Separation Anxiety | Chapter 2

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp was mulling over five different edits of a text message and seven different ways to make Joe Abernathy’s murder look like an accident.

She was leaning against a pillar just outside the lobby of her residence, thankful that most people were already either huddled up in their room or away at dinner. Or on dates. Like her.

Or not like her. Or possibly like her? She stomped her heel with a grunt, and then straightened her back, inhaling quickly through her nose as she hit send without another thought.

> Sorry for texting out of the blue. No worries if you already had plans…

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp. And just what exactly did that ellipses mean to imply? That she’d be disappointed if he did have plans? That there was room to reschedule? That she was getting her hopes up for a date that wasn’t a date — that she didn’t even mean to ask for — but was now altogether dismayed and excited and no small amount of mortified at the very notion?

“Your man will be here,” Joe had said. Her man.

“Far bloody from it,” she murmured, thumping the back of her head against the pillar, feebly trying to stop him from coming to mind.

James Fraser. Jamie. That absurd red-headed idiot who threw pebbles into her third-floor window. He was infuriating and persistent, that one. And Claire was loathe to admit that their last impromptu study break had resulted in a well-rested mind and a shining grade on her midterm.

Her phone vibrated in her hand and she almost dropped it. Not a great sign for a future surgeon, she thought derisively as she opened the message.

> Dinna fash lass, I cancelled those. I’ll be at yer place in 5

Her lips curved upwards involuntarily at the thought of him cancelling his plans, but she snapped out of it and scowled. Christ, what was happening to her? Why was this happening to her? She was a far cry from the dream-headed teenagers of Lifetime original movies. And yet, she’d woken up snuggled bodily against her pillows more times this week than she’d care to admit.

He was like a disease really, metastasizing and invading her every thought and action.

And not a bad-looking one, at that, said the more defiant recesses of her mind. She could still feel the phantom echo of his thumb against her cheek, making them flush of their own free will.

If she was being honest, she liked him. She liked him a lot. He was charming, almost to a fault, and was always so earnest in his actions that she found herself forgiving his small idiocies as if he were a child. He was also most gracious after she tackled him that first day in the library, which was as sweet as it was maddening. She’d said as much to him before, but whenever he was around, the constant buzzing in her brain seemed to shut down. His smile calmed even her stormiest thoughts.

What she hated was this: these moments apart where her mind was free to dream up all manner of anxiety, like the minutes before an exam but so much worse. The white noise came back tenfold, as if to make up for lost time. It was like the tension between two magnets just before they clicked together.

She also hated how much she wanted to click together.

She hated that the most.

---

He knew it was a mistake exactly 0.3 seconds after he clicked send. With no John to backseat text, Jamie had typed whatever came to mind before that same mind had the chance to walk him straight back to his room, let him cocoon under his blankets and slowly die of shame.

Why in God’s holy name would he tell her he cancelled his plans? So much for not looking too eager. He wanted to slow down his pace to think it over, but goddammit, he’d said he’d be there in five minutes. He was grateful for the autopilot his body seemed to operate on, willing his legs to move before the rest of him – stumbling around thoughts and scenarios and topics of conversation – could follow.

She’d texted him. She did. There was no more lingering doubt that she was only humouring his antics, and she’d told him so the other night. She needed him.

Or well, something akin to that. He couldn’t exactly remember the phrasing at the moment. His heart was singing too loudly to hear.

An icy jolt ran through him then and would’ve stopped him cold in his step had he not been oath-bound to make it to her door in the next 2 minutes and 34 seconds.

Jesus, he’d been so utterly spellbound by her saying his name that he’d touched her face without thinking. It seemed so natural to do so, to rub his thumb across the arches of blue pen painted on her cheek. And – curse that autopilot after all – he’d reached out and made contact before the rest of him even realized.

And her face. Dhia, that creeping blush and small quiver in her lips. His body ached to still them with his own, but thank heaven for small mercies, he’d managed to regain a semblance of control, managed to instead get lost in the lilt of her voice and the pools of whisky in her eyes.

Eyes that were now searching around for, presumably, him as she leaned against the front pillar of her residence. His legs finally slowed to a stop.

“Sassenach…”

Attention caught, she turned to him immediately with a wide doe-eyed expression that melted into a small smile of recognition. She walked towards him, closing the gap between them.

She was pulled towards him like the magnets she adamantly refused to liken them to.

Click went her heels as they hit the pavement and stopped right in front of him.

“We’re back to that name, are we?”

“Aye.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned down at her. “If ye like.”

“I did sort of miss it,” she said, feeling suddenly quite dull. How long had it been since she’d been on a date, let alone a first date? C’mon Beauchamp, you can do better than this.

She opened her mouth to say something – anything – but, he’d already drawn in a breath to speak so she let him.

“How was yer exam, by the way? Did ye do alright?”

“Oh well, y’know…” She brushed her hair back, letting her feigned humility last for less than a whole second before the honest joy poured out. “I got a 93!”

“That’s fantastic, lass!” he said happily, and he meant it. The strikingly warm hand now pressed into her arm told her so. “I’m verra proud of ye!”

Her smile shrunk, not wanting him to know how pleased that made her, nor how his hand on her arm was warming her whole body.

“And ye’re welcome too.” That startled her, pulling her head down from its rapid ascent into the clouds.

“For what, exactly?” Smile gone, eyes narrowing.

His hand left her as he crossed his arms, grin widening.

“For takin’ ye on a walk the other night, to clear yer heid.” He nodded, setting off Claire’s more familiar – and oddly comforting – urge to smack him.

“As I recall, I was the one taking you out for a walk that night.” She held her scrutinizing glare for half a second more before breaking into laughter. “No dogs on the premises, remember?”

He laughed too, shoulders relaxing as he let his arms fall loose from his chest.

“Ah well,” he said. “I suppose we’d best get off the premises then, aye?”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I dinna ken, Sassenach. You were the one who called me here, weren’t ye?”

No, actually I wasn’t, but God bless Joe Abernathy, the nosy little bugger.

“Fair point.” One slim finger found her chin as she weighed their options, surveying the campus grounds behind him. “Food?”

When their eyes met again, he was staring intently at her, the same way he’d done that night before he reached up to touch her cheek. She could have sworn he’d meant to kiss her then and – for fuck’s flying sake – she was terrified of the fact that she would have let him.

“W-what?”

The look was gone as quickly as it came. He shook his head, ruddy curls swishing about.

“Nothin’, just my favourite word, that.”

“You and every other student on campus.” She snorted, turning from him to start in the direction of a small diner she’d taken a liking to. “I know where we can still find a table though.” With a look over her shoulder, she allowed herself to smile at him as widely and honestly as she’d like.

“Are you coming?”

“Aye,” he said softly, and a chill ran down her spine. “Aye, I’m right behind ye.”

Read Chapter 3

#murtagh made me do it #murtaghmademedoit #outlander #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #jamie x claire #wr writing #perfect distractions au #technically its sunday rn if you set for daylight savings ahead of time #i was just really excited to post ok?

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princebete · 6 years

Text

Night Terrors

@forvistxkonge

⟅ ⚜ Being held down, unable to breathe– thrashing as hard as he could, but to no avail his struggles proved to be futile.

{ Groans and turns over.}

Adam tries opening his eyes, but they feel heavy… As if weighed down by lead. Finally– he managing to throw his hand, in slow motion towards his face– breaking the barrier that kept him from seeing. Mon Dieu.

{ Tosses.}

Hans? Staring up. Finding that the person responsible for holding him down, has been his lover . Clasping their hand a little too hard for comfort– Immediately releasing his grip on the other prince, Adam smiles up at Hans who still has him pinned. The room feeling somewhat more airy, and bright than usual. Tilting his head curiously, what was the other up to? ❝ Is there…. Something you want?❞ Running his foot against the back of the other’s calf, he takes in the feeling of having their body so tightly pressed against his. A little more dominating then usual, but Adam wouldn’t mind this slight change. Kinda liking it, he took in a breath–allowing the scent of the other to captivate and hold him. Making it obvious where Hans should take this activity–

{ ❝ J’taime–uhh❞ Tossing back, the words dropping with a heavy breath. }

Remaining there, looking over Adam. Hans’ expression much little less happy. It isn’t the loving glance that Adam tends to find in those emerald hues— something is very off. The other looks almost angry, but not quite. There is something that sends chills through the french prince, something more … dangerous. Not so much a thrill that arouses, rather making Adam worry. ❝ What is it? Hans, what’s-❞

❝ Shut up❞ A harsh interjection that suddenly puts Adam in a state of concern. Shut up? What have I done to deserve such resentment? But Hans wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let him speak– The grip just hardening around his wrists. Making the french prince wince.

❝ Ah!!– That hurts, If this is some weird fantasy you’re wanting to play… I’m sorry I don’t think I really prefer—❞

❝ You killed my family–❞ Eyes widen, looking up at the other. Confused– terrified of what Hans could mean, though somehow Adam thinks about what the other is saying and suddenly begins to have these memories. How… Could… I? The images of himself– hunting down an entire royal family. Slashing them. The red blood–

{ ❝ I didn’t— NNo… Stop❞ Kicks into the sheet.}

Licking his lips, then looking back up at Hans who now had this sadistic smile on his face. Adam realizes that yes. He did kill Hans’ family. Not knowing how or understanding why—- Oh… Beast? ❝ How– how do you know?❞

❝ I always knew.❞

❝ – You… Have?❞

❝ Of course. Why do you think I’ve been waiting for a moment like this? I’m going to make you pay…❞. Hans leans in close to Adam’s face, it’s a strange feeling. In the past Hans only comes this close to retrieve a loving kiss or some other tender reason. While this is reason for their close proximity is purely out of anger and revenge. I’m sorry Hans, I didn’t mean to–Really. ❝ Please… Listen– You can hate me❞.– ❝ Oh I already do. That is why I am here to end you–❞

{ Breathing quickens and slows in uneven patterns}

❝ Hans! Please just hear me…❞. Looking up at the other with a desperation in his eyes, Which does absolutely nothing to stop the other. In their hand is Adam’s own ornamental dagger. Pointing down. Threatening him. This can’t be Hans. The last couple years, learning about him, taking him in– not giving a damn about his past, and practically nursing him back to health after his whole family condemned him. Pouring his heart and soul into this man, and now this? Why? Why such hatred? Because Adam killed his family? The family that in turn hated him? Supposing it isn’t still fair, but this… his– ❝ Please… Just listen–❞.

❝– I’ve had enough of your excuses! Your stupid, pathetic excuses! Why can’t you act like everyone and just be normal? You know how perverted you are? To bed another man… You are a sick monster every child fears. You are a monster that killed my family, and I am going to be the hero and stop you from doing anymore…❞ This felt self righteous and due to thesudden memories flooding back of Adam’s recent massacring, because how convenient is a dream if it cannot summon artificial memories? It only seemed right. Killing him won’t bring Hans family back, but killing him would stop him from hurting anymore people. Triumphed, the french prince looks up at his lover. Gleaming of the dagger’s edge reflecting off the sun in the room. The bright lights almost a tease to what theme this way. Adam lay there with a bare chest, defenseless to the other’s advances– Even as Hans sat up to aim, and plunge the blade in, the prince let his arms lay flat. Outstretched in each direction as if it might be a crucifixion. This is fine. Let it happen. If Hans hates me what even is the point in all of this? Looking up at the other, blue eyes watched the maddened green ones–

{ Beginning to shiver–Tossing over to his other side. Choking up.}

Closing his eyes, he can’t stand the pain of not spending his life with the other. Being loathed by your most loved is worse than death itself. Fine. Oh kill me. Please, if that is how you feel. Just get it over with. ❝ Do it❞.

❝ Do what, Adam?❞ A rasped voice replies. Opening eyes, to find that instead of Hans pinning him, he is pinning Hans. Looking into the other’s terrified, confused green eyes. Taken aback by what just happened, swearing it was the other way. Looking at Hans’ Adam begins to relax a little– wondering if maybe he was dreaming… But at the corner of Hans’ lip something begins to take shape. Staring at it for a second, a bead of red falls down the other prince’s chin… Down his neck. Furrowing his brows, Adam picks it up with his finger, giving a taste– blood.

What in the hell… ???❝ Hans?❞

❝ Adam?❞ Following the other’s expression still bewildered and frightened, the direction of their eyes shifts down to their chest. To which Adam follows, looking down at his other occupied hand. ❝ Oh… mon… amour? ❞ The dagger was thrusted deep into the other prince’s chest, Adam’s hand on the hilt– holding it in. Clearly he was the one killing the other, having had the illusion that he was being threatened. An illusion.

❝ NO!❞

{❝ No!❞ Slams his hand.}

Swallowing roughly, Adam looked back up into those eyes. Looking betrayed, wondering why he did this… ❝ I don’t know– Hans I’m… a Monster– no you are to kill me not… Not this. Hans no… Hans...❞

Not sure to pull the dagger for fear of the other bleeding out, but the damage was already done. what could be done? What have I done!? Rushing to grasp the back of Hans’ head and upper body- Adam pulls the other close to him. ❝ I’m sorry… Oh my god– Hans, no this wasn’t… I’m so sorry— I knew this … I should’ve just let you be here with…. ❞

Tears begin to take up his eyes, and his throat as he chokes up. The largest lump.

Did i just kill him? ❝ Hans— No… I love you… I can’t be here without you. I didn’t mean–❞

Rocking back and forth the other in his arms. ❝ It’s okay, Adam. I love you—❞ No. No Don’t forgive me you fool! Hate me! AT least hate me for this!!!

{Stops breathing– begins to tremble more roughly}

❝ No… Stay with me. Please. I’ll… get you help– I … I will sell the rest of my soul for you. No… Hans. Don’t do this.❞ This can’t be happening! How could this happen?? ❝ I’m sorry, Adam. We won’t be having breakfast together…❞

Heart is full of dark, anger and hatred towards himself– No… ❝ HANS!❞

Beginning to rock himself, his lover– bleeding through his fingers, darkening the sheets in this black, and red liquid. Feeling the other co limp, sends Adam into a tailspin of a breakdown. His whole mind, everything– literally losing grasp on reality, and thought. Snapping in sanity–he sobs through clenched teeth. Blaming himself for everything. ❝ HANS! ❞

{ ❝ HANS!!! ❞

Throwing himself up into a sitting position. Sweat trickled down the side of his face as he shook and gasped for air. Heart thudding heavily in his ears as oxygen floods back into his body, making his brain drag– Still taken by that… Not really sure if this was still the dream. Looking around the bed, kicking the sheets back, expecting to be soaked in that black-crimson. There is blood marks about, which pushes him over the edge that this may have happened.

Not wanting to dare look at the body beside him, incase they don’t wake up for breakfast. Incase it is true. Tears begin to leave his eyes, as the sobs from before are still echoing through him like tidal waves. Dry heaving– he clutches himself with his arms, feeling sick.

Digging into his own skin with partially changed fingernails–❝ Hans…. Hans… I love you– I love you… I’m so sorry… I love you ❞ Repeating over and over. It appears to have been nothing but a traumatic nightmare. Leaving Adam shaking, and rocking back and forth. Is it over??

❝ Hans– I …. ❞ ⚜ ⟆

#forvistxkonge #tbt #will be retracking this

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agentwallflower · 6 years

Text

Dull One Chapter 35

I told myself no Mass Effect until I published this. Y’all are the only thing standing between me and being reunited with my beloved, Garrus Vakarian.

Yeah I went down that alien path real fast... whoo boy...

Hope you had a good two weeks. Next chapter is going up on... Jesus, June 10. So close to the fun number... anyway, thanks for reading and I’ll see you then!

And just like that, the day arrived.

It came quietly, without much fanfare. In fact, for the entire city it was a normal day. Only for a few did it mean anything, and for one of them it settled into a feeling of dread that followed her from sun up to sun down. As soon as the sky started changing to red and purple, hope went with the blue that was slowly draining from the heavens above.

Mointz had been feeling pretty good too. It was rare she woke up without any stiffness, but that day had been a rare exception. Maybe it was some unknown god trying to give her a leg up on the competition, or it could just be her own terrible luck. Though it was for the best, she couldn't help but feel it had been wasted on a trial day.

You ready to kick some ass kid? Or... not kick some ass? Or... well I don't know.

Mointz felt ready to go back to bed. However, she wasn't heading up the stairs, behind the spell wards, and straight into her pillow. Instead, her feet led her out the door and into the city as gold painted the streets. Every step brought her closer to a fate she didn't want to meet, but of course time has its own plans.

If only she could have controlled that. But that would be ridiculous.

“We're going to be there soon.”

Corabe was along once again, as was Spaekna. Someone had decided the two of them would be her regular squad to these things. She didn't mind the company, but the awkward silence between the soldier and the mage were uncomfortable. It was setting her nerves on edge when they very much needed to be somewhere else. If only she could have screamed for them to get over it, but her throat didn't want to work. The only thing in operation was her legs.

Unlike the other two sites, this was in a fairly occupied part of the city. The buildings were worn down but still plenty habitable, and the soft chatter of citizens and visitors filled open spaces around them. Life was happening here.

Well, almost.

They stopped in front of a small alley that led to a square. Here, there was no chatter, no children playing or people taking advantage of the open space to do their chores. Deathly still silence filled the square all the way to the alley and hung about it like a thick fog. Even if she hadn't known, there would be no way to ignore it.

Something old was here. Something old and powerful. It didn't try to attack her as Mointz looked it over, but instead it was just... there. Like she didn't matter at all. It was just going to keep on going whether she succeeded or not. In a way, that was more terrifying than anything she had faced before.

How do you beat utter indifference?

Voice would have been great then to lighten the atmosphere. However, when Mointz looked to their usual place, all she felt was air. There was no heaviness, no familiar humming presence to indicate the presence was there. They were simply gone. Panicked, she looked down at her wrist. The bracelet was still there, unmolested. Nothing about it seemed off either.

Voice just wasn't there.

“Oh that's not a good sign.”

Corabe looked over at her. “What isn't a good sign?”

“I can't feel Voice.” Mointz frowned as she looked around. “Whatever this is must be blocking the connection.”

Just from that alone, her confidence was shot. Sure, she had done things without Voice, but knowingly going in without them was a different subject entirely. And to be truthful, having someone else to fall back on was comforting. When she needed them most, they were just... there.

And now they weren't. Maybe she could get best two out of three on this one too?

Mointz didn't get much time to reflect on that, unfortunately. As the sun sank lower into the hills past the city, the feeling in the square began to feel weaker. If she didn't act soon, who knows when they would be able to try again. So, as much as it pained her, she had to push past her nerves.

Spaekna unlocked the gate for her as she stepped forward. “Not sure what's waiting for you in there. People say it's haunted.”

He gave her a nervous glance. “Well... good luck.”

And then he stepped back to wait with Corabe, a healthy distance between the two of them. That was the last thing Mointz looked to as she gathered herself. With one final breath, she took her first step down the alley. And oh, how she regretted it.

Almost immediately, a presence settled heavily onto her skin and nearly weighed her down. Her entire body began to tingle with an electrifying force that wasn't painful but nor was it pleasant to experience. It reminded her of when her foot fell asleep, only multiplied and applied to her entire form. What was annoying before was almost maddening now.

Then came the feeling as she walked further in, the heart of the square within her sights. Something was watching her. Mointz felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise as the tingling sensation intensified around her forehead. Something was there now, invisible. It was prying at her. It wanted in.

Her first instinct was to fight it off. After all, things that tried to get into her head rarely meant anything pleasant. However, the more she tried to keep it out, the stronger the presence had the urge to enter. With it, the pressure and tingling sensation increased until it almost bowled her over from the weight.

It was hard to even breathe. Mointz was stuck there, holding onto the wall as she struggled against the force. For a moment, she was reminded of home, and being knocked down by a massive wave. If she listened, she swore she could almost hear the sounds of the sea.

Maybe that was why she stopped struggling. With a deep breath, Mointz let go of whatever reservations she had been holding. The wave washed over her, but with it came a relief of the pressure that had been threatening to crush her. When it was gone, she could breathe again. It had passed. All that remained now was the tingling feeling, though it no longer had the intensity that it had before. Now it was just mildly unpleasant in the way a limb falling asleep was naturally.

“I don't know if that means I passed or failed.”

Mointz waited, just in case something with too many teeth and an attitude to match tried to rush out to evict her. Nothing came but a cool breeze that blew the dust in a nearby patch of wall. It was empty, same as it had been before.

She took that as her sign to press on.

The alley ended, and now she found herself in the square. At one time, it looked like it could have been a place for the residents of the city to gather in nicer weather. She could almost imagine it, with children playing and elders chatting in the shade of nearby buildings. But none of that was there now. Now there was just ruin.

Slowly, she picked her way across the broken stones that had once been laid out in neat rows. It had been so long that grass and even flowers had begun to grow among them, creating a blanket of multicolored petals that smelled of spring. The pink ones were of the largest variety, and they almost seemed to welcome her with their petals.

However, despite this, a heavy feeling hung over the abandoned square. It was almost lonely if she had to give it a name. So, Mointz didn't dwell on anything for too long as she looked around to find where the source of the trial would be. As far as she knew, there had to be something to focus on.

The flowers pointed the way. In the heart of the square there was a dry fountain that in its day would have been lovely. Now nothing but dirt and dust gathered in its cracked basin, and vines had started to reclaim the structure. It looked even older than it probably was because of this, and the flowers only added to it. Here, they were the thickest, and they created a carpet of pinks and whites that directed her attention.

She avoided stepping on them if she could. The lightest touch made the delicate petals crumple into mush, eradicating their lovely hues and sweet smell. Anywhere else in the city and they would have been trampled into the dust by the unaware feet of passersby. Perhaps here, in this abandoned square, was the only place left that they could thrive. Here in this little place forgotten by time, they had a place they belonged. Where nobody could see them or enjoy them.

Mointz stopped within walking distance of the fountain, unsure if she should make her presence known. Whatever was there already was aware she existed, but whether or not she needed to make it formal was beyond her. Truly, she was in the dark with this challenge. After all, what did a fountain have to do with a test of spirit?

“Um... hello? I'm here now. You can do whatever you need to do.”

Her voice echoed in the empty square until it disappeared. Mointz listened to it fade as she looked around. Nothing changed. She stepped a little closer, hand dropping to Spinner just in case, and that's when it happened.

A light glow came from the top of the fountain and trickled down. Hovering where the water should have been and giving off a faint glow was... well, it was an orb. At one time it had been perfectly round, but something had cracked it. There were shards missing, and something dark was marring the pink hue. But it was an orb, even if it was really messed up. All it did was just hover there, inches from the stone bottom of the fountain's basin.

“What?”

Mointz reached out her hand, stopping halfway. The orb bobbed towards her, then repeated the gesture. She moved, and it moved too. This dance continued for a few moment until she was right back to where she had started, staring at the ball with a blank expression.

That's me.

It wasn't Mointz who said it. Nothing spoke, but she knew it to be true. That cracked, broken up orb floating in the fountain, doing its best to give off faint sparkles of light was what her spirit was supposed to be. And man, was it messed up.

Had Voice been there, she could've maybe joked about it. But the words were stolen from her. Instead, she just looked at the orb and how it struggled to keep its position in the air. Faint sparkles kept dropping off it, disappearing. It probably wasn't supposed to do that. That might've been the deepest crack's cause.

Really, it was sad watching the little thing struggle. Every so often, it would dip and nearly touch the bottom. Then at the last moment it would manage to pull itself back up to its original altitude. The sparkles were getting weaker – could it be getting tired?

Man, she knew that feeling.

One hand reached out to take it, but at the last moment it was just out of reach – the ball bounced higher. She watched it, not sure whether to be proud or not as she took her hand back. A few seconds later, it was back to hovering right where it belonged.

“I really don't know what you want me to do with this. Should I pick it up?”

Honestly, she didn't even know why she was speaking. Maybe it was just to get rid of the silence that was pressing against her throat like a knife – a feeling she knew all too well as well. It worked to some extent: the orb bobbed slightly at the sound of her voice, but the coloring was starting to dim. It was using up a lot of energy just to stay aloft.

That's me.

There was the thought again. It kept bouncing around in her skull, right around where Voice should have been, every time she looked at the damn thing. Apparently, whatever was running the trial thought she might've needed convincing. It wasn't needed. After all, how many magical pink things were there that didn't belong to her?

Mointz bit her lip when she watched the orb take another dip, this time barely avoiding scraping the bottom. Though she wasn't entirely sure, something in her gut was telling her that if it hit, it would be game over. The orb would break and it would be done with.

Would that be so bad?

The presence settled in against her shoulders, like it was peering over her head in imitation of some bird of prey. It wasn't heavy, but it wasn't comfortable either. And it wouldn't move – she tried to shake it off but it stayed put.

The orb wobbled again. “Yeah, it would break.”

Would that be so bad? Look at what they've done to you. So tired... so... broken.

Broken. That word bounced against her skull endless times, getting louder with each repetition. The setting sun highlighted every crack and chip in the orb's surface, right down to the deepest one that could've cut it in half if it had gone all the way through. It was still trying to float, despite whatever was pulling it down.

Mointz's hand wavered inches from the orb. “I'm not...”

Why not just... let go? The world doesn't care about you. Why care about it when it doesn't deserve you. Doesn't deserve what you did for it.

It was like a cat wrapping itself around her ankles. The presence had direct link to her brain and she knew now what the heavy feeling had been before. It had done plenty of digging when she hadn't been paying attention, and it had struck dirt. Now it had something to go against that sad little orb expending all its energy not to shine, but to stay afloat.

“I...”

Yeah, it didn't care about her. Every cut and bruise told her that much, with the voices of monarchs and cult leaders who used her and tossed her aside. When it got down to the basics, she was killing herself for what? For people who didn't even care about her?

Maybe the voice had a point.

Her hand clenched in a fist at her side. “No.”

No?

“I know it doesn't care.”

Her gaze drifted back. Just barely, she could make out the blobs that should have been Corabe and Spaekna. Maybe they were discussing when they should go after her. Hell, maybe they were trying to break in now.

Even further than them, beyond where she could see, there was someone waiting for her to get home too. They had a long talk and some tea to share. And there were more, small lives that probably didn't matter to this weird presence, but they were more precious than gold to her.

And for them? She'd do anything.

Mointz stepped right up to the fountain and reached out in order to grab the orb. “I don't care if the world doesn't care. I'm not doing it for them.”

But look at what it's done.

She grit her teeth to reach. “I'm near-sighted, not blind. I'd do it again over and over if I had to in order to keep them safe!”

And that's when her fingers just barely brushed against the surface of the orb. It shot close, and she caught it in her arms. Now it was pulsing happily, giving off a warm glow that made her skin tingle as she held it. If she listened, she could hear it matching the beat of her heart.

Mointz smiled as she looked down at it, the last rays of the sun catching the largest crack. “I'm broken, but I'm still going. And I'm going to keep going for everyone I care about. So you can take your whispers and shove them.”

And that was the last thought she had as the world went pink.

#The Magpie's Stash #Dull One #I'm coming Garrus!

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inktae · 7 years

Text

now we dream apart

↳ soulmate au

◇ pairing: jungkook | reader ◇ genre: angst ◇ word count: 3.291 ◇ warnings: none ◇ author’s note: I know I know, another soulmate au, I’m trash. :’) this is just a small story I started working on this afternoon, to get me back on track so I can start working on my bigger projects again. nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

You don’t know when the dreams begin — but once they do, it feels like they’ve been there since you were born.

The first dream of him revolves around coffee beans. The heavy scent of the morning beverage tangles with the rich shade of chestnut hair and chocolate eyes, turning almost hazel under the glowing sunlight. You can remember a gaze, a nose and full lips turned upwards, but your mind is unable to piece it all together. The face as a whole is blurry in your mind, indistinct, frustratingly vague.

But the memory of those lips moving and pronouncing your name is remarkably sharp, and it almost fools you into believing it is not a dream, but a real memory — that the warmth accompanying his stare existed at some point in your life, that your body did feel the bedsheets tangling around your bare legs as you struggled to move closer to him. That the sound of his voice, rough and mellow, belongs to a living, breathing person and not a figment of your vivid imagination.

It makes you wonder if the smell of freshly made coffee was real, at some point — and that notion makes your chest clench for a reason you can’t pinpoint. And even if you wish for that dream not to repeat itself again, it is only the first of a string of indelible images, weighing down your mind towards a path of wistfulness and confusion.

You’re aware that these dreams can only belong to the twinkling signs of your soulmate. It is extremely rare to dream of them before meeting them, but it is feasible, and that is the only reassurance you need to withstand the irrational pain that makes your stomach twist most nights.

It is not that big of a deal — having a soulmate, that is. It is not your other half, but rather someone who reminds you that you are already whole, someone whose company feels as right as the instinctual beating of your heart. Your paths will cross one day, and you are not bursting with anticipation to meet them, perfectly aware that the moment will come sooner or later.

Finding your soulmate has never been your main concern, which is why the dreams that come with the night and an unconscious mind are as puzzling as they are maddening. Why is your heart hurting for someone you know you can wait for? Being aware of it does not make it any easier, because the dreams do not stop, no matter how much you want them to. As warm and comforting as they are, as vivid as they remain in your memories, they keep rolling and growing like billow clouds fogging your consciousness.

It does not help that you can feel pure, unadulterated happiness with the sight of those eyes, always missing from the face you desire to put together.

One day I will meet them, you remind yourself, pushing the strange longing away. One day I will meet them, and I will finally see the face that belongs to those eyes.

It is just a matter of time.

The second dream you have of him is too trivial, too meaningless for you to remember afterwards — but it does stay in your mind, glues itself to the walls of your unconscious with inexplicable yearning.

You’re both inside a bus, and the outside is impossibly dark except for the glowing moon that rises high in the sky. You can perfectly feel the sting of your tired muscles and the desire of your eyes to stay closed, struggling to stay awake as your hazy gaze turns from the window to look in the direction of your partner.

He’s sitting right next to you, and once again you cannot see his face, but his fatigued smile is as bright as the moon itself, dry lips forming a grin that seems to tell a million stories you already know — of long, tiring days and frustration and small moments of happiness, just like this one, sprawled out in the bus as you go back home in complete silence.

Home. Your home is him, and maybe you’re his, too. The notion makes you take his hand and his calloused fingers start caressing your skin right away, so warm it almost makes your eyes fill with tears you cannot comprehend.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you understand, though. You wake up with that thought in the front of your mind, and the tears you held back in the bus finally spill out.

They flow naturally, just like the curve of his smile and his fingers intertwining with yours.

Three, four, five more dreams.

You do not know his face, but you can count his eyelashes if you concentrate enough; you can describe the fresh, homely scent that usually clings to his clothes and the way his hair tangles in funny ways when he sleeps. You do not know his face, but you know the touch of his skin and the fondness that comes attached with the press of his lips against your forehead.

You know him just like you would know your soulmate. And even if meeting him was never a priority, it is almost painful to remind yourself to wait now. You wish to feel that same completion that comes with your dreams, one you never experienced while awake, but has now become a part of your being. It is a compelling, shattering feeling, and the fear of it slipping away in this lifetime almost makes you tremble with fear.

The dreams continue and your heart swells with them, grows bigger and bigger until it can barely fit within your ribcage. They show you walks across parks and sitting together on the sand, knees brushing as you both stare at the pliant ocean that stirs under the melting sunset; they show you endless laughter, guided by silly jokes and followed by tears and an aching stomach. They show you a life you never had, stripes of vibrant colors hidden amidst your dull routine.

A name, you beg no-one before going to sleep every night. Just give me a name. That’s all I need.

But the dreams never give you one.

And just like that, you fall in love with the faceless.

Jeon Jungkook prides himself in having life figured out.

His soulmate’s name is Jisoo, and even if he only met her one year ago, his feelings seem as old as centuries and carry profound waves of comfort, of knowing that the girl that holds his hand is meant to be by his side.

The universe has always been kind to him, and Jungkook is perfectly aware of that — it gave him skilled hands, a gentle voice and a charming smile, talents he has honed over the years as he continues to rise to the top.

Jisoo is right there with him, sticks through the good and the bad — and he would never change those late nights of singing practice nor the tiring, overwhelming days that crumble under failed auditions. Not when she’s by him step by step, lighting up the path for him as he drags himself towards his future.

His life is no more than a plan, a taxing strategy he can’t afford to take a break from. One step in false could cost him the dreams he’s been chasing for almost a decade.

Which is why those other dreams — the ones that visit him every time he all but closes his eyes — are nothing but troublesome. Infuriating, distracting and disconcerting.

He almost feels ashamed as he steps into the office of Kim Namjoon one month after the dreams started. He knows he should not be, but his stance is still stiff and hesitant as a tall, handsome man shakes his hand and gives him a curious look through his thick-rimmed glasses.

“At your own pace. No need to be nervous, Jungkook,” Namjoon says five minutes later, office deluged by a sheer silence after an awkward introduction. The therapist stares at Jungkook with patience, a calm smile still in place, which makes the latter breathe a little easier as he gets comfortable on the chair.

“I know it will sound stupid, but—” Jungkook inhales sharply, looking down at his own clammy hands. “I’ve been having these… dreams.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve always had weird dreams. But these are not just weird— they feel like something else. Something I’m supposed to remember, or understand, but I’m still clueless and it’s— it’s messing with me,” Jungkook tries not to squirm on the seat, but it’s impossible not to stir as a cold, prickling feeling starts crawling up his body. “I can’t focus, and my soulmate noticed. She told me that maybe it’d… help me talk to an expert about it.”

Namjoon does not say anything for a few long, torturing seconds. The silence is more stifling than ever, and Jungkook can almost feel invisible hands wrapping around his neck as he waits for the therapist to speak.

“You’d be surprised at how many cases like yours I get,” Namjoon finally says, voice deep and rumbling within the noiseless room. He’s looking straight at Jungkook, smile still extremely soothing. “People with soulmates who dream of something…of someone else.”

Jungkook tenses up even more at that. He never mentioned the subject of his dreams, but he supposes it makes sense from the perspective of an outsider — if Jungkook met someone with troubling dreams that rob their sleep, he’d also wonder if the person was dreaming of someone that is not their soulmate.

“Wait,” he finally says, catching up with Namjoon’s words. “Are you saying it’s normal?”

“Not really,” Namjoon’s smile turns more subdued, careful. “But it is common for people like you to show up at my door. People that need closure from these dreams.”

Jungkook is almost trembling with aching anticipation. “And how do you fix them?”

Namjoon finally moves, seemingly uncomfortable on his seat. “Jungkook… you know what happens when you meet your soulmate, right? the exchange you make with the universe.”

“I… yeah,” Jungkook’s mind is reeling already, heart beating faster for no reason. “If you had a lover before meeting your soulmate, those feelings vanish completely. We can only love one, and that is our soulmate.”

“Maybe you didn’t know this, but,” Namjoon clears his throat, averting his gaze for a few seconds as his fingers brush against his bottom lip. “That rule tends to vary— we are all different, after all. Most people stop feeling that romantic love they had for their previous partner, but some feelings may still remain. Another group of people, albeit much smaller, is capable of loving both— I’ve had them right here, in that chair you’re occupying right now.”

It makes Jungkook’s insides fill with coldness. To know that in his place there have been hearts torn in half makes him feel like he doesn’t belong here, complaining about some dreams that make him rage in frustration as the dawn rises.

“Another group of people,” Namjoon continues, finally looking into Jungkook’s anxious eyes. “Way smaller than those two, completely forgets about the lovers they had in the past. The power of the subconscious mind is a mystery, and the only explanation we have is that it’s some kind of… protection, some kind of shield that keeps your heart from loving more than one. In some cases the person they loved also forgets — and that… we have no explanation for that, honestly.”

Jungkook can almost feel the walls narrowing down on him, and his voice sounds hazy and distant when he speaks up.

“You think I’m in the last group.”

“I’m almost certain of that. Those dreams you’ve been having… they’re most likely memories that your brain is struggling to keep locked down.”

Jungkook exhales deeply, sliding down the chair as he closes his eyes in deep thought. His heart is loud and persistent, thumping against his chest in response to Namjoon’s words. His heart is acknowledging the truth, he realizes. A truth it kept hidden from himself, just to protect him.

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook nods, opening his eyes again as he tries to keep his cool. “What can we do about it? How can I forget entirely?”

“Forget?” Namjoon echoes, eyes wide with surprise. “People usually come here wanting to remember. Don’t you want to retrieve those memories?”

No, Jungkook tries to say, but he can’t push the word out. Now that the possibility has been voiced by the therapist, Jungkook feels weaker and weaker, worn out after staying strong and unyielding in front of the temptation of his dreams, which tried to trick him into falling for a faceless person. Someone that gifted him with joy and rare waves of euphoria — someone he thought did not exist, up until now, that is.

“And what will I do if I do manage to remember?” Jungkook smiles, a bitter curve of his lips as his heart constricts. “Will I be torn in half, like those people cursed to love their soulmate and someone else that’s not meant to be there?”

“Maybe your love for this person won’t even manifest itself again,” Namjoon offers, voice wary. It makes Jungkook realize that he’s rapidly losing his composure, breathing ragged, voice tense and features strained. He forces his muscles to unwind, but it barely works. “No one knows what will happen once you remember. But having closure is better than anything, even if it brings more pain than before. Don’t you think?”

“I… yeah. You’re right.”

“It’s up to you, though,” Namjoon smiles again, and Jungkook is deeply glad for the soothing powers of that grin of his. “I can’t make that choice. Only you can.”

Jungkook finds himself nodding before he can think it through. Call it instinct, or his own body begging for him to release those memories — either way, he knows things will not be the same after the words are out.

“I want to,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I want to remember.”

Namjoon nods, taking off his glasses and placing them on the wooden coffee table in front of him.

“Okay, Jungkook,” his voice sounds somewhat gentler, like the lenient breeze of a cloudless morning. “Now I need you to lay back, and try to relax. This might take a while, but we’ll go at your own pace. Just close your eyes, and remember the first dream you had…”

When Jungkook opens his eyes again, he understands.

He bolts out of the chair, legs weak as he stumbles towards the large windows that cover one of the walls in Namjoon’s office. He leans his forehead against the cold surface, closing his eyes again. He knows Namjoon is speaking, but he can only hear his own breath, his own heart thumping erratically and the twinkling sounds of your laughs echoing in the back of his mind — it is all so vivid, too vivid, and he finds himself aching all over as he tries to regain himself before he gets lost in the maelstrom of memories.

He knows your name and he knows your face, and that’s almost enough to feel his entire life crumbling around him. He was right before, when he suspected it would hurt — but more than your own memory, it is the broken promises what make his bones throb.

I’ll love you forever, you told him once, in the middle of a sleepy, hurried breakfast as you both got ready to start the day. Jungkook can remember your apartment, small and humble but warmer than his current one. He berates himself for not saying it back — too drowsy to come up with equally powerful words, he could only give you a dumbfounded stare that made you beam with affection.

He wishes he said it back. Because at that moment, that was his biggest — and only — truth.

For a few seconds, Jungkook pretends to be as in love as he used to be. He relives the throbs and jumps of his excitable heart at the sole sight of your face, the buckling of his knees whenever you initiated the kisses and the fervent touches. He recalls the softening of his heart throughout meaningless conversations in the middle of the night, easy laughter meddling between slurred words.

He makes himself relive it all one last time. Because the second he opens his eyes he’s back to the present, and when Namjoon gives him a questioning, worried stare, Jungkook can only smile, hoping that the tears peeking at the corners don’t fall down.

“I don’t love her anymore. There’s some fondness, but… that love I knew is gone.”

Namjoon nods, returning his smile. “That is good, Jungkook. Now you can keep those memories with an easy heart.”

And Jungkook knows he will.

You meet your soulmate four months after the dreams started.

You know it’s not him the second you stare into your soulmate’s eyes — albeit impossibly warm, they do not make your heart race like the eyes of your dreams do. These eyes may belong to your soulmate, but they also belong to a stranger. They are foreign, unknown, lack a familiarity you hoped to find on your first meeting.

But he’s nice and gentle, and the moment you shake hands you both share a knowing smile — a gesture that speaks of a million possibilities and a clear future, one where your soulmate finally has a face and a name. A face that does not belong to the boy of your dreams, and a name that doesn’t truly fit the smile you got acquainted with during your sleep — but he’s the person you’re meant to be, nonetheless.

The universe always has the last word, after all; and it wants you to hold Kim Taehyung’s hand until the end of your days.

You do not find an answer for your dreams, even if they become less and less frequent. The more you get to know Taehyung, the more your focus strays away from the familiar boy that still clings to your memories. He doesn’t let go, and your subconscious struggles to keep him alive within your thoughts as Taehyung stops being a stranger, but rather someone you can love unconditionally. The mornings when you woke up crying in frustration are long gone, filled with faint sorrow instead, a bitter acceptance that your dreams will always remain just that — unfulfilled dreams, something that never was.

The last dream you have of the faceless boy comes four months after meeting Taehyung, on the day you share your first I love you’s and destiny finally falls into place.

In the dream dawn is barely rising, and the boy finally has a face in your mind. The features you longed to piece together finally form a drowsy expression, one so endearing it makes your heart clench with an unbearable feeling — of desperation and love and a blind fear of losing him in the uncertain future. Because you both know it is not right to fall for someone else, that destiny will have its way of tearing you both apart from each other.

I’ll love you forever, you tell him in a strained voice. And even if he does not say anything, you know he feels the same way — because his eyes are as familiar as your own, and his face and name are imprinted under your skin, with a force that goes against the universe’s rules.

You wake up with the name between your lips and a heart that’s torn in half.

“Jungkook,” you mutter the words to the stilled morning, feeling the heat of the sun welcoming you into a brand new day. And even if your chest aches, you can’t help but smile, closing your eyes again as the name runs across your mind in sweeping bliss. “His name is Jungkook.”

He finally has a face and a name — and that’s all you need, for now.

#bangtan bookclub #kwritersnet #armiesnet #goldenduonet #jungkook angst #bts angst #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #writing

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lyraeon · 7 years

Note

Hi! Sorry for intruding, and you definitely don't have to answer if this too personnal or invasive, but I've been wondering if my depression might be a bipolar one for a while now, only I don't always see myself in the way people talk about mania/hypomania, only sometimes I do? And the way you described mania being /straightforwardly frustrating/ sort of spoke to me, so I was wondering if you could explain what you meant by that? (or direct me to posts where you have?) Huge thanks!

Hello friend!

I’m sure I have other posts about it somewhere, but short of digging through my whole relevant tag, I wouldn’t know where to look for them. But I don’t mind explaining overall.

First of all, if your depression seems to come and go, but not necessarily be replaced by hypomania or mania, it may be something else. Seasonal Affective Disorder is the most common alternative, but Cyclothymia is also a thing, and should especially be looked up if your depression also never hits a bottomless pit level. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking “well, it’s not THAT bad, so I guess I’m ONLY cyclothymic and I shouldn’t worry about it” or whatever though!! That’s just the depression talking and trying to keep you down. Ignore it.

I don’t know if I get manic or hypomanic, doctors have consistently disagreed about it. But, I know I have two main modes of mania, though they can bleed into each other.

There winds up being talk about hallucinations, self-harm, and graphic nightmares in this, so if that’s gonna bug anyone reading this, J on past it

Hyperactive mania:

What is sleep? This is not me procrastinating sleep or being distracted by other things, this is me flat out not needing more than 3-4 hours of sleep a night and having trouble getting to sleep to begin with, not in an insomnia “I’m so tired but can’t settle down” way but in a “I don’t feel tired unless I drink or take sleeping pills or otherwise really wear myself out” way.

Zero focus - I have little to no attention span most of the time to begin with (I suspect I have ADHD but most doctors will be reluctant to diagnose that in addition to bipolar, since mania has a lot of overlap). This typically gets worse during mania; I will repeatedly get up out of my chair to walk laps around my house, often gesturing wildly and definitely talking out loud to myself if no one’s home. I’ll sometimes try to play music to get the energy out to that, but rarely get through a single verse before skipping to the next.

Hyperfocus - and when I do manage to focus on something, (which has to either be something I’m REALLY ENJOYING or something social) I will get dragged into it for 14 hours and only snap out of it if I need a bathroom break or something. The Sims is a common one, not just for me but for a lot of people from what I hear. I always know something was a hyperfocus and not a thing I really wanted to do in general because after 3 days - 2 weeks of the thing I won’t touch it again for months or years. My last manic fit involved playing a sim city phone game for 6-7 hours a day and binge watching multiple people’s entire hermitcraft 4 season. The one before that had me playing rollercoaster tycoon constantly.

sex drive - suddenly characters and celebrities I had not previously regarded as hot are hot. Suddenly I have 15 AO3 tabs open. I feel like people who know me well can notice my mania just by how often and what gets reblogged to my NSFW blog.

poor decision making - I’m far more likely to buy ice cream or alcohol or other things I don’t need to be spending my money on. I’m far more likely to give in to the whole not sleeping thing, or to take sleeping meds despite cutting it way too close to when I have to be up the next day. I lose my verbal filter. I still don’t know if the fact I don’t do anything life-ruiningly stupid is evidence I’m only hypomanic, not manic, or just my anxiety keeping me in check.

Intense emotions - I cried at a University of Phoenix ad yesterday y’all. I also in general am not one to cheer or yell at something happening on TV/in a video, but get more invested when manic and react on a level closer to when I’m actively playing a game or something.

But there’s also the frustrating side (not that the above isn’t often frustrating, just that the above are more associated with positive emotions or at least not a pervasive Stressed Out feeling)

Easily frustrated - I am not one to get mad, normally. I actually get criticized for just letting things slide that obviously upset me/”you keep saying it’s okay right after saying it’s not okay”. I don’t know how to handle getting mad due to gaslighting issues growing up that I won’t get into right now so when I do start getting mad, it tends to build up until I find myself tense and literally stomping mad and sitting in the car screaming in frustration (because if I scream in the house someone might hear me). I also snap at people far, far more often when manic, losing any patience I would typically have and sometimes going for passive aggressive gouges if what they’re annoying me with has built up over a couple days as opposed to instantly. For example, yelling at people who are in my raid group.

nightmares - dear god the nightmares. I will do things in them that I find barely or completely unquestionable in them, then wake up freaked the fuck out because I just - well, we’ll go with today’s example, which is that I fuckin shot my dog in my dream, and for no apparent reason! Death is a pervasive thing in these, including me getting jolted awake by my own death in them, but unstoppable torrents of water are also common as is things just not making any sense - an object I’m holding turning into something else the moment I try to give it to someone else is also something that happens a lot

tense - dear god do my shoulders and back hurt, and not my normal everyday chronic arthritis pain, because that’s in the joints. This is every muscle pulled as tight as it will go and locked, and often carries a sensation of “the only way to fix this is to literally claw them off the bones”. Upper back is the most common but my forearms come next (especially near my elbows) and every major muscle can feel that way if I’m far enough gone. This used to lead to self-harm in the form of me scraping at those areas trying to make the sensation stop (and has lead to weird masochism stuff), but it’s something I consciously avoid now. I’ll usually try to rub at them or stretch to relieve the tightness, but often sleeping it off is my only real recourse.

really, really, REALLY unable to focus - I can’t get through two minutes of a video without pausing it. I skip every song 4 seconds in and instead of just feeling like they don’t fit quite right, each song feels like it’s personally offending me by not being the right one and I eventually give up and take off my headphones in a huff. I’ll forget I was loading the dishwasher halfway through. I’ll keep doing one more little task and one more little task for hours to procrastinate simple things like eating or walking the dog. I always in general have trouble finishing my sentences sometimes, because I’ll lose words or I’ll wind up reading/hearing something mid-sentence, but it becomes every third sentence.

Itchy - everything feels wrong. My hair has to be pinned up as thoroughly as possible so it can’t touch my skin, my glasses have to be perfectly clean because the smudges will piss me off, my clothes have to be just right so they don’t touch my skin in ways that will make me jump/itch like if my hair touches me, any rough edge of my nails or cuticles has to immediately be chewed off, if there’s a weird hair or a zit or a scab anywhere on me I will be picking at it instantly, whatever I’m sitting or laying on is too lumpy, etc. My scalp itches regardless of when I last washed my hair, but washing my hair sounds dreadful because the sensation of wet hair weighing me down is even worse (vs it normally being a soothing sensation to me). My ears itch!! it’s maddening and distracting.

noise and light sensetivity - everything is too bright and too loud! I’ll have as many lights off as possible (sitting in the dark, showering in the dark, screens all as dim as they will go; I’ll often close my eyes or blindfold myself if I really need to concentrate on something I’m typing or listening to). I try to get white noise because background sounds like the dog walking around will drive me batty, but white noise will give the same “wrong one” sensation as music, and if I notice ANY repetition in the white noise (obvious bird loops for example) unless I have deliberately chosen a repetitive melody because it feels right, I will snap and have to turn it off and probably just cover my ears for a while.

The sensation that shit would suck less if I was drunk right now, because that would either “at least give me something to do” or “make all of this funny instead of annoying” (but alcohol only intensifies what I’m feeling, so if I’m “good” manic it makes me super happy and if I’m frustrated manic I just get angrier)

just an overall sense that everything is wrong and there’s nothing I can do about it and unlike when I’m depressed, wherein I feel like it’s all my fault and I probably deserve to die because of it, it all just pisses me off more and makes me need to get up and wander around. in the less extreme of these moments, I end up trying to figure out lists of what needs to be done, but getting frustrated trying to think that hard. In the worse ones, things will be blown out of scale and I’ll be plagued not just by the problems in my own life but by how fucking frustrating it is not to be able to fix, oh, our broken government, or how frustrating it is that I don’t have the money to just buy us a house right this second, etc.

hallucinations - this is top floor mania for me. The only thing above it is the roof that I will sometimes lay on at 2 in the morning, limbs spread as wide as possible for minimal skin contact, laughing uncontrollably on the inside while feeling paralyzed. My hallucinations are “mild” ones - I’ve only had one or two visual flashes in my life, everything else has been sounds, and it’s rarely been even words, let alone more. it’s usually alarms and sometimes music. I’ll hear my boyfriend’s alarm going off, or the fire alarm going off, or my own alarm going off, or my family’s burglar alarm going off, etc. This is one that meds have been royally good at keeping under control and I’ve only had breakthroughs of it when I’m also sleep deprived.

-basically, mania is fUCKING FRUSTRATING AS ALL GET OUT because you have all this energy but nothing FEELS RIGHT so nothing gets DONE, 99.94% of the time.

The additional problem for me with breakthrough mania - that is, symptoms that happen despite my medication keeping me mostly “normal” - is that it rarely brings any of the positive aspects that make being manic at least fun in the moment, if not sometimes genuinely worth it. I can get a LOT done when manic if I can take advantage of it before the bad symptoms set in, and I suspect a lot of my current writer’s block issues are because I’m not getting the same kind of hyperfocus days that I used to. But boy do I still itch sometimes, boy are my shoulders craving for me to go rub on a tree like a bear, boy is my stomach cranky because I’m so hungry but eating food sounds like a horrifying chore because what if it doesn’t taste right, etc.

I don’t really know how to explain exactly what I mean by the emotions feeling stunted, but it’s sort of like trying your hardest to find the can opener because you know it’s got to be somewhere, but it’s not anywhere you’re looking, except the can opener is your ability to be excited about this thing you wanted to do, or is your ability to be mad about something you know for a fact you’re pissed about, but you get stuck sitting there just dully frustrated instead because you can only read the label of the can, not actually experience the contents? Or maybe like opening it and finding store brand, “no sugar added” peaches instead of the really good del monte overly sweet stuff; your emotions themselves just feel lackluster compared to what you know they can be.

If a lot of this sounds familiar - if you’re like, yeah I get really annoyed easily and get sensory issues etc but I thought I didn’t get mania because I’ve never been pulled over in vegas going 110 in a 45 and all the media presents of mania is that and crazy chicks putting themselves $12,000 in debt overnight and waking up with no recollection of it - then you probably have hypomanic bipolar. If little bits sound familiar but they always are accompanied by existential dread and/or the pervasive sense you’ve gotta keep moving Or Else, it could be some sort of anxiety disorder. Parts of this list also overlap with autism, or with ADHD, or with BPD, just depending on which symptoms you have.

By my understanding, the one cornerstone of any form of mania is that you feel like you have more energy than normal; not more energy than depressed you, but an actual excess. That energy can fade fast/turn out to be just a sensation and not actual energy, but the sensation is still there, and usually fucks with your sleep.

Hopefully that helped. If it didn’t, or if it did but there’s something else you want to know, feel free to shoot me another anon or a message. I might be slow to respond because my sleep schedule is currently fucked to three more hells than normal, but I will definitely do what I can to help.

#bipolar disorder #mania #bipolar #mental health #lyra's gone full on spazzbucket #tw self harm #tw hallucinations

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miraclejunewrites · 5 years

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Chapter 5

School Life

With the gates wide-open, waves of students came rushing into the campus, waving their hands to their friends. Soon enough, groups of bickering teens crowd the empty grounds. The harsh winter wind weighing on their skins since this morning. It was the start of the ‘ber’ months, and winter in Seoul is nothing to brag about. It was fucking freezing, and this is just the beginning of the harsh winter.

Jaemy’s feet stopped right in front of the thin line separating him from the inside of the University. His grip tightened onto the straps of his backpack. Jaemy wasn’t sure if he would get repelled back because no one invited him in. He had no close friends within his class and it would be strange to ask a random student to invite him in. He sighed and trailing his eyes to the students who are walking towards their respective classes. “Yang Jeongin.” Samuel stood behind the boy, putting his hand on his shoulder. Jaemy, who was now getting used to people just appearing out of nowhere, turned around meeting the eyes of the witch.

He tiptoed towards the older and gave him a brief hug. Pulling away as he saw the curious looks given to them by the students. Panic stricken; the boy bowed. Jaemy forgot Samuel was his upper-class man and also the Student Council President. “Sorry.” Samuel hummed in response, noticing how the boy acted. He observed his surroundings and make out their current disposition. He returned his attention to Jaemy’s whose head hung low. “It’s okay. Why are you just standing here, don’t you have class?” Jaemy played with his fingers, embarrassed of admitting his doubts to the witch. Samuel’s eyes briefly grew wide in realization. “Oh, let’s go now.” he grasped Jaemy’s hand. Dragging him inside the campus. Jaemy shut his eyes shut and prepared for the worst. He might roll back, or maybe even fly away a few feet. Different scenarios in his head played, and it was not helping at all. However, he didn’t feel the weird barrier preventing him to go in.

“Open your eyes, kid. Invitations don’t work in schools or any public establishments.” Samuel knew Jaemy would be pondering over his ‘current status’ a lot. Especially the ‘you have to been invited in’ situation. What he said was true, a vampire can enter any public establishment freely, without invitation. In spite of that, they cannot enter a private place or in simple words, a person’s home, without being invited in. However, centuries ago, vampires would try to gain entrance by tricking by tricking a person into believing they are someone else. Like a close relative or a friend of the owner.

Samuel’s eyes trailed to Jaemy who was now calmly walking beside him, ‘he was a different case’ the witch thought. Is it even possible for a ‘bond mate’ to have the same situation as a full vampire? He continued to eye the boy curiously, the constant stream of memories from yesterday’s ‘sleepover’ playing inside his head.

Samuel couldn’t go to sleep. He doesn’t really need that much sleep also, but after what happened earlier, he was tired. Unfortunately, not that tired to fall asleep. He was aware of the boy beside him tossing and turning from time to time, Jaemy couldn’t sleep either. At around 3am, he felt the bed shifting because of weight being lifted from it. He bolted upright once the door was closed with a soft thud. Slowly and softly, he followed Jaemy. Only noticing he was holding his breath once the boy’s head disappeared from the stairs. ‘He’s heading for the kitchen’ Samuel mumbled.

Taking careful steps, Samuel peered through the wall separating the living room and the kitchen. He saw how Jaemy stopped dead on his tracks, he heard the boy call out to the other presence in the kitchen. ‘Chris?’ voice soft and low. Samuel knitted his eyebrows. What is that blood sucking idiot doing here? Samuel knows he doesn’t need sleep but, out of all the places inside that ginormous house, why the kitchen?

Did Chris plan this? Did he lure the boy? Or maybe it was just a coincidence? When he was about to make his presence known, Jaemy welcomed Chris into an embrace. The doubt inside Samuel’s head vanished, as he turned his back heading upstairs with a small smile on his face, he knew he just lost to his own head. He finally knew he was worrying for nothing at all. How could he be so blind? Sure, Chris was scary and powerful, that vampire is not easy to deal with. Contrary to his ‘intent to kill’ earlier that day, Chris will never hurt a weak human being.

And Jaemy was no exception to that.

A few hours later, the sun seeped through the curtains in their room. Jaemy stirred awake, rubbing his eyes as they slowly adjust to the sunlight. He sat upright and yawned, stretching both his arms in the air. His jaw was caught as his eyes noticed the ‘figures’ staring at him with googly eyes. “Isn’t he just so adorable!” Sam’s voice was a few octaves higher, during that time he smacked Han and Calvin because he couldn’t contain his excitement. Making Samuel, who was really annoyed because he couldn’t get any sleep at all, threw a pillow hitting Sam square in the face. The wolf stumbled, recovering after, while he whines about the witch enchanting the pillow. Calvin and Han’s laughter can be heard in the background.

Samuel really thought they could go home as soon as they woke up. But there he was, sitting on the couch, dumbfounded. Eyes traveling from Felix who was doing the Fortnite dance because he won the game, to Han and Calvin groaning in frustration because they lost, to Wisdom and Chris watching the boys with fatherly smiles, to Sam drying Jaemy’s hair, and well… Marco who was throwing praises at himself as he checks his reflection on the small mirror in his hand. Samuel scoffed out loud, making the rest look at him.

His pupils dilated and only a loud “NO!” was heard, as Marco pulls him into a human/non-human pile on the floor.

“Samuel!” the familiar figure running towards them made Samuel halt in place, Jaemy doing the same. The pretty girl stops in front of Samuel, tucking a few strands of her hair behind her ear. She gave the witch a big smile. But the boy beside him didn’t go unnoticed, her eyes shifted to Jaemy for a second before she turns her attention to Samuel. “Let’s walk together to the office!”

“Grace, can’t you see I’m with someone?” the girl’s smile wavered. She peered over the boy, this time holding her gaze. Annoyed by the fact that Samuel was more interested in him than the Vice President of the Student Council and from what she claimed that she was his ‘best friend’. Samuel gave her a cold stare, “I will be there before the meeting with the school journalists after lunch. See you.” He nonchalantly passed by her. Jaemy who was unaware of the eerie tension, bowed at the girl before catching up with Samuel.

He matched his pace with the witch, moving his eyes to Samuel’s face. A small smile forming on his lips, Jaemy couldn’t help but feel accomplished. It’s really something he could brag about, his friendship with Samuel. Well, the witch didn’t confirm it yet but nonetheless, he felt happy. “Why are you smiling like an idiot, Yang Jeongin?” the boy pouted. He told off the older to just call him by his name. Yesterday at the mansion, he was sure he had mentioned ‘Just call me Jaemy, Samuel’ for at least 50 times. But Samuel would still call him by his full name. “Samuel, I told you–”

“Right right! Sorry, Jaemy.”

Those were the last words they exchanged before they continued walking towards Jaemy’s class. Out of instinct, Jaemy stopped right in front of the door. One of his classmates bumping into him, no apology given. “Manners, Mr. Roi Kim.” the familiar voice startled the boy, bowing 90 degrees before forcing a low ‘sorry’ directing it to Samuel instead of Jaemy. The boy sped off towards the bathroom, thinking to himself why the university’s council president outside their room was.

Jaemy stuck his foot through the door, continuing into a step when he felt no such barrier. He proceeded on walking towards his seat near the window, clearly unaware of the witch ambling behind him. As he turns to sit down, he notices Samuel taking the chair from the empty seat in front of his desk. “Samuel? Why are you still here?” he watched as the witch placed the chair near his table, sitting down facing him. Samuel signals him to sit down also.

“To kill some time. Your class doesn’t start in 20 minutes, right?” all Jaemy could do was nod in awe. The buzzing of voices around them grew louder. Samuel gave him a smile, “Ignore them.” he smiled back, eagerly nodding his head. This time, the witch started the conversation. Asking the boy about his major, and why he picked it. Samuel forced himself to not break into a smile or even chuckle every once in a while. The glow on Jaemy’s face while he was talking about his love for his current program, made it a hard task to do so. He had to admit it was the shortest 20 minutes in his life.

And surviving for more than 500 years contained a lot of maddening long minutes/hours.

Samuel wanted to hear more from the kid, weirdly enough, he embraced the term ‘friends’ very easily. His intentions were pure, as asked the boy if they were friends. Not letting Jaemy respond, he ended the conversation with somewhat a threat, “You will be my friend or else I’m gonna chuck you into the garbage shoot.” He had to admit he panicked just a little bit when Jaemy bit his lips, eyes turning glossy as the boy tried to hold back his tears. Samuel swore he would kill everyone in the room, including himself, if they ever hurt the boy. And in Chris’s case… he would probably eliminate South Korea’s whole population.

“You have my number, right?” Fixing his wrinkled sweater, Samuel stands up picking up his backpack in the process. “Text me when you’re done. Let’s get lunch outside.” and with that he exited the room, not after giving the boy a soft pat in the head. He knew the consequences of his actions, but he couldn’t help himself. “A little brother huh?” the sun shined through the windows; his eyes momentarily blinded by it. Samuel shielded his face with his hand, a familiar insignia on his finger came to view. He smiled, running his thumb over the black ink. “Is this how it felt to have a family, Master?”

Wasting no time, Jaemy’s classmates circled his desk. Throwing questions at him like there’s no tomorrow. He was overwhelmed by the amount of attention, but he was mindful of their intentions. Jaemy meekly smiled, answering only with the right words. The words ‘He’s my friend’ felt like an alien language to him, but weirdly enough it rolled naturally from his tongue. But the queries from his curious classmates grew a bit personal. Some of them asking if Samuel was the boy’s boyfriend.

Jaemy was thankful for the heavens when the professor walks in 5 minutes after. He pushed back all his thoughts and decided to focus on the lecture. Smiling slightly when he remembered the witch’s words before he left.

Students scrambled to their feet as they speed off towards their respective classes. But with the irregular schedules of a university student, some of them enjoyed their free time. Samuel walked passed by a group of students, all of them bowing their heads in respect for the ‘President’. He bowed in return, not forgetting about his attitude as someone in the higher ups. It was a pain in the ass he grew accustomed to. And he had a way to avoid them. The campus may be huge, but Samuel knows the path where he would encounter less students. Typical.

The Student council has their own 2-storey building near the faculty building. He pushed the door open, tapping his I.D. on one of the turnstiles provided. It was an open space on the first floor. A small reception desk was located beside the turnstiles and beyond that were a variety of desks.

Samuel greeted some of the officers who are working. “Updates?” he listened attentively to some reports from the team. The office has been chaotic for the past 2 weeks. The event for next month was near and they had to prepare for it. After the brief presentations, one of them approached Samuel and handed a paper for him to sign. They don’t really have any assigned tables or desks for each officer so, they can freely choose where to sit. Although, everyone within the council knows the president favorite spot. Samuel didn’t claim it but, he eventually noticed the lack of officers who attempted to sit there.

Samuel sat down, fishing out a pen from the neatly arranged table. He began to read the paper thoroughly. When he understood the contents, and deemed them as okay to sign, he handed it back to the officer. Giving him a few pointers before he twirled his chair and skimmed through the finish paperwork neatly piled on his desk.

Abruptly, his back suddenly went stiff, hands coming to a halt. ‘This presence’. He stayed seated but turned his head towards the entrance. A familiar face approaching him, hands inside his pockets. Blazing red hair that seems to be too ‘natural looking’. Piercing brown eyes vanished through half crescent lids when he smiled at one of the students. The small ‘Representative’ badge on his left chest reflected the light outside. A few officers greeted him, asking for updates. Samuel turned his head back to his desktop monitor, inputting his password.

“I still can’t believe you’re the Department of Fine Arts representative. Agreeably, you’re really good at your job.” - officer

Samuel scoffed. That guy is really deceiving. After a brief moment, he descended up the stairs, mindful of the presence following him.

“Kazuo. How’s your father?” he turned to see the guy plopped onto one of the bean bags, munching on the snacks provided. The second floor was made into a place where they can either work or relax. There are places where you can doze off and places where you can relax and work. Shelves of books are given. And also, an arcade room was separated by a glass wall.

“Unfortunately, the old man’s still breathing.” Samuel chuckled, how is that unfortunate? Ah, right. Kazuo’s father.

Samuel knew his father, well not personally but he has heard of him. His father was an old man, minding a small candy shop in Japan. Kazuo shifted awkwardly from his seat, earning a glance from Samuel. “It’s weird to hear you laugh. What’s wrong with you?” the witch frowned. Was he really that conservative and cold from another people’s perspective? “Woah, I’m sorry man. Didn’t mean to make you upset. It’s just… weird.” the guy shrugged trying to find comfortable position on the sunken bean bag.

“It’s fine. When will you go back?” Kazuo pouted, throwing a chip towards the witch’s direction. Halfway through the air, it lit up in flames. Stopping right in front of the witch face, ashes dropping onto the carpeted floor. “Fucker, you already want me gone. I have a ‘job’. You know.” Samuel scowled at the guy’s ‘quote and unquote’ gesture. He turned to his heel, facing the all glass wall behind him. His eyes scanned through the vicinity of the campus. He heard shuffling behind him, and soon enough Kazuo stood beside him, sucking on a lollipop.

The expanse of the green grass covered the ground. Samuel sighed, soon enough it would be covered by oceans of white snow. And those distant figures walking through different paths, will all be shivering underneath their thick padded coats. To be honest, it was an ordinary everyday sight for Samuel. The weather taking a sudden turn was no stranger to him. But he just couldn’t get why he was always mesmerized by it.

“You know.” he spared the guy beside him a glance. The sudden suffocating air around them didn’t go unnoticed. “You could easily take over this school if you liked.” the corners of his lips tugged upward forming into a smirk. Samuel snickered and returned his gaze towards the view before him.

“You’re the best candidate for that, Kazuo of the 11 families.” Samuel did not bother looking at the guy, who was walking towards the stairs. His last words etched inside his mind.

“See you around, Merlin’s descendant.”

As soon as the professor’s back was turned, Jaemy darted towards the door. Avoiding all the unnecessary attention before the bell rings. The words ‘early dismissal’ were his cue. The always crowded halls, buzzed with voices. Students hailing from the Music Department, shuffling through. He pulled his sweater over his hands, suddenly aware of the cold weather.

“Samuel? Walking with someone?”

“He didn’t just walk with him, he took him to his class and even stayed there before it started!” Jaemy’s fast paced steps slowly ambled. “Wait, it was a guy? Were they friends? Samuel has real friends?” his eyebrows furrowed. News already spread out like that. Ah, technology. And why would anyone talk about Samuel like that, he was a nice guy. But upon dissecting their words, Jaemy wasn’t sure why he was surprised.

‘So it is true’ he thought. People only recognize you once you made a mistake. No matter how many achievements you did, they will only focus on your failures. Humans tend to drag down the person they are threatened with. It’s sickening.

Samuel had a good reputation when it comes to running the council. He was amazing in his job. Seniors from all programs made him a laughing stock once he stepped behind the podium. Imagine, a first year Photography Major, running for Council President? Pathetic. He was clearly trying to get himself into some trouble. However, as soon as he spoke. Each word coming from his mouth, somehow put them into a trance. It was like they were put under a spell, his spell. Samuel won. And this year, even though he wasn’t a candidate. He was, according to the witch, forced into the position again.

“Well, he seems close with Kazuo.” who was Kazuo? Jaemy bit his lip. Was he an acquaintance of Chris too? Jaemy shook his head and lightly slapped his right cheek. Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he easily found Samuel’s number among the small amount of contacts he had. He typed in a message, sliding the phone back in his pocket after he pressed send. Jaemy scurried towards the main gate, rubbing his hands to achieve some sort of warmth.

“Jaemy.” he lifted his head up and saw Samuel. The witch approached him, Jaemy gave him a smile before they turned and walked out the gates. “How was class?” Jaemy fidgeted, earning a curious glance from Samuel. “What’s wrong?” the boy stopped in his tracks. Running his fingers through his hair before it gripped the straps of his backpack. Jaemy hesitated, but he knows Samuel probably heard about it.

Soon enough, they sat in front of each other in a restaurant. After the lady bowed, placing their orders in front of them, Jaemy broke the ice. He told the issue to Samuel, who as he predicted, knew about it. The witch told the boy to ignore them, but upon consideration he offered a proposal. “How about we don’t interact in school, if that’s what makes you comfortable.” Jaemy has never said disagreed so fast in his life. Pretending not know each other was the last resort, and he was not that desperate to do that. “It’s fine, Samuel! It will die down soon enough.” Samuel just nodded, but he was still bothered by it.

They finished lunch, Jaemy apologizing to Samuel because he got held up by him. “How about a hug then?” before Jaemy could react, Samuel pulls him into a hug. Letting go quickly. The witch turned to his heel and waved goodbye with his back facing the boy. Jaemy smiled, he stood there gazing at Samuel’s diminishing figure.

“Mom! Dad!” Jaemy set down his backpack on the coach. Roaming his eyes around the living room. He called out once more for his brother but to no luck, he was alone. The empty house was a rare sight. His brother would usually be screaming across the halls, while his dad watches TV and his mom was at the kitchen.

A few moments later, he received a call from his mom. Telling him they were at his grandparents’ house, she left some food in the fridge and if he wanted take out food, there was money on his desk. Jaemy let out an exasperated sigh when his mom didn’t stop worrying about him. Jaemy knew even his dad won’t be able to help him. But… he had one idea to make her stop. “Mom, I’ll be fine. I’ll just sleepover again at Chris—” the plan worked. He pulled away his phone from his ear when his mom shouted ‘YES DO THAT SWEETIE, LOVE U BYE’ she ended the call even before he could say he loves her back. Jaemy stared at his phone in astonishment. His own mother has abandoned him for the sake of him having friends. Jaemy sighed and shook his head.

Closing the door behind him, he stood at the entrance tucking a few strands of hair into the beret hat he put on. Jaemy was satisfied with his current outfit change, it wasn’t that cold yet, but a simple hat and warm coat made a difference. After checking his appearance on his phone, he started heading out. Seoul’s atmosphere at night was Jaemy’s favorite, especially in summer where it’s blazing hot during the day. His feet navigated him to a familiar place. The lack of light coming from Chris’s Antique shop didn’t shock him. Jaemy got home late. He only had one class, but he tends to wait for the students lurking around the music studios to leave so that he can use them by himself. Samuel was right. Jaemy was a shy boy. He knows how to play the piano and is a good singer. But his talent won’t be noticed if he lacked confidence. And that was really his case.

Nothing went wrong when he grew up. Jaemy had a great family, everyone was supportive of him. Although he went through grade school to high school without friends to keep, he wasn’t bullied by anyone. Jaemy was just plain invisible to them. “Chris?” before his closed fist could tap the glass, Chris materialize behind it. I guess, Jaemy getting used to people appearing out of nowhere was a lie. He stumbled back a few steps before regaining himself. Chris unlocked the door apologizing as he ushered him in.

No words were exchanged as they, out of instinct, walked towards the table behind the counter. Finding their usual spots. “Tea?” Jaemy shook his head, motioning Chris to sit down. Jaemy took his time to roam his eyes around the familiar shop. Oddly enough, this place felt like home. It was also sort of like a job to him, although Chris didn’t pay him. His eyes landed on the floor; a sudden flash of the past incident flickered in front of him. A small smile creeping on his face. Jaemy was kinda thankful for making that mistake, even though he almost got killed. It was a rickety bridge that led him towards Chris and the rest of the boys. “So,” his eyes moved back to Chris. Jaemy just noticed Chris’s hair was styled, his curly locks remained but it was neatly parted on one side, a few strands falling into his forehead. Surprisingly, he also had makeup on. A sultry smoky eye made his soft eyes look more prominent. He was also wearing a black leather jacket over a dirty white hoodie. Lastly, his gaze fell onto Chris’s lips. Jaemy was always so curious of how plump and soft looking the vampire’s lips are. “What brings you here at this hour? It’s dangerous outside.”

“By the way, I’m going home to the puppies tonight.” Jaemy briefly reflected Chris’s words. Puppies? Oh, the werewolves. That’s such a cute endearment. However, that wasn’t the issue here. Jaemy had planned to sleep over here since it’s close to his house. “O-oh. Okay, sorry for the hold up.”

“It’s okay, kid.” Jaemy stayed quiet. Chris itched to ask him what was wrong. Jaemy followed his eyes to Chris as he lifted his seat and slowly settled in beside him. He was not overwhelmingly close but Jaemy was still flustered, he can feel his ears heat up. Ah, it was a wrong choice to wear that beret hat because his ears were exposed. “You didn’t answer my question. What brings you here, Jaemy?”

Chris had to confess; he was flustered by the boy suddenly appearing at this time of the night. He wanted to scold him for walking in the dark, it was not safe. Especially now that Jaemy is his bond mate. But his adorable appearance makes up for it. For the 2 weeks Jaemy has visited/worked at his shop, he never saw the boy wear a hat. Especially a beret, Chris took his time on taking it all in. He never noticed it before but., Jaemy’s facial features were so chiseled for a 17-year-old. The vampire also notices how the boy looked very different whenever he has blank face, contrary to his always smiling face. Chris had to admit, Jaemy was really adorable. Sam always giggle out of nowhere and when Calvin asks him why he laughed, Sam would reply ‘Jaemy is really cute, I want to put him in my pocket and protect him.’ Surprisingly, the whole pack agrees. Wisdom who has a soft spot for cute things continued to gush over the boy with Sam. And when Han mentioned something about Jaemy removing his braces, the mansion was left in utter chaos.

“Well, my family’s not home. And I kinda told mom I’m sleeping over.” Chris was surprised. Jaemy wanted to sleepover at his place? He can’t help but stifle a chuckle. He offered that they sleep at the mansion. Wisdom and the rest of the pack would be so happy. Eventually, Jaemy accepted the offer upon seeing the pout on Chris’s lips. It was weird, but he was not complaining.

As they step outside, Chris approaches him with a helmet on his hand. “Safety first, sweetie.” Jaemy blushed at the pet name. His face grew redder when Chris’s hand grazed his ears as removed his hat, replacing it with the helmet. “Stop staring...” Chris chuckled at the boy’s whines. He hands him his hat back, proceeding to start up his bike. ‘That bike’ Jaemy thought. He always admired it for a minute or two every time he goes to the shop. He constantly imagined Chris riding that bike, how cool he would look. Chris wore his helmet, flicking his head to his right to tell the boy to hop on.

Jaemy flailed his arms around, finding a place to hold on. His panicked eyes followed Chris’s large hands gripping each of his wrists. Chris guided the boy’s arms around his waist, forcing his fingers to interlock with each other. “Hold on.” Jaemy was a crimson red as they sped off, Seoul’s cold night breeze was chilly but, ‘Chris is warm’. Was he supposed to be warm? According to Jaemy’s very ‘extensive’ research which involves his face buried in front of his laptop’s monitor at 5am in a school day—Vampires aren’t supposed to be warm. Their bodies are dead. The flask on the desk earlier might have answered his question. Chris might be warm because he just drank some blood.

Not long enough, they arrive in front of the mansion. Jaemy squinted his eyes, making out the figure who was… running towards them? “S-Sam! Let me down please!” Chris watched how Sam lifted the boy up from his seat and carried the boy like a sack, sprinting towards the mansion. Chris didn’t even turn off his engine yet. He shook his head in disbelief. “Wait a goddamn second, Hwang.” Calvin gripped Sam’s shirt, halting him. He circled the boy and carefully removed Jaemy’s helmet. Tossing it back to Chris who was walking up to them. “Okay go, you dingus.” and with that, Sam disappeared inside.

Jaemy’s voice boomed inside the house, “WAIT WHAT THE FUCK. HOW THE FUCK DID I GET IN?” the four of them looked at each other with wide eyes, breaking into a fit of laughter. “Can’t believe that kid can curse like that.”

Jaemy was still confused on why he easily went in. He was sure Wisdom did not invite him because he was also outside. The answer to his question was given by a not-even-huffing Sam, telling him that once he’s invited to that house, he can freely access it in the future, but if that person doesn’t visit for quite a while or the owner either changes or cancels the invitation he cannot enter the house. He bounced on Sam’s shoulder, still mind fucked. “Jaemy’s here???” a familiar voice came from the stairs. Sam carefully placed Jaemy on the couch, attaching himself to the boy right away. Jaemy’s eyes traveled to the source of the voice. “Felix! Marco!” Felix and Marco descended the stairs. The fox scurried towards the boy, engulfing him into a tight hug and at the same time squishing Sam between them. Marco silently trailed behind Felix, giving Jaemy a smile and a pat in the head before heading towards the kitchen.

Felix and Marco moved in with Chris and the werewolves yesterday. Originally, only Felix wanted to move in. But Marco was acting like a bitch, saying he’s alone at the apartment and that Felix abandoned him. So, they both end up moving together with the rest of the pack. “Why are you guys here?” Sam shoved Felix off them, sitting up while trying to catch his breath. Felix chuckled and apologized, sitting beside Jaemy telling him they moved in with Chris. Jaemy was ecstatic, the 2 days he spent with them were memorable. And now that they’re here together, they can make more memories!

Wisdom trailed behind Han and Calvin; Chris was behind him the whole time. He stopped and looked back, waiting for the vampire to discard the helmets he was holding. Chris settled them on the cabinet near the entrance, removing his shoes right after. “Is Jaemy gonna stay the night?” Chris hummed in response, nodding his head as they walked towards the living room. He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, tossing it to the coat rack 3 meters away from him. It flew in the air with great speed, halting in before the coat rack. It hung itself like someone did it. Wisdom shakes head before following Chris. He stopped midway, admiring the view. Jaemy was crimson red as Sam and Felix praise him about looking so cute in a beret hat. Marco was plopped beside Han, immersed in their own world. Calvin popped out of the kitchen, handing Chris a glass of blood. Slowly, they all settled down the circled couch, laughing with each other.

Wisdom can’t help but smile. It used to be just the 5 of them—Han, Calvin, Sam, Chris and himself. They had a lot of fun, but Chris was rather a non-chaotic person, he didn’t mind the noise, but he rarely joins in. He himself, on the other hand was no far from Chris. He’s just smiling on one side, laughing when the puppies make a joke. Who would have thought that they would grow this big? 9 of them talking and laughing with each other, just having a good time without caring for anything else. Including that witch, Wisdom was a bit cautious of him at first. He seemed to be a bit cold and strict. But after he helped them find Han, he slowly opened up his heart to the witch. “Samuel may act like that, but... He’s a good person.” the sincerity inside Chris’s eyes removed all Wisdom’s doubts.

Speaking of the devil. Samuel appeared in a blink of an eye in the middle of the living room, causing Felix and Han to stumble behind the couch as they were headed to the kitchen to get some snacks. Samuel declared that he is Jaemy’s officially best friend, threatening the rest of the boys if they ever hurt the boy. Soon enough, Samuel settled in. Sitting in front of Chris as they play one on one in UNO.

Wisdom stood in the distance the whole time. Taking it all in. Wisdom clenched his fists. The thought of one of them getting harmed lit up a fire inside his heart. Before he pranced towards the chaos, his voice echoed inside the rest of the wolves’ heads, all them simultaneously looking at Wisdom’s direction, nodding their heads to his request.

“Protect them. At all costs.”

#story #vampire story #vampire series #wolf #wolf au #wolves au #angst fluff #fluff #angst #fox #fox au #novel #series #fantasy #fantasy au #stray kids

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ruleandruinrpg · 7 years

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CONGRATULATIONS, LEXX!

You have been accepted for the role of DMITRI ALEKSEEV. Admin Rosey: First of all, Lexx, I’m so sorry for the wait! I was so enthralled by your application that I lost track of time reading it, and truthfully, it took me longer than it should have to put what I loved about it into words, because there was so much! Your plot points were amazing and so well thought-out; as if they alone weren’t enough to show how well you know him, your samples blew me away. You captured his voice perfectly, and with your words, you painted a picture of Dmitri I’d never seen before. Well done! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Lexx

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 21+

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: 6 -7: Typically I am around for plotting/chatting daily, as for IC interactions, it might depend on how RL affects my muse, but even so, once 1-2 days I should be able to write at least one reply. This is sort of a worst case scenario, because on top of having a full-time job, I typically leave town most weekends during the summer months, and I have a holiday coming up between the 14th and 24th of July, but things should slow down after that, and my activity should stabilize to at least 7/10. My timezone is GMT+2, which could also affect my real time responses as I’m 7+ hours ahead of American RPers.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: n/a - they’re inactive

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Dmitri Timofey Alekseev

DMITRI– like the earth goddess he was named after, his mood swings have the capacity to influence all around him. He gives, and he takes away. He dabbles in people, rather than nature, but like entire harvests are crushed by hail, so too can he bring immense devastation with the flick of his fingers. If he’s unhappy, everyone suffers. When he is content, others may be, as well.

TIMOFEY – “honoring god” and there’s no greater one worthy of worship than him. He is the first in his family in generations to be Grisha, what further proof would he need of his significance, of the importance of his role in shaping what is to come? He is designed for critical and magnificent things, he is a creature capable of affecting the very molecules that keep humans together, and that can be nothing other than further evidence of his preeminence.

ALEKSEEV – a family name, a human name, but it suits him, as at the Ravkan court one’s ancestry is vital, and his is exemplary. A noble, strong household. Diplomats and politicians and advisors, people versed in manipulating others for their own ends, of twisting the situation to their advantage, people whose subtlety of thinking brought them as close to power as anyone without royal blood could get. But they are not him, of course, for he is altogether more. Where they did not excel in a country at war, where their silver tongues did not turn to bullets, and they had to flee in order to maintain their relevance, Dmitri would show the rest of the world that he can be a warrior, he can be a killer, he can be the worst monster of them all – as calculating as he is cruel.

DESCRIBE THE SAME CHARACGTER TWICE

TO FALL IN LOVE WITH THEM

There is no indulgence he refuses himself, he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it. He turns hedonism into an art form. He’s suave, confident and sultry, unafraid and uninhibited. He’s his own blessing, he is the only god he worships, and such supreme aplomb turns everything he does into a game only he knows how to win. He’s deliciously amoral, unencumbered by sentiment, or personal attachments. He’s the center of his own universe, and he makes all around him dance to his tune.

TO BE REPULSED BY THEM

With confidence, comes vanity, but that is, perhaps, the least among the plethora of mortal sins he dabbles in. His gluttony is devastating enough to eat the whole world raw, the force of his lust would bring angels to their knees. He thirsts for blood, for the rush he feels when he has another’s life at the tips of his fingers. He’s both sides of the coin, capable of bringing maddening pleasure, and cause immeasurable pain, and indeed, more often than not, a coin toss is all he needs to decide.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

A deity born of unworthy clay, and oh, how they knew it. If blame could be placed on anyone but himself, then his parents are responsible for much of his pitilessness. Adored and spoiled rotten from the first moment he drew breath, Dmitri grew up with all the advantages of a privileged birth, with all the gifts nature could bestow on a creature. Beautiful and charming, and so incredibly cruel. He isn’t weighed by principles. His disregard for other people is fascinating. He is a rotten thing with an angel’s face, and he thinks the world is his. That it was made for him. He’s never suffered hardships, what he wanted he got, always, and he’s smug and self-serving and greedy.

He takes everything for granted and he takes everything as his due. Even his power, which is why he uses it so freely, so carelessly, taking when others aren’t willing to give. People are his playthings, the world is his stage, and he’s never known the taste of refusal.

As someone who has no ideal in the world but himself, he lacks consistency and has no worthy goals. Whether the world ends in fire, or in ice, he does not care as long as he sits atop the pile of bodies. The future is a distant, unimportant detail to him, the legacy he seeks to leave has a more immediate effect. He wants his name to be on people’s lips now, and he doesn’t quite care how it gets there. There is no negative publicity in his mind, which is why he does not care that people whisper “the Darkling’s bitch” as he walks by. At least they’re talking about him, and he sees whatever attention they grant as his due, even if it will never be enough to satisfy.

I think a significant part of his character is his absence of feeling, and this is something I would like to delve into further. He can be brought low by circumstances, and he’s capable of negative emotions, but there is no denying he is almost enamored with himself, and he has the ability to find precedence in things, he is aware enough of his surroundings and how to put them to use to achieve maximum satisfaction, but this is done in a distant, conniving way, and he is maladroit at considering anyone else a ‘person’. He sees people as a means to an end, sometimes for a minor purpose – for pleasure, or his own amusement – and others as steps to climb on in order to reach greatness.

He’s empty, he is a beautiful lie, his eyes are ice, he’s covered in blood, his skin is silk kissed by worms and if they were given a choice, if they could see him for what he truly is, no one would touch him. But he is the flame, and people are just moths. Even the devil was an angel once – the most beautiful angel of them all. He is Conquest, their bodies are his battlefield. He is Famine, always hungry, leaving them starved and begging for more. He is Pestilence, he would find his way into their blood, and he would waste them away from the inside out. He is Death, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

[Disclaimer: these are only suggestions as it is far from my intention to GM anyone else’s characters and I would be happy to discuss these plot bunnies further and adjust them where needed]

ZERO SUM GAME – Dmitri’s been using his power longer than he could talk, longer than he understood that he was different, or had a notion of right or wrong. It comes as naturally to him as breathing, it’s a sense he’s never been without, and he doesn’t know – nor does he want to – how to turn it off. He sees the world through the sound of hearts beating, through feeling someone before touching them. And while at first it’s been crude and inelegant, the reactions he caused too strong, leaving signs of his presence in their bloodstream, he’s had years to hone his skill, to perfect his craft to the point where he’s almost unnoticeable. There is no denying he has a superiority complex – especially when it comes to the otkazat’sya. When it comes to fellow Grisha, he’s more reluctant to unleash his power against them, based on his belief that they are not to be quite so easily discarded. The Sun Summoner, though, is untrained, untested and raising too quickly above her station that it grates at him. He wants to drive a wedge between her and the Darkling, and for the time being, while she’s fresh and gullible, there are a number of options. Should he incite her to betrayal by pushing her into Anton’s arms? Once that happens, he could tell the Darkling that Viktor plans to supplant his brother, the information would surely hold more weight then, than it does now.

Or rather, should he befriend her, seduce her, make her believe he’s indispensable to her, and use her as the way back in the Darkling’s inner circle? His resentment of her is quite great at this point, but ultimately Dmitri won’t be easily swayed by personal feelings if he has more to gain by ignoring them. If he finds himself back in a position of favor, will he grovel and apologize and worship the Soverenyi, or will he still nurse his wounded pride, and plot against him? If, or rather when, he finds out the Darkling is looking for the amplifiers, will he want to get to them first, and if he succeeds in that, will he hand them over or keep them for himself – will he, once he figures out what Aleksander wants, involve Viktor in his quest to improve his odds? He needs time to break Lantsov’s will, to wear down his resistance, if he wants his work to last, he has to be subtle and rushing a job, especially this job comes with great risk. For the moment, he prefers weighing his options, testing the waters, tugging at strings in one direction or another just to see which would be the easiest path to getting his due.

THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS – to look upon the Darkling was to look into a mirror. At least on Dmitri’s part, seeing all the things he thought he was, laid bare. To see people gaze at the Darkling, was to finally, finally find a definition for the black hole inside him. The mix of fear and respect, awe and wariness – it was all he fancied himself he was and more – because it was real, it was acknowledged and reinforced by others. He became one of the many shadows dancing around him, at least for a little while. He took those first steps willingly, accepting him as his lord and master. He had his taste of real power as the devil on his shoulder, whispering everyone’s darkest secrets in his ear. Everyone’s but his. Even as he exposed others to the judgement of the Darkling, he suppressed, hid, kept himself to himself. He thought he belonged with Aleksander, but he could not quite convince himself he belonged to him. He imagined the Darkling would understand a creature such as him, a fellow god, could only ever be on the same footing, never on his knees. He was wrong, and the taste of failure is bitter in his mouth. He lacked his experience, his skill, something akin to wisdom and Dmitri had never been wise. His restlessness, his constant hunger for more, everything, always scrapping for a bigger piece of the pie drove him towards the wider world, seeking what the Darkling wouldn’t provide. Entertainment, meaningless and crude, a game with no stakes other than his own amusement. The weight of his own discontent, the Darkling’s disapproval could only be displaced by surrounding himself with lesser beings where his superiority was plain for all to see. He craves the idolatry of the masses, and the Darkling is so distinctly apart from all the humbug that his distant approval never could have been enough to fill the emptiness inside him. He is still the best chance he has of seeing his ambitions realized, of seeing his name carved in flesh and blood on the surface of the earth, of having his name turned into a curse, of being seen for the famished, cruel god he is. But he’s drifting, untethered, away from his sphere of influence, each moment pushing him further away from meeting his goals. He’s rootless and simmering in the depths of his own resentment – at himself, at the Darkling, at all he holds in higher regard than him. He still collects secrets, hoards them like the selfish dragon he is, overflowing with the seductive, poisonous power of those things he holds close to his chest: Viktor plots against his brother; have you noticed how that Fjerdan prowls like a wolf? The king’s advisor is guilty of regicide, she stalks the Lantsov bastard like a bitch in heat; the princess is hiding something and I’m not the only one on their trail – he’s drowning in secrets that aren’t his, drowning as he watches his opportunities ever dwindling, pulling him, kicking and screaming, into obscurity. Can he do anything about any of those things without the Darkling’s help? Can he assert his own power without assistance? Or is he already doing it, and all he’s good for is fucking confidences out of people? The thought rankles, it sounds unjust, and if he could only untangle one of these knots without help, perhaps he can prove he’s been misjudged. But his pride, his bitterness, keep him languishing on the edges while others take precedence in the Darkling’s plans. He fails to see the appeal of Altan – nothing but a butcher, with as much finesse in his whole being as Dmitri could scrap from his perfectly polished shoes. He dismisses the oprichniki out of hand – they’re only human, and so easily replaceable for all they might think otherwise. And the Sun Summoner is getting a little too friendly with the crown prince. But then again, what else could one expect from a mere peasant when she finds herself in the presence of royalty, tarnished or not? She must be a bastard herself. Truth is that Dmitri believes that he alone can help the Darkling with the finer points of his plans, and it bothers him that the other man doesn’t think likewise. Exposing everyone else's deficiencies to Aleksander is beginning to sound more and more tempting. He would start with the Pavlova girl, and bide his time until she missteps. And keep his eye on the petty power grabs of humans and their silly, meaningless crown, as well. A fact made easy by having placed himself in a Lantsov’s bed. His manipulation is subtle, thorough, taking small steps to extract information from him, planting ideas in Viktor’s head, though he really doesn’t think the bloodhound would require much of his assistance to turn to fratricide.

FOR KING & COUNTRY – and of course, the questions are which king and why should he restrict himself to just one country, when he can have the whole world? But he is quite impatient, and impulsive. He’s never learned to be persevering, not really, so far no objectives he’d set himself have been really that difficult to surmount. Learning to deny himself immediate satisfaction is a struggle. And while there is no refuting the fact that the Darkling has the advantage of being Grisha – a state of being Dmitri himself considers far superior – his snubbing of the favored son was a bitter pill to swallow, whether it had been warranted of not. Dmitri wants back in his graces, but how long would he have to suffer, and be ignored until his resentment becomes greater than his infatuation? He was not made to waste away in the shadows, he was supposed to thrive in the darkness. Ultimately, it’s a matter of his own welfare, and there is no doubt that he values that above all else. He finds a match to his savagery in Viktor’s bloodthirstiness, and in truth, Dmitri’s brand of manipulation works far better on the Lantsov hound than on the Darkling. His strings are easier to pull, and his role as the puppeteer is well known and comfortable. But the man is presumptuous enough to imagine he’s superior simply because he’s a prince, and Dmitri might find that amusing now, while he dances to his tune, but there is no denying his pride will not allow him to remain content in this position while Viktor is so openly derisive. At least the Darkling once offered him the recognition he so craves, and for all the Grisha are classified as secondary Dmitri believes that the one capable of turning the tables on the measly humans, for all their greater numbers, is Aleksander. Still, he could switch camps, if the opportunity presents itself, to be the only one of his kind, to be singled out and adored, but the devastation would have to be complete. He finds plenty of allure in being the sole Grisha, there is immeasurable power in the concept, more so even than what the Darkling has to offer. To be known as the one who reduced the Second Army to a mountain of corpses is a treasured prospect. His footnote in history would be final, his transformation into a destroyer of worlds, complete and irreversible. The mere idea is enough to get him drunk on power. But first, Viktor has to prove himself worthy of such attention, of the privilege of being the object through which Dmitri’s machinations will be realized. And he is a mere pup, letting his bastard half-brother steal his crown while he sits idly by, sulking like a child, unappreciative of a greater power and impertinent where he should be reverential. The Grisha is even less patient with others than he is with himself, and while he will try to steer the man in the right direction, should he prove belligerent, he would have no qualms to eradicate him as a nuisance and throw his lot in with the Darkling.

CROWN THE BASTARD – Dmitri sincerely doubts Anton would be first bastard on the throne, as well versed as he is in the intricacies of lust, but it just goes to show that to name something is to define it. The line of Lantsovs on the throne has been unbroken – or so they claim, but what he knows of the base nature of people belies such boasts. He’s stuck between wanting to laugh in their faces, and kill them all for their stupidity. Nothing should matter in this world, but power, and ever since the crown fell on his head, Anton seems to believe he has it. That he is prepared for the task at hand, that he will succeed. It’s easy for a heartrender to see through the lies at court, easier still for one such as him, attuned from infancy to the beat of others’ hearts, but the crown prince’s confidence seems quite a steady melody. He will claim other reasons, of course, but in reality, Dmitri has chosen to fuck with him, first and foremost, out of spite. It is so easy to stay out of his line of sight in a crowded room, so easy to exert his influence from a distance, making him believe he longs from something at one point, or imagining he’s nervous by a sudden rush of blood, confusing his instincts so that people who might genuinely want to help him appear as rivals instead. He can follow the threads of want and wanting all the way to the object of their desires. There are no secrets that are truly safe from him. They might all wear their glittering courtiers’ masks, but they cannot hide the spike in their pulse, the small catch of breath, the unsteady stutter from a heart who fears and wants and betrays them to him. He pays special attention to the crown prince, seeing the advantage of making him unsteady, falter and fail. He coaxes his body to small treacheries, a twitch here and there, an ill-timed blush, or a brief bout of bleariness when he ought to be paying attention. He’s careful, for he cannot be close enough to hear what he says, and he must always choose his moments wisely. But he wants to acclimate Anton to his effect, step by tiny step so that when the time comes and he needs to strike irresolutely and without mercy, the man would be too tangled in all the ways he cannot control himself that he’ll think the blame lays with him. He does not want him on the throne, not as he is, so focused on the Sun Summoner, seeing her as the hope of his nation, and belittling everyone else. Corporalki are the chosen of the Grisha, they alone have the option to create or destroy, to shape their power to their will, and seeing an Etherealki – an inexperienced one at that – raised above him rankles. At least the Darkling appreciates the subtlety of Dmitri’s science, at least the Darkling has lived long enough to master his skills beyond all others. That chit of a girl with her pretty, empty lights cannot hope to threaten the divine order, and a human involving himself with Grisha power structure is a challenge that cannot go unanswered. One day, he will choose to betray the secrets he gleans from the bastard – oh yes, he knows, he can feel the queen’s distress whenever she looks at him, can almost smell the doubt on Anton – to the highest bidder, and he will rejoice in his downfall.

THE HEART OF RAVKA – it’s right there in the name, they fall right into his sphere of influence. Dmitri knows how hearts work, at least from a physical standpoint. Their language is easy for him to understand, and he knows how to make them sing. And the heart of a princess isn’t something he could claim ownership over, just yet. But he can see the appeal of such a prize, the lure of lifting himself above his humbler beginnings. Marrying a princess makes him a prince, does it not? A title that Viktor, for all his appeal, cannot and would not grant him. A title the Darkling cannot grant him. There is power in words, just as there is in sinew, and power is something he could never resist. Their innocence is not an insurmountable obstacle,merely a nuisance. He would have them if he wants them. And, in turn, they will teach him endurance, how to bide his time, and how to bend to their desires first, rather than have them bend to his. His coldness will have to be tempered; he cannot take without giving something in return, in this case. He must be cautious, and serene. He must prove he has a heart, even if it’s just pretend. As he feigns vulnerability, he will reveal his shortages, even if only to himself. For all his mastery of the carnal, he never did comprehend the emotional, or saw much of its use – at least not to him, but others place great significance in it, so he would try. He has the ability to cure their bleeding heart, or at least convince them he did. He can affect grief, and humility, thoughtfulness and comprehension. He could be a cheerful companion, or a shoulder to cry on. It’s a long game, and he must be infinitely watchful, for if he puts on too much of a façade, he will lose them to the rumors at court that paint him as anything but a caring man. He must be discreet, but at least with that he’s had plenty of practice. It’s an interesting notion, to boost himself not through carnage, but through gentleness. He isn’t convinced he won’t grow bored, eventually. But still, having their ear would be an advantage, and should he tire of them – well, he’s always looking for new ways to hurt. Breaking a heart without leaving physical damage is a mere honing of his skills. And theirs is already so cracked, it wouldn’t take much to crumble at all.

THE POWER & CHANCE OF DOING PROFOUND HURT – all things living must die, disintegrate and rot and sex might be the height of life, blood pumping, heart thudding, skin singing at the barest touches, but death has just as much allure to Dmitri. Bodies talk to him in a language better than words. He can track the veins all the way to their hearts, he can see the organs beneath the veneer of skin, he feels lungs that aren’t his expanding with breathing. It is so easy, so ridiculously easy, for him to play with that, to tug at people’s strings, one moment making them feel alive, another luring their deaths closer, delighting in the rush of panic, the last, desperate attempt to draw in another breath, to force a heart to beat one more time. He’s hungry for death, for the taste of fear in another’s bloodstream. He is Grisha, he is a soldier, he was born to kill and there are simply not enough opportunities around court to do what he was meant to do. He wants chaos, he wants bloodshed, and he is willing to pick fights with little lambs in the hopes that they might sprout claws. It might not be enough to slake his thirst, but he finds her infinitely frustrating – they are like gods and she chooses to serve, instead, making a mockery of her fire. He does not mind being the instrument of punishment – the eagle rending her liver piece by delicious piece – for daring to deny her nature. She can reshape him in her fire, though Dmitri doubts she knows how, and he can tinker with her flesh, they cut themselves on one another, dogs with a bone, and so far there’s been no winning in their war of tug. Not many people can resist his siren call, and it’s discomfiting that she’d managed to for this long. Perhaps he’s losing his touch, perhaps he never had it – merchants, humans all, might not have been the challenge he’d originally predicted. But he can, at least, hone his skill on her, until she’s his, or until she’s destroyed by it, and he can divine something from her ruin.

APEX PREDATOR – Dmitri does not like to see his prey hunted by others, he’s never been one for sharing his toys. And there’s something about Sergei that doesn’t sit right with him – he’d grown up with his ambassador father, after all, a man bred for the task, and the Fjerdan fits the role like a round peg in a square hole. There’s a restraint to his movements that speaks of barely contained violence. He is not who he claims to be, and given his nationality, Dmitri is willing to wager he’s not Anton’s biggest problem, but theirs, instead. The Practitioners of the Small Sciences. He plans to ingratiate himself to the man, to use his unique brand of seduction to confuse and confound him, to negotiate a position better suited for uncovering his secrets, for striking first, should he be given reason to. And he does not like how Iskra – the one Grisha away from the safety of the Little Palace – has drawn his attention. He cares not for the girl, but he cares even less for a druskelle, and if there is anyone who ought to discipline an errant Grisha, then the task should fall to one of her own.

I HAVE BECOME DEATH – Dmitri revels in the subtlety of his craft, the careful waning and webbing of blood, the way nerves respond so eagerly to his coaxing. He sees his power in all the ways he can hide his influence, not in the obvious tearing of the throat, not in how easily the clench of his fist obliterates a heart. He’s insidious, refined, like the shrewdest poison. To be poison is what he craves; to not only see people die by his will, but to know he’s hidden his tracks well, too. To be capable, if the need arises, to shift the blame on someone else. He would be eager to find an Alkemi, to learn how to replicate the symptoms of clever venoms through his skill. He would seek out someone as interested in all the ways bodies can break and work together, to uncover a new facet of his ability that would serve in the environment of the court – if only to strike panic in the hearts of its residents. He’d learned long ago that fearful creatures are much easier to manipulate and subdue than those whose will has never been tested.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: To be honest, I can easily see how his story would end in tragedy. He is the villain in his story, and he’s too greedy, too power-grabbing and impatient to ever feel satisfied. The subtlety of his powers, and his ambitions might keep him in check for a little while, might make him a difficult enemy to remove, but in the long run, his unpredictability and obsession with chaos could prove to be his downfall. I would definitely be interested in exploring his character while he balances precariously on the edge of his mortality, and losing control of all the strings he's been trying to pull. Will it happen gradually, or all at once? Will he cease to merely consider betrayal and set himself on a course of action that would bring about his demise? It could even be something as simple as fumbling his grip on one of his toys at the wrong moment, or breaking someone beyond even his ability to contain.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

[tw: underage scenes of a sexual nature; graphic language; age difference]

i. THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED FAINTLY IN THE CORNER, a soft rhythm so as not to distract people from mingling, and the candelabras glittered magnificently in the dance of the candles. He lounged lazily, bored with the sumptuousness surrounding him, bored with all these small little people and their petty requests, and their dull black clothes. He left the priceless crystal glass fall to his feet, unconcerned with the damage it did to the hardwood floors, or the servants who’d have to labor on their knees to rub the smell of alcohol out of the rugs.

Like a serpent, he weaved between people, not touching them, not having to touch them to leave a little mischief in his path. A lady breathing champagne through her nose there, a stuffy gentleman sneezing abruptly in his companion’s face, fingers losing their grip on drinks, or food, expensive silks stained and ruined. He caused a man’s muscles to cramp as he lecherously leaned closer to admire an exquisitely fragile necklace, breaking the delicate chain. He had no doubt the woman would have thanked him, should she have known it was him who gave her the opportunity to storm away from the grubby philander in a huff. Dmitri was familiar with him, he was all show, and even on that he had a lot left to work on.

He caught his father’s eye as he turned, and the man nodded suggestively at him, causing Dmitri to huff as he glanced in the direction of his mark, eyes washing over the somber clothing. His suit looked like it could have benefited from a little less starch, in his opinion. But he wasn’t exactly ugly, if a bit coarse looking. Strong jaw, big hands – big everything probably, considering how his clothes strained to contain him. A bit like a farmer, were he entirely honest. With an open face and sincere, solemn eyes, and a mouth whose lips pressed a little too tightly together, as if ashamed of their lushness. Yes, perhaps Dmitri could see the appeal. These type of things always worked better when they coincided with his desires.

And the man was truly a bore, a staunch, pious pillar of society, who wouldn’t be caught dead seducing a mere boy. Luckily, he didn’t have to do any seducing, and Dmitri stopped, still far away from him as to not draw his attention prematurely. He’d need far more alcohol in his system if this was to work, so he found his pulse and raised it, coaxed heat to rush through him as he teased the cells in a frenzy, so that his skin would break into sweat. He waited until the man grabbed a glass of wine to dry his throat, made his tongue swollen and awkward, and when he brought the drink to his lips, he gulped it greedily, draining it in seconds. It didn’t help, Dmitri made sure it wouldn’t, and he smirked triumphantly as he reached for a refill. There was only alcohol to be had at this function, and he gave him no choice but to consume it.

Now it was time to make him tremble, to make his heart seize in his chest as his common hazel eyes gazed uncomfortably around, alighting on him. Dmitri’s smile suddenly became unaffected, his eyes rounding with feigned interest, and he made himself blush as he glanced away for a second, before looking back, as if it pained him not to admire the man before him. He backed away, too shy to approach such an esteemed specimen, even as he kept him in thrall to his caprices. His blood would only get hotter, and yes, of course, he reached for another glass, tugging viciously at the restricting cravat.

He could see the sweat glitter on his forehead, his hair dampen and the man moved away from the candles, as though that was what made him so warm. He walked to a window, inspected it with eyes that were already beginning to show their whites in panic, and opened it, but the cool breeze that came from outside, carrying the pungent smell of the port wouldn’t help at all with a heartrender still stalking his prey. The merchant glanced towards him again, and Dmitri was ready for that, his appreciation reduced by a layer of anxiety. He had the man’s heart in his palm, and with a twitch on his fingers, caused it to clutch in his chest when their eyes met. Cautious, concerned, he made his way closer to him, heightening his turmoil with each step he took towards him. “My lord,” he stopped a respectable distance away, but still close enough to touch him, and he gave him a smart bow. Just an amiable host, making sure his guests were comfortable. His eyes flicked to the open window. “Is something bothering you?”

The man gasped, fighting for words as well as breath, and Dmitri’s fretful frown increased. “Perhaps you are too warm? I’m afraid the room is quite airless,” he offered, reaching out, not quite touching him, but enough for the breeze caused by the movement to be felt. He withdrew his hand when it was a mere breadth away from the man’s elbow, but made certain the rush of blood hurried to his loins as he did so, delighting in seeing him tensing suddenly at the sensation. A most ridiculous blush covered his whole face, making him look like a tomato. Dmitri had to press his lips together not to laugh in his face. “Would you like to step aside for a moment?” he let his eyes fall, his long, thick lashes fluttering down bashfully. “I could show you to the veranda, if it pleases you,” his tone was earnest, no innuendo coloring it, his skin unblemished by self-aware blushes. He did not seem the type who’d fall for the coquette, and Dmitri struggled to appear guileless.

His fingers twitched again, the heart in the merchant’s chest thudding painfully. He could hear it. Better yet, he could feel it, warming his own blood, the power coursing through his veins, so close to the surface it made his skin glow, like he was a holy thing. He could see the effect he had on him and it made his whole being sing with intoxication. “Y-yes,” the man gulped again, parched, and Dmitri, ever solicitous, grabbed a glass of champagne and handed it to him.

“Follow me, please,” he turned, looking over his shoulder, willing his muscles to move, to trail him like a dog brought to heel. His superior smirk blossomed as he cut a clear path through the room, giving his father a brief nod as the man tracked his progress. Ten more minutes, he meant. Ten more minutes and the merchant’s pockets would open to them. Dmitri pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the fetid air. He much preferred being inside, where he could hear people’s hearts, feel their blood moving through their bodies, their heat dissipate into the air. He felt almost blind without them, as if he suddenly were alone in the world.

He turned to the merchant, raising an eyebrow. “I’m afraid the smells are better inside,” he allowed the man a brief respite, but only because he was looking at him, something almost like awe in his eyes, to see Dmitri washed into the pale light coming from the moon. He stood up straighter in the darkness, prouder and more assured. The merchant would be cold now, not too much, but enough to prompt him to come forward, drawn to the only other source of heat on the balcony. Dmitri made sure they were hidden from curious eyes by stepping to the side. He smiled, reserved and self-conscious. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked, as if anxious to get his approval.

He wouldn’t, of course, his heart was still beating too fast, his skin ran too hot, or too cold in turns, and he saw him teetering, uncertain. All of them were so surprised to realize they weren’t in control of their bodies as much as they thought they were. Dmitri pushed a little more blood away from his head and towards lower regions as the merchant nodded, already so eager to please him, and he allowed his lips to curl into a beaming smile. “I’m glad,” his voice was so sincere, he could have laughed at himself. Merely playing at seeking approval brought hilarity. As though he’d ever grovel in front of mere men. But the merchant was eating his act up, tentative and hopeful both.

Dmitri stepped closer, his smile fading a little, as though he wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed. “You’re Master Aling.” he made sure it wouldn’t be mistaken for a question. “Gerd Aling,” his eyes glimmered when the man nodded, and he cast another wave of pleasure towards him. He couldn’t control his thoughts, but he could, at least, make him wonder whether the recognition pleased him or not. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” the words came out in a rush, as though he couldn’t stop himself from showing his excitement. “You are on the Council – I’ve always admired the work you are doing,” he stammered, only a little, suddenly embarrassed by his evident enjoyment, and stared at his shoes. The man hesitated, and Dmitri realized he couldn’t summon the courage to touch him. Or perhaps his will was slightly stronger than he had expected. He glanced back at him, struggling to remain composed, and reinforced his assault. To look upon his face was to feel parched, starving, unfulfilled. He made his knees weak, worried that the man might turn and run cowardly rather than act on his urges. It was better if he stayed right there, if he kept his eyes glued to his perfect skin, his bright, warm eyes, and his Cupid’s bow lips. Dmitri’s breathing grew shallower, and he made sure the merchant’s did as well.

Surely he wasn’t as simple minded as to assume his hunger could ever be satiated by food. It wasn’t a drink he thirsted for, it was the taste of Dmitri’s lips. He almost narrowed his eyes, but chose to widen them instead, chose to take another step closer, the gap between them dwindling to nothing. The merchant’s knees were still trembling, if he’d been skinnier, he could have heard them knock together. He had him right where he wanted him, in his web, and he reached up on his toes – Dmitri wasn’t short, but the merchant was built like a fucking tank, and pressed his lips on his, making sure that brief touch granted him immeasurable relief.

For a few glorious moments, it worked, the man suddenly grabbed him, pulling him into his chest, his mouth feral and ravenous, and Dmitri let himself be manhandled, turning to putty in his arms. The kiss ended, just as violently as it had started and he was jerked away abruptly. “No,” he sounded as though it hurt him to talk – and it did, for he was being punished for refusing an offering that was too good for him in the first place. Dmitri heard his heart stutter, felt the wave of dizziness wash over him, and the fingers that were keeping him in place tightened in discomfort. “I’ve had too much to drink, you are just a boy…” he almost rolled his eyes at the tired speech, and reached out his arms to hold him up as the muscles in his legs failed to keep Gerd upright. He didn’t want to be crushed by this brick shithouse though, and he did not push his luck, keeping him on a knife’s edge of self-control, even as he forced the blood to rush through him in a too-hot torrent.

“I am not a boy,” he wanted to swear at him for daring to underestimate him, but instead added a hurt undertone to his edge. “Really, I’m not. I’m old enough to know what I want,” Gerd’s hand traveled downwards, not fighting Dmitri’s encouragement as he stepped closer once more, their breaths mingling together, maddening the other with desire just as it left him unaffected. A small, pleased smile lightened his features once the merchant’s hand rested just below his waistband. “See?” he made sure to make his question innocent, but even with no verbal reassurance, the man looked down, and Dmitri could have laughed at his victory.

“Oh,” the exclamation was breathed, rather than spoken, and he glanced at him once more, a brief nod from him enough to have him return to mauling Dmitri’s mouth. Had he had any intention of bedding him, he’d have trained him on how to do it properly, commanded his body to please himself, but seeing as that was not the goal here, he allowed himself to be pushed into the thin railing, the metal burrowing into his skin. He feigned enjoyment and Gerd’s grip on him tightened, breathless whispers of yes please, and more falling from his lips, as he leaned back, giving him access to his throat. He could feel his father approach, just out of his periphery, and he rolled his eyes to the heavens, partly relieved at the respite, partly piqued from having his toy taken away before he could properly teach it how to play nice.

“What is the meaning of this?” his father almost boomed, but cast a nervous glance at the lit house, as though he didn’t want to draw others’ attention to his son’s shame. Dmitri shrugged, hiding an attempt to wipe the slobber from his neck through the motion, but managed to look properly horrified and chastised at being caught. The merchant stammered beside him, having jumped away from him at the sound of another’s voice. “Father, I…” he began meekly, not looking at him, suffusing his face with blood as he shuffled awkwardly.

“Silence!” it wasn’t much of a command, his father had actually managed to sound too pained to be imposing, but all that changed as he turned to glare at the councilman. “You dare to come into my house and attempt to debase my son?” Dmitri nearly cleared his throat at that, trying to direct his father’s attention to his final touch, to the cherry on top, but he didn’t have to resort to such obvious ploys. Instead, he merely pushed his father’s eyes downwards, at the merchant’s crotch. Black was not really the best color to make his shame easily observable, but then it didn’t have to be, if one knew what to look for. His father sputtered, overdoing his indignation, Dmitri thought, but it was no longer his show, and he kept his head down, and his cheeks rosy, scurrying hurriedly back inside as his father dismissed him.

He’d asked his father for a challenge earlier, no more perverted old fucks who would follow him around dicks out before he even had a chance to toy with them, but as it turned out, the positively saintly Gerd Aling hadn’t been much of a trial either.

[tw: death]

ii. HIS EYES FOLLOWED THE MAN CURIOUSLY FROM HIS SEAT, a little out of the way. The flash of blue from his ratty sack had drawn his attention, certain he’d recognized a kefta’s colors, but he wore mismatched clothes, his trousers too big for him, while the shirt was too short at the sleeves, and strained across his chest. He watched him try to push the sleeves up, apparently uncomfortable with the stiff materials. He tilted his head sideways thoughtfully, before gracefully uncurling from his spot, to wander closer as it was his turn at the counter, wanting to know what his business here was.

“I would like to sell my indenture,” he spoke with a strong Ravkan accent, and Dmitri tensed, looking around hurriedly to see if others had heard him. “I am a Squaller,” he had lowered his voice further as he said it, but not low enough for Dmitri to miss the words. His eyes narrowed, washing once more over him with renewed concentration. His boots were different colors, and one was noticeable smaller than the other. His teeth gritted, and he stepped back into the shadows, aware he couldn’t really do anything about it in a room full of people.

But he waited, and paid attention, and followed the man out as he brushed past the crowd, stuffing a paper in his too tight shirt. He focused on the sound of his heart, clung to it, to make it easier to shadow him as they emerged into the street. From the look of him, he wouldn’t have found rooms in the nicer districts, and they soon entered the swarming, dirty alleys of the Barrel. This area suited Dmitri’s purposes just fine, and he hurried to catch up, needing only the smallest opportunity – an empty side-street, or reasonably empty, at any rate. No one here would intervene.

“Hey you!” he called in Kerch, his accent indiscernible from that of a local, and he swaggered towards him as the man tensed. “Heard you were looking for a job.” he smirked knowingly, his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t dressed garishly enough to competently pass for a gang member, but he didn’t look like a merchant either, and he’d mused his hair and clothes so as not to look too evidently a noble. “Why would you want to sell yourself, when you can be a free man and still get fed?” he carelessly leaned his shoulder against a sooty building, unconcerned about his jacket. He had countless others back home. “Merchants are a bore, stuffy and proper and completely out of their league. How would you like to work for the Lions, instead?” the man frowned, struggling to keep up with his fluent Kerch. He could switch to Ravkan, but it wouldn’t make for a street rat to know the language. “Come on. You’ll be paid. We could use someone like you. Running away from something? We can hide you,” he grinned dastardly at him. The man shifted, clutching his sack.

Dmitri’s attention focused on that. “Anything of value in there? I can tell you where to sell it,” the material was riddled with holes, he could still see the blue occasionally showing as he shifted, even in the darkness of the alley. The houses on either side of them looked just about ready to fall over. The man hesitated, looking ready to bolt. “Now, now,” Dmitri straightened, raising his arms to the side to show he came in peace. It was a wholly human gesture, he thought, Grisha would push their hands forwards, when focusing their power. “I mean you no harm.” his tone became confidential. “Are you a deserter? Heard those Ravkans treat their soldiers like shit. They’re nothing but cannon fodder. Even the Second Army. And they couldn’t possibly afford to feed you all that well, either,” he wrinkled his nose in apparent disgust, and rolled his eyes at the folly of all those paper pushers who made decisions without having to suffer the consequences. “I can help you,” he let his arms drop, and stepped even closer. Surely the man’s Kerch was passable enough to understand that last sentence.

His mouth opened and closed for a few times as he considered his options. “H-how?” he stammered, in strongly accented Kerch.

Dmitri straightened, smug. “By putting you out of your misery,” his arms shot out, a split second before the soldier tensed, eyes widening in realization, and tried to attack as well. But by then Dmitri had his claws in him, twisting the muscles in his fingers, closing his hands into too tight fists. His upper arm cramped, the noise of bone breaking like a gunshot in the muffled silence of the alley. The Squaller screamed, falling to his knees, lifting his eyes to glare hatefully at him. “Heartrender,” he hissed in Ravkan, and Dmitri feigned confusion.

“Heart?” he asked, switching to his mother tongue. “What heart?” he squeezed his fist, and the man seized, eyes rolling back, as he crumpled into the dirt of the alley. Dmitri walked closer, straightening his vest, and reached with his boot to push him on his back. “Oh, that one,” he commented casually, his head tilted sideways in interest. But a dead body couldn’t hold him in place for long, and he turned around dismissively. Traitors were not worth longer than the time he took to kill them.

But the man did make an idea bloom in his mind, a thought he’d considered before, though never as fervently as now. Ketterdam had become boring, and there was only so much pleasure a man could take before even that lost its luster. Perhaps it was time to go home. He rather thought he’d be excellent at killing.

iii. THERE WAS A SYMPHONY PLAYING IN THE DARKNESS, all around him, within him, for him. Dmitri wasn’t surprised, not really. He’d been made for the True Sea, why should the Unsea be any different? Indeed, why should anything in the world not be for him to pluck and inspect and toss aside should it bore him? He was, and the environment would simply have to adjust to the irrefutable fact of his being, and reshape and bend to his indubitable will.

He stood on the deck, unmoving and resolute, eyes closed against the annoyance of the Ifernis’ flames. He wanted to enjoy this, he wanted to stick out his tongue and taste the power of the Shadow Fold for himself. The screams, human and Volcra alike made his ears ring, but his blood listened to him, obeyed his commands, a steady, cool flow beneath his skin. His heart – he knew he had one, for all they whispered heartless as he walked by, he could always feel it beat, betraying its presence – was steady and subdued. He wrapped himself in a blanket of chillness, drawing from the air around him, becoming one with the void. It was so easy, and such a delight, to feel his power cocoon him so, making him invisible to the predators swooping in all around them. The screeches of their death throes buoyed him. Their wings buffeted him, but they did not know he was there. He could feel them, sense them, burning as bright as any flame in their absence, not quite alive, but not of death either. Something else altogether, something unfamiliar, and oh, how he exulted in finding new toys.

He never doubted he’d survive the trip. The Fold could not take what didn’t belong to it, and he would never belong to anything but himself. He blinked in the light, even night time seemed so bright after such a complete and all-consuming darkness, dazed, but calm, as he willed his body to move, to become warm again, to resemble a person and he stepped down from the skiff, ignoring the tallying of the dead and the sobs of the survivors. He might not have been born on its shores, but Ravka was home. He could feel its call in his bones, stronger now that he was finally here. Its son of glorious crimson. Its collector of hearts.

Dmitri recognized in the Darkling a kindred spirit, an equal in brutality and ambition. It was a revelation, as though he was the first of his kind he’d ever seen. And it wasn’t far from the truth, indentured Grisha back in Ketterdam were not like him, like them, wretched, servile creatures that they were. Later, but not much later, he understood his true brilliance. The Darkling was not like him, the Darkling was who he would become. Powerful and feared and revered, for all his darkness.

They’re lying to you, he’d whisper in his ear, always at his side; they’re scared; they will desert you; they’re hiding something; that question – there – press the matter. He never failed him. He couldn’t read minds, but he could read bodies, and the longer he spent in their presence, the louder they spoke to him, spilling their secrets like blood from an open wound. The Darkling’s own lie detector. A truth potion made flesh, more accurate than the Alkemi could hope to concoct with their foul smelling substances, in an altogether prettier package.

He hadn’t expected his vanity to be his downfall. Indeed, he had not expected to have one, to be weighed and measured and found wanting. It created an ache in him, unfamiliar in its keenness, in its failure to be filled and plugged as any other need in him. It humbled him – humbled! – and that only made the sting grow worse. Dmitri was made to be favored, he wouldn’t settle for less. He wouldn’t settle for anything. Not even the Darkling, with all his aloofness, could keep him under his heel for long. He gouged others’ needs as easily as he drew breath, he couldn’t understand the seemingly impenetrable wall that rose between them.

It was a betrayal of their covenant – but he could not tell who it had come from. Who had blinked first, who had ruined this thing they had between them. Did he not gather secrets to lay them at his feet? Did he not needle and coax and turn people to the Darkling’s side with sure hands and poised smiles? His accomplished recruiter, working within the Grisha’s ranks to exhort their commander’s virtues, to bring his enemies low. Had he not uncovered countless plots against him and his before they came to fruition?

So what if he allowed himself to get distracted by the dazzling Ravkan court? So what if he sometimes woke late in the day, groggy and irritable after a long night of debauchery? He brought the courtiers’ secrets to the Darkling, whispered of their petty machinations, and still turned many a tide in their favor, even as he filled his rooms with glittering trinkets and left a trail of disillusionment in his wake. He would play his own game, too, he needed the distraction – deserved it, for all his hard work. It wasn’t his fault that those paltry nobles grew increasingly more tiresome, less useful the longer he spent in their presence. What more could they expect of the otkazat’sya? They were as small and insignificant as the meat that contained them, and just as prone to Dmitri’s guidance. It wasn’t his intelligence that grew weaker, it was simply that they were worthless.

“What of the Lantsovs?” the Darkling would ask. “What are they doing? What are their plans?”

“To put a bastard on the throne,” in hindsight, perhaps his tone had been a touch too dismissive. But everyone knew that, didn’t they? It was no secret. They did not need to have it spelled out for them when it was right in front of their noses.

The Darkling’s frown was unforgiving. Dmitri stood at attention, a disgraced soldier in front of his superior, chaffing at his shackles, even as he yearned to feel them return to what they once were – proof of his worth – people kept under lock and key only what was valuable, did they not?

And yet, the Darkling dismissed him from his presence with only an indifferent flick of his wrist.

[tw: sexual content]

iv. DMITRI LEANED BACK AGAINST THE WALL heedless of the bite of the cold in the corridors, unconcerned with the beauty of the night sky, where stars glittered sharply, distant and lovely, made even more piercing by the gloom of winter. Frost covered the great window he lounged in front of, glazing it with delicate lacework that clung to it, thickest at the edges. His fingers flexed impatiently as the hall remained accursedly silent, eyes set sightlessly ahead in his stubborn vigil.

He’d never liked quiet, never craved the solitude he now suspected he’d been tricked into, removed from his playground purposefully and purposelessly, to wait in the shadows for a tryst that was not going to happen, simply to satisfy the prince’s galling propensity for one-upmanship, his perverse tendency to pretend resistance to Dmitri’s lure.

He could not – he would not – be denied. And whether the blood flowing through one’s veins was red, or blue, they all answered to his call when he turned his attention to them. Whether it’d be sooner, or later, he would cloak himself in patience even if he sweltered under its cloying weight, and in the end, they’d suffer all the more under his yoke, until they accepted his bridle.

And finally, finally, he tilted his head to the side at the sound of footsteps, his attention hooked at the edge of his sight. The darkness of the hall might have confused him momentarily, made him wonder at what he saw, but he was attuned to Viktor’s heartbeat as he was to his own, and he recognized the tumultuous storm of his blood before he turned to fully face him, no trace of annoyance on his expression, as he smirked at the other man. “Loath to leave the party?” he questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow even as his voice remained reverent. “I shall endeavor to make it worth your while, my prince,” his tone did not change, remaining solicitous, though his countenance was anything but, something predatory filling his gaze as Viktor came closer.

Dmitri did not need his assistance in getting to his knees, his earlier frustration pushed back as he gave the other man a look full of dark promise before sinking gracefully to the ground. His hands made quick work of the laces of his trousers, lips pressing hard kisses from hip to hip, making sure that every light touch of his fingers would send shivers down his spine. It was easy to use more than his skillful tongue to bring Viktor off, easy, as he was this close to him, to sense every single shift in the man’s body, to ride the wave of desire with him and enhance the experience with well-timed jolts to his nerves, or an opportune stutter of his heart.

He reveled in the feel of rough skin under his fingers, of hard muscles and marks of battle, the prince’s ruthlessness written all over his body in a language that called to Dmitri’s own understanding of violence. He rejoiced in the power he had over a Lantsov, in the ease with which he could make him tremble, and moan and bite his lips helplessly as he struggled to keep the pleas from slipping out. He was granting him unbearable pleasure, part punishment for having made him wait, part promise of even more ecstasy, should he return. He was drawing out the man’s frenzy, his body a mere instrument in the hands of its master, who was tuning it to the perfect frequency so that when Dmitri tasted his seed, it felt almost sweet on his tongue, coated as it was in his sense of victory.

“You have the tastes of a king, Your Highness,” the pretense at deference had left him completely as he licked the corner of his mouth, almost thoughtfully, not raising from his obeisance. He glanced up at Viktor, chin tilted up, a dark lock of hair artfully fallen into his eyes, and smirked.

“Don’t you mean I taste like one?” Lantsov gave a harsh laugh and Dmitri raised, confident now that the man’s muscles had loosened, his limbs grown heavy with his exhausted desire, and firmly pressed his lips against his, the slant of his mouth harsh and demanding, fingers resting against the nape of Viktor’s nape, pulling him even closer. The split moment’s resistance was dealt with swiftly, firmly, and soon there was nothing preventing Dmitri from taking what he wanted. They were both breathless when he drew back, heated and dazed, and he blinked once, languorously, before glancing in Viktor’s eyes, an insolent grin on his lips.

“Do you – my liege?”

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

SPOILED BRAT – waited on by servants his whole life, Dmitri is incredibly careless about his things. His rooms are a mess, his writing is atrocious, all his books, barely read as they are, have broken spines and dog-eared pages. He has no idea how to pick up after himself, and indeed, the mere notion that he has to, offends him.

KING OF HEDONISM – he’s accustomed to having his every whim indulged. He doesn’t refuse himself anything, be it food, drinks, expensive clothes, or people. There is no vice he hasn’t tried, no line he hasn’t crossed. He does as he pleases, and he will never refuse himself anything. He isn’t made for moderation.

CHOSEN ONE – travelling the Unsea was a revelation, a revelry. To be surrounded by darkness and not be touched by it was a heady feeling. Then again, he never lets anything that matters touch him. Why should the Fold be any different? He isn’t scared of shadows – he isn’t scared of anything. And his power makes him invisible to the Volcras. He became cold, his blood turned to ice in his veins, his heart quiet in his chest, unmoving and unbreakable. Like a tailor bleeding colors into pasty skin, he took the darkness into himself, wrapped himself in it to become a shadow. Invisible, unreachable, undefeated and undaunted. Why would someone like him ever have to experience fear? He is a disciple of the Order of the Living and the Dead, he carries the greatest power of them all, and what is strength but a tool in his hands, to make the whole world take the knee?

A SCRIBBLE WITH FANGS – a selfish, demanding child, Dmitri cannot pinpoint the exact moment he’s come into his powers. There must have always been there, lurking beneath his skin, fashioning him into the hungry being he’s become. It started off small enough, as a call for attention, for his nannies, for the servants, for his parents. He wouldn’t be ignored, or denied, not without dire consequences, sweats, and tremors and dizzy spells. He had to have everything just right, and he had to have it now. Like dogs reacting to the whip, he’d taught those around him to bend to his whims, by giving them treats, or taking them away until everything was the way he wanted. Colors, materials, food, even the temperature of his milk. A tyrant in diapers, smiling sweetly whenever he saw them flinch, king of his own little kingdom, and cruel to the bone.

BATTLES OF THE FLESH – he was a precocious child, growing into a precocious teenager. Not studious, not particularly curious about the world either, but when it came to bodies, to what they could do, the pleasure they could bring, or the pain that brought them to their knees, he was an ardent pupil. He began early, not quite an adolescent, but old enough to get a taste of what he could take from others. He manipulated and beguiled, and later on, blackmailed, for his own purposes, but they just so happened to coincide with those of his parents, filling their coffers, and even Ravka’s. Kerch had too much money, anyway, greedy and grubby bottom feeders that they were, and he used his gift in service of himself, just as much as in the king’s.

PLEASURES OF THE FLESH – to call him a skilled lover would be to do him a disservice. Indeed, it’s almost an insult. Dmitri is flawless, capable of intuiting what his partner wants before they realize it themselves. He’s pansexual and non-discriminatory in his choice of sexual partners. His libido would put an incubus to shame. To partake in his talents is to never be satisfied by others again. He is sublime and brazen, and he enjoys exerting his influence long after he’s grown bored with his conquests, just for the pure joy of watching them waste away in longing. He’s a storm, taking others by surprise with the suddenness of their sheer need for him, or a subtle poison, torturing them with overpowering feelings and inexhaustible longings, toying with them mercilessly until he deigns to bestow his favor, or deciding to leave them unfulfilled and miserable until the urgency of their desires drive them to their knees, ardent supplicants at the altar of his decadence. He loves the flavor of their desperation once he gives them what he wants, the ease with which their brutalized flesh yields to his manipulations, buoys himself with their momentary relief, and finally finds his own pleasure in their complete surrender.

LEVIATHAN – his time at sea is one of his fondest memories, if one such as him could experience fondness. He took longer than necessary to get himself to Ravka, given his enjoyment of captaining his own ship, sowing terror on the waves. His mastery of his body meant he suffered no sickness, even as inexperienced as he was with the motions of the boat. Ships sailed a wide berth around his, protected as it was by the ambassador’s flag. But one, unwise and desperate did try to attack in the dead of night. He bathed their deck in their own blood, taking exquisite pleasure in watching them squirm under his eyes. Theirs were not quick deaths, not good deaths, they lived with no dignity and they would die as they have lived. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed, but it was the moment his hunger for it ignited, and he turned his ship around, a hunter in a sea full of helpless little fish, wanting Ravka to know of his coming long before he stepped onto their land. The prodigal son returned after washing the True Sea in blood. A god that would not deliver them from darkness, but teach them how to live in it.

NOT FASHIONED FOR LOVE – there’s no bigger motivation for Dmitri than boredom. In fact, his willingness to avoid falling into that state is what drives most of his actions, including twisting the purposes of his power in untried ways. He’s used it for giving pleasure long before he’s killed with it. Oh, he knew how even then, of course, he could sense the sickness lurking beneath people’s skin, the fragility of their organs, the inelegance of their bodies’ design. He could make a muscle twist in the most embarrassing way when going down the stairs, he could make them choke on their food with a mere inopportune hiccup. But he had no need for death when he was young, for his hungers lay elsewhere, and so he became something altogether different. Heartrender he may be, but he’s also a heartbreaker, and the latter provides more amusement in the halls of the court.

EXTRAS:

[DISCLAIMER: He is unapologetically vulgar. He’s quite graphic in his lewd comments, and whatever redeeming qualities he exhibits, they’re likely just a dissimulation in order to ensure he gets what he wants.]

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS: He’s left handed – indeed, given his dominant hand is the left, he sees being the Darkling’s left hand as no demotion. However, he is a self-taught ambidextrous. He can use both hands to manipulate his power, or just one, and in this aspect, there is no difference in ability or the accuracy of his aim. When it comes to other skills, like writing, eating, or fighting, he shows a preference for his left hand. The more menial the task, the more he will use his left, but at physical fighting, such as firing a weapon, or fencing, the difference is quite small – noticeable only when one knows to look for it. He’s brown eyed and black-haired and while he doesn’t go out of his way to exercise, he can control his metabolism to burn fat at an alarming rate. His body shape falls into the lithe and svelte category. His muscles are well-defined, but lean. He’s 6’2’’. Like all Grisha who consistently use their powers, he is alluringly beautiful, and healthy and his skin is unblemished. He has no distinguishing marks like scars, birthmarks, tattoos or piercings.

POWERS & ABILITIES: While Dmitri can kill, and do it in quite creative ways, and he has a moderate talent for healing (he can heal small cuts, bruises, and mend broken bones if they’re small – e.g. fingers) his true talent lies in subtly affecting a person’s bodily functions. He can excite nerves, he can fake the symptoms of medical afflictions, like heart-attacks or asthma, he can induce panic attacks, or incite people’s lust. He can modulate his own voice to make it higher or lower, control his and others’ body heat and he can forge people’s writing to perfection – he has to actually watch them write in order to do this. His muscle memory is impressive. He can mimic mannerisms, or mirror fighting stances effortlessly on first try. He has a minor ability for surface tailoring – best shown by the ease with which he can make himself, or others blush (by using his power, rather than by trying to embarrass them, I mean).

TARGETS: Even when he isn’t using his power to influence people, Dmitri still reaches out with it to better gauge their reactions. He’s so well versed in this and is immensely subtle, that it’s highly uncommon for his marks to realize something is amiss. He works in steadily increasing, but small increments to allow them to acclimatize to the changes as not to raise their suspicion. Most humans never find out that he’s doing it, even the ones he sleeps with. There are few, precious exceptions, usually repeat partners. He’s more willing to let other Grisha know that he’s using his power on them if they’re having sex – it’s in service of increasing both their pleasure, after all, and he finds they respond more easily when they’re expecting his guidance and are willing to be influenced by it – however he draws a line at Corporalki, not wanting to betray the secrets of his trade. They alone have a similar understanding of bodies, and if they’re crafty enough they might manage to replicate the effects. He is already sufficiently sunk in the Darkling’s esteem so as not to add fuel to the fire by further lowering his worth and unwittingly training his replacement.

STAR SIGN: Scorpio [November 13th] MBTI:ESTP [The Doer] MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil [The Destroyer] HOGWARTS HOUSE: 100% Slytherin

[PINTEREST] [tw: blood, nsfw content]

[MOCKBLOG]

[SOUNDTRACK] [instrumental]

ANYTHING ELSE?

I modified the last plot idea, expanded on my activity and my answer about the possibility of Dmitri’s death, and I replaced the fourth para sample. Other changes to the original application are minor.

FAVORITE BOOK: Deathless by Catherynne Valente||The Secret History by Donna Tartt

#raraccepted #accepted: dmitri

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