#stop using actual people’s struggles and documented atrocities

[burninglights]

I’m not saying I have a grudge against Amma Asante for making the world’s most milquetoast swirler romances. HOWEVER.

[dionnaea]

Revelations | Pieck x Reader

pairing: pieck finger x gn!reader

warnings: cursing, some yelling, ends in fluff 

wc: 1.8k

a/n: sorry that this is a couple days late! midterms wore me out, and i didn’t feel like looking at a word document for a day or two. hope you enjoy it nonetheless! let me know what you think :)

request: Hi can I request a pieck x male reader (or gender neutral if your more comfortable with that) maybe the reader is a scout that was captured after the attack and she is in charge of watching them maybe they slowly warm up to each other after reader reveals the horrors they’ve gone through with the Titans during an argument with pieck and eventually they start a relationship?  

attack on titan masterlist | general masterlist

Yes, you had met some annoying scouts during your training, but you had never met anyone as annoying as the Marleyan soldier that was sent to guard your cells. He spent most of his time either throwing schoolyard insults your way or trying to flirt with every captive. It was ridiculous, and you were getting more than tired of listening to his squeaky, borderline pre-pubescent voice flood the stone-lined hallway. His break times had turned into a safe haven of sorts for you and your comrades, but as the thirty minutes creeped by, you became more and more antsy. 

Today, however, seemed to be different as a woman walked in a little while after the regular guard left. She had walked by all of the cells, taking subtle glances inside each one, before having a seat near your end of the row. In fact, she was a mere five feet away from the bars of your current habitat, and you took the chance to study her. 

The first thing you noticed was the red band clasped securely around her left arm, denoting her Warrior status. It shone like a beacon or a warning, you couldn’t decide which. Still, why would a Warrior be sent to watch over some captured scouts? And where had the other man gone? Not that you minded his absence. The curiosity started to eat away at you, and you figured there was no harm in asking. 

“Hey,” you started. You were taken aback when you realized that she was already looking at you, like she knew exactly what you were going to say. 

“He was moved to another post,” she answered your unspoken question. “I’m here in the interim.” 

“Ah,” you responded. 

Her voice was a bit too soft for your liking; it was unbecoming of a killer, you thought with spite. You didn’t like her being here. A regular, annoying Marleyan soldier was one thing, but a Warrior? It was like a stab straight to every scout’s heart. Your chest started to feel a bit hotter as your anger towards her grew. You hadn’t been there when she delivered the boulders to the Beast Titan to decimate your comrades, but you had heard the tale, a horror story only told late at night. As if she had the right to exist in the same building, on the same continent even as the predecessors of those she had killed. 

You scoffed out loud, and the Warrior turned to face you, furrowing her eyebrows as if she were actually concerned. You glared in response. It was stupid, you thought, that she was allowed to have a face like that, the face of an angel, and still act like a devil. 

The day passed, her sitting idly by while you did your best to play a card game in your head. You tried to picture all of the cards and their suits and numbers, placing them on the imaginary table you had set up on the floor of your cell. It wasn’t going well, you kept losing, as you kept getting distracted by the feeling of the Warrior’s gaze burning into the back of your skull. It was almost as annoying as the squeaks of the original guard, and you felt a sense of pure relief as soon as she left for the night and another guard took her place. 

To your discontent, she returned the next day, too, and the next. By the third day, your blood was boiling. Even though you were always turned away from her, you could feel her eyes on you most of the time. It was pissing you off, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. 

“What the hell?!” You questioned as you whipped around, not surprised to find her dark eyes piercing into yours. Hers were wide in confusion, and that made you even more mad. “What’s so interesting about the back of my head, huh? You busy picturing what it would look like with a bullet in it or something?” It was a harsh statement, you knew, but you also believed she deserved it. 

She shook her head quickly and with so much force that her crutch started to slide from where it was balanced against her chair. She swiftly reached out to catch it, holding onto it with both hands instead of propping it back up. 

“N-no. I just…” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I just was trying to figure out what you were doing.” 

You scowled. “What I was doing?” You repeated incredulously. “I’m wasting away in a jail cell, that’s what I’m doing!” You stood up in a flash, pressing your body against the bars and grabbing onto them until your knuckles were white. “I’m stuck here because of you, you know!” 

She shook her head again, denying your statement. “No, you’re here because you killed my people.” 

“Well, you killed mine!” You shouted back. Your voice lowered as you spoke again, grief flowing through you. “Thousands, millions even. You slaughtered them all without a thought for their families, and children, and friends. You destroyed our home without regrets, without us doing a damn thing to you, so stop complaining that we destroyed yours.” 

The woman was quiet now, her head bowed and hair covering her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and that pissed you off more. You started to go off again, but she stopped you with her next words. “Tell me. Tell me what we did to you. I want to know everything.” 

When she looked up, there was an honesty and sadness in her eyes that you never would’ve expected to see. It shook you, and for a second, you saw a normal human being rather than a Warrior. Somehow that look calmed you, and you became willing to tell the stories of you and so many others, both dead and alive. 

You learned her name was Pieck, and the two of you talked for hours. You described the horrors of life under the threat of Titans, you told of the atrocities that occurred on the battlefield, you explained to her the loss and grief and overwhelming depression that came with the life every scout and citizen of Paradis was being forced to live. 

And to your stupefaction, she listened to every word quietly, nodding her head to signal that she was taking in the information. She didn’t try to sympathize or compare experiences, she just sat and let you talk, letting herself realize her own sins. Once you were silent, you could tell she understood, at least as much as an outsider could. She didn’t need to apologize for you could see in her face that she had plenty of regrets, and Pieck was well aware that an apology would mean practically nothing. It was atonement that she sought now, and Pieck figured a good place to start would be with you. 

From that day on, you grew closer with the woman. You never shared mindless conversations, but instead always talked of the past and of your experiences. You heard stories of her Warrior training and realized the brainwashing that the Eldians living on Marley had been put under from birth. A part of you was proud to see that Pieck had overcome it in a sense, happy to realize that peace was truly possible if constructive conversations could be had. It was promising, and slowly but surely, talking to Pieck became the highlight of your day, something you looked forward to as she made you forget about your lonely little cell. 

Weeks had passed, and then one night changed everything. 

You were struggling to sleep, the thin sheet you were given was not enough to protect you from the cold and the hard bed was giving you a pounding headache. The only comfort you had was the knowledge that you could see Pieck again in a few hours once the sun came up. The hallway was silent other than the occasional moments when the night watchman got up to use the restroom. He sat on the other end of the hall from you, and you were thankful that he couldn’t see into your cell from where he was stationed. 

The next time he got up, he didn’t come back for quite a while, and you started to wonder if something had happened to him. Were the scouts finally coming to rescue you? Your heart began to pound harder as you heard the door to the hall creak open and keys jingle. You cracked your eyes open to see who was here only to be met with the sight of Pieck standing outside your enclosure, fiddling with the keys before sliding one into your door’s lock. 

You sat up quickly, tossing the sheet off of you and standing to meet her against the bars. Keeping your voice as low as possible, you whispered, “Pieck! What’re you doing?”

She whispered back, pushing your door open and holding out a pile of clothes to you. “Put these on. I want to take you somewhere.” 

You obliged quickly, not questioning the possibility that you could escape somehow. Was she helping you to leave? But how would you get back to Paradis? Options were running through your head at lightspeed as you slipped on the long sleeve shirt and jacket. She guided you down the hallway after you were dressed, careful not to wake anyone or stir suspicion. You barely recognized the building as you walked through it as it had been months since you had last seen anything other than stone walls and metal bars. When Pieck pushed the backdoor open and let you wander back into nature, the breath was stolen from your lungs. 

It was cold outside, but in a different way than your cell. The air was refreshing rather than stale and the wind was pleasant, not a musty draft. You could smell the light scent of flowers in the air, and you wondered exactly where it was coming from, suddenly craving the feeling of petals on your fingertips. Pieck seemed to understand your thoughts as she led you to a small garden on the other side of the pathway. Upon seeing the dainty plants, you rushed over to them, brushing your fingers over the colors and savoring the different textures. 

As you straightened back up, Pieck took your hand gently. You felt a bit embarrassed with how dry yours were, hers as silky smooth as the petals you had just caressed, and you apologized quickly and quietly. Laughing softly, Pieck just tightened her grasp, assuring you there was nothing to worry about by how she pulled you closer. Her being this close was intoxicating, and you felt yourself melt into her, peace washing over you in waves. For some reason, all of this felt new to you, like you were starting over in the world with Pieck, and you were perfectly content to stand here beside her.

It wasn’t until later, when you were back and locked securely into your cell, that you realized you didn’t mind staying a bit longer on Marley as long as Pieck was here, too.

[nosferatvpussy]

distorted lullabies [chapter IV]

Word count: 4,113

Warnings: vulgar language

Pairing: Dracula x reader

AO3 link 

Author’s note:  Listen... I wrote this chapter this past week and I must say I'm not happy with it. My brain is mush due to work so that's all I could come up with. I wish I could've done better but I know if I delayed posting it I would never do it. Feedback would be greatly appreciated on this one (good or bad).

  “Oh my fucking God.”

My day had started out fine. I had woken up in a surprisingly good mood considering it was Monday and then I ruined it. 

With the exception of Count Dracula’s visit to my house, my weekend was pretty uneventful. Sunday was spent grocery shopping with Diana and reviewing cases to prepare myself for court sessions during the following week. Occupying myself with work was not only necessary but also served as a good distraction from the deal I had struck with the Count. 

Being arrogant had its advantages in my line of work but after proposing a deal to a vampire, I was starting to think how quickly that arrogance could turn into vanity and plain stupidity. A deal from which I had yet to glimpse a way out of? Could I outsmart a centuries old vampire and wiggle out of that deal? On Saturday night I was pretty sure I could. Now… Not so much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I muttered, receiving ugly looks from people on the tube. 

My hand covered my mouth so I would stop cursing and to stop it from falling open.

Reconnaissance was part of any good lawyer’s job and that was what I had decided to do as my first course of action against Count Dracula. As soon as I had found a good spot to sit in the tube, I googled him by his title. All of the pages included the interesting moniker Vlad the Impaler followed by his actual name Vlad Dracula. That in itself was enough for a chill to run down my spine but each line I read managed to make it worse. 

He was born in the Middle Ages, more precisely in 1431, which put him somewhere over five hundred years old. So, I had made a deal with someone overly experienced in the matters of life, which wasn’t ideal but could be remedied. But then I was met with medieval drawings depicting him dining amongst a field of impaled people. One particular page had supposed accounts from Ottomans and Saxons describing the atrocities committed by him. Boiling people alive, nailing hats to people’s skulls so they wouldn’t take it off, setting beggars and thieves on fire to “cleanse” Wallachia were just some of his various lovely bedtime stories. Those tales had elicited my first string of curses, which yes evoked the name of God in a blasphemous way but at that point I didn’t care if I offended a higher power or not.

Not only was he abhorrently vile, he was smart. Smart enough to send people infected with the plague to infiltrate enemy camps, using them as biological warfare and weakening enemy numbers. Not many people would have thought of such a tactic in the Middle Ages. Apparently the sight of the impaled people put on display around the city Targoviste was so repulsive that the Ottoman Empire simply retreated. And albeit having half or sometimes a quarter of the army of his opponents, he still managed to win several battles because of his cunning. 

That was the part that made me curse several times as some sort of mantra. A ruthless and smart ruler that had been a monster long before he became a vampire, that was who I was up against. And he had five hundred years of practice under his belt. How nice for me. 

My body took control as my mind raced and I got off at Canary Wharf station, making my way to the overly modern glass plated building where I worked.

The Middle Ages were a long time ago and it was a notoriously dark and violent time. Desperate times call for desperate measures, one could say. It should serve as a logical explanation to make myself feel better but the cold sweat on the palms of my hands was an obvious sign that it wasn’t working. I resorted to my earbuds and played one of my favourite songs to try calm myself but I was barely paying any attention to it. The noise inside my head was far louder.

I willed my brain to catch up with my body once the elevator doors opened to the 17th floor. Work, now , I told myself. I could think about how to escape the Count’s grip later.  

Greeting my colleagues, I made my way to my desk at the far left of the office. We occupied half of the 17th floor while the other half was made up of a café and a small finance firm. Smelling croissants and fresh coffee, I placed my purse and briefcase on my chair and was already making a b-line for the café when Renfield peeked his head out of a meeting room and waved for me to join him. 

I threw my earbuds over my shoulders so the string could hang from around my neck and stuck my phone on my trousers' back pocket. Renfield promptly closed the door as soon as I stepped inside. He splayed his arms over the doorway, blocking it. Eyes with dilated pupils watched me from behind thick glasses. Frowning, I looked out through the blurred glass walls that outlined the meeting room we were standing on. If he was about to reprehend me for something I’d done then at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of the whole office witnessing it. 

Renfield had always been composed and taken great pride in his work and looks. For the past few days that stopped being true. Not only was he acting in a disturbing manner, he also appeared unwashed. His hair was greasy and a few strands stuck to his forehead. His suit had a stain on a lapel and he didn’t have a colourful handkerchief peeking out of his front pocket as he usually did. Overworked, I guessed, but never in all the years I knew him had I seen him this way. When I joined the firm as his intern, he let me write most of his opening and closing statements so I could learn and he would rehearse them on his office as I watched and explain why certain phrases should be changed to provide the necessary punch in court. He taught me the basics and all the clever little tricks one could use to dribble a prosecution. He was in the audience when I worked my first case alone in front of a judge. He was there when I won my first case and he took me out for a beer. And he was there when I lost for the first time and he took me out for whiskey. We still went out to celebrate whenever one of us won a case.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he rasped, barely sounding like himself. “Are the Mast-- the Count’s documents in your possession?”

The Master’s, that’s what he almost said. A little too late I remembered that Renfield was Dracula’s servant and automatically took a step back to put distance between us. The Count had arrived at London a week ago, which could explain my boss’ disheveled appearance. 

“They’re at my desk.”

He nodded and licked his lips in a way that made me think of a lizard. 

“And what did you think of him? Of Count Dracula?”

The lunatic gleam in Renfield’s eyes made my decision before I could think through it very much.

“He’s polite and handsome,” I said in the most neutral tone I could manage. “I’ll get the documents and bring them to you. Excuse me.”

I closed the distance between us with more confidence than I felt. Nudging Renfield’s shoulder to the side so he would make way, I tried to grab the doorknob and then he was on me. He pinned me against a glass wall before I had a chance to push him back and his hand yanked my shirt’s collar down, exposing my neck. 

“Ah! Ah!” he exclaimed loudly. “I knew it!”

I tried to fight him off, terrified of the crazed look on his bulging eyes, but he slammed me back on the glass. It trembled under my weight. 

“ Why … you ?” Spittle landed on my face as he spoke and I cringed. “Why would he bestow such a gift on you?!”

Understanding dawned on me and for a second I stopped trying to escape. He was infuriated because Count Dracula had bitten me and not him, like some sort of drug addict that had his vice taken away. 

“Let me go,” I said, summoning a calm semblance. “Ask him about it. It’s not like I offered him a drink.”

“No, not a drink. If he wanted just a drink he would have killed you. He’ll make you his bride. But I-- I have worked so hard, so so hard. I deserve it, I do, I do,” he was whimpering now and shaking his head to the sides like a child. 

“I know, I know,” I cooed but I had tears on my eyes. 

His hands wrapped around my neck and squeezed. My eyes instantly bugged out of my head and the tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I struggled. My hands found his face, trying to slap him or scratch him, anything that would get him off of me. I hit the glass wall with the back of my heel repeatedly to try to get someone’s attention outside. Air couldn’t reach my lungs anymore and my windpipe would probably collapse if he pressed harder. The pressure on my head was enormous. I could barely see and my face felt like it would explode at any second.

Several figures burst in the room. Two of them tried to pry Renfield off of me and the other three screamed for him to let me go. The crushing force on my neck ceased all of a sudden and I went down like a sack of potatoes, falling on my side as I gasped for air. 

“Master! Master!” Renfield howled, struggling against his captors. “I was good, I was good! MASTER!”

A hacking cough seized me as I tried to will air into my lungs but failed to do so in the speed I needed. Slowly my vision returned and I saw Henry and Mallory kneeling next to me, trying to get me to sit up. Renfield’s deafening screams filled my ears. 

“What happened?!” Mallory asked as Matthew, another colleague of mine, and a security guard tried to pin Renfield to the ground as he continued shouting.

“Not h-his fault,” I croaked, covering my neck with my hand. I would have a new bruise to match my bite now. 

Mallory and Henry started talking about what they should do while I found myself trapped in Renfield’s demented eyes. He wasn’t in there, not anymore. 

“A psychotic episode,” I whispered to Mallory. It hurt to talk. “Call medics, not the police. It’s not his fault.” Mallory and Henry exchanged a look and nodded.  

More people filed into the room to gawk at the scene. Several more people gathered around me, trying to be helpful to the point where they started to resemble vultures and not good samaritans. I allowed myself to be coddled by these people while my mind ran amok. 

My chest tightened as if the sorrow I felt hurt physically as well. The man I had looked up to as an outstanding lawyer, the man I inherited the poise and the commanding voice… was gone. Reduced to the likes of a mewling baby and a deranged man.

I hardly paid attention when paramedics arrived and took Renfield away but when a paramedic wanted to check my neck, I was pulled back to reality by the bond I had to Count Dracula. 

“No,” I told him, one hand securing my shirt’s collar to my neck so it was covered. “I’m fine, really.”

“Miss, please. By what your colleagues described he nearly choked you to death.” His hands hovered on the air around me as a second silent request to let him look at the bruise.

I shook my head vehemently but tears were welling in my eyes again. 

I wanted desperately to tell someone just then. To explain about Renfield and the bite on my neck that marked me as his . But I couldn’t. My voice wouldn’t leave my throat because that too had become his . Even if I was able to tell someone, I knew it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Bitten by a vampire? Surely I would be thrown in the psychiatric ward as Renfield would.

“I can’t,” I said weakly before pushing him out of my way and running to the restroom. 

    London’s night lights kept me company as I worked overtime on the firm. After spending the rest of my day warding off preoccupied people, I decided that I would need to add extra hours of work. At home I would succumb to my bed’s embrace and wouldn’t get any work done. 

My desk lamp was the only source of light coming from inside the office and it illuminated the papers spread haphazardly in front of me. I had attended court earlier that day only to request an adjournment to Judge Llewellyn, who scowled and immediately demanded I explain myself. Matthew, my colleague, accompanied me to speak on my behalf since my voice box wasn’t strong enough yet to project my words to a courtroom. When Matthew explained the ordeal to Llewellyn I had the satisfaction of seeing the judge’s face dismantle in embarrassment for questioning me so harshly. It didn’t matter how much satisfaction it brought me because at the end of the day my case was delayed which impacted the life of a very dedicated mother who was disputing custody of her children with her ex. Catching up on cases and preparing future statements was my way of rectifying it.

I scribbled on a post-it and stuck it to a page before putting that pile to the side. I still had three more cases to review, draw up a plea bargain and think of a way to escape Count Dracula. I was procrastinating the latter.

The elevator opened with a ding on the other side of the floor and I raised my head to see who could it be at this time of night. A silhouette stepped out, standing in the darkness for only a moment before the hall’s motion activated lights came on. At once I sunk in my chair.

“Renfield... Where are you?” Count Dracula pitched his velvet voice in a mock song as he strolled in the office. 

My heartbeat shot up in response and I shrunk further, trusting the darkness to conceal me. He swiveled his head directly at me as if my fear had drawn him. The lights from the buildings outside only illuminated half of his face.

“Y/N,” he said. My name on his lips sent a shiver through my body. “Working in the dark, are we?” When no answer came from me, he clicked his tongue. “I can’t seem to get ahold of Renfield but I suppose you’ll do. My assets were supposed to have been released today. The bank said I need-” He had been strolling my way as he talked but he stopped abruptly, whiffing the air. “You’re scared. Of me?”

He resumed his pace slowly, almost dragging his steps. Just then, I truly understood the feeling of being stalked by a predator.

“Why… are you... scared?” 

He quickened his pace suddenly and covered over half the distance between us in seconds. I jumped from my seat and backed up as I searched frantically for a way out. The back of my knees hit a desk and I had to reach my hands back to stop me from toppling over it. I let out a squeak as I tried to regain my footing but it was too late. Dracula towered over me, so close I could smell his cologne. My face was turned away from him so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. I had a feeling that if I did he would devour me whole. 

“Tell me why,” a whisper. His breath smelled like copper. “I will not have you of all people cowering from me.”

“Renfield was committed to a psychiatric ward this morning,” I blurted. 

“Your voice,” he said.

Another squeak escaped my mouth as he grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. I expected to be met with a monstrous face but it was just him. Familiar dark eyes and lush lips. His stare fell from mine to my neck and he furrowed his eyebrows. His bite was well concealed under my shirt but the ligature mark was just beneath my jaw and in plain sight.

“He attacked me,” I provided in my frail voice. “Because you bit me.”

He pulled his lips down. Anger or disapproval, I wasn’t sure. 

“I see,” he muttered.

“Is that what will become of me?” I asked.

“I told you-- I would never make you a servant.”

“No. Will I become a monster like you? Will I be uncaring? Will I enslave people? Kill them, torture them?”

He squished my cheeks between his fingers with every word I spoke. Perhaps provoking him wasn't a smart choice but I wouldn't simply lower my head and accept my fate.

“Only if you wish," he replied.

“You won’t even try denying it?”

“If I did I would be a hypocrite. And you think you are without blame.”

“Me?! How am I to blame for anything?"

He loosened his grip on my face until he finally allowed his hand to rest on the side of my neck. 

“Yes, you. You the lawyer that defends robbers, murderers and rapists. And you know what’s interesting? I haven’t found much guilt about it in your blood. And now you accuse me of such things with disgust in your face? That, my dear, is a hypocrite.”

I swallowed his vitriol and it burned on the way down. Suddenly I didn’t like being provoked as much as I liked doing so. 

“You ruined Frank!” I blinked at using Renfield’s first name. “He went mental today! Never in his life--”

“He’s weak , always has been but you never saw it. One look. One look was what it took for him to practically kneel before me. You shouldn’t hold people like him in such high standards.”

“Doesn’t bloody matter, he’s my friend!" The threat of tears made my voice tremble and I caught hold of myself before they spilled. “I don’t suppose you understand what that means.”

The snarl on his face made me think he would kill me right there. 

“I should kill Renfield for what he did,” he murmured, stare searing into me. “But you wouldn’t like that.”

“Why does it matter what I like, Impaler?”

His brows softened as comprehension crossed his face and his lips parted in a grin.

“That is why you’re afraid, isn’t it? My darling, that was my human life, you have no need to worry.”

“And you’ve been an angel since then?”

“Oh never.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I was still supporting myself with my hands on the table behind me, slightly tipping backwards so the Count didn’t crawl on top of me. 

Did I see a monster when I looked at him? Quite honestly no, yet I knew I should. He had done horrible things and I only knew about the things history had kept record of. I had learnt over the years that people are complicated. I had never met one person that was fully good or bad. If I had to classify myself, I wouldn’t know. My entire job was one big gray area. I swiveled around the lines of good and bad, never fully committing to any of them because I was paid for it. That wasn’t to say I didn’t have my own moral compass outside of the law. Count Dracula however… I had yet to find out if he had any moral compass at all. 

“Will Renfield get better?” I questioned.

“He might. It’s difficult to predict how my power can affect some individuals, but he will remain my servant, that much I know. And he won’t attack you again, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Let him go.”

“I will not. He's quite good at being a servant.”

Renfield’s shouting replayed on my head.

“Let him go and I’ll let you feed from me whenever you want,” I said, shocking myself with my words. “But know this, I will never be yours.”

“Another deal? Tempting.” He licked his lips and my stomach coiled. “So very tempting.”

He reached to my waist, digging his fingers in my skin and I held back a gasp. 

“Take the deal,” I urged. 

Excitement grew within me. I preferred to believe that that was due to the possibility of tricking the Count into another deal but the tingling scar on my neck told a different story. I closed my eyes trying to concentrate and take full control of my body but it wasn’t responsive to rational thought. If he took the deal then it meant freedom for Renfield. That’s where my mind should be, not the rush of pleasure I had felt three nights ago when Count Dracula had bitten me. But by God, that’s what I wanted. I wanted to feel it again, feel his teeth sinking into my flesh and the dreamlike daze that followed. 

Dracula’s arm circled me and smashed my body to his in a single motion, causing the gasp I had been holding to escape my lips. His thumb caressed my jawline while his fingers teased the back of my neck. In the little light between us I saw his black eyes swimming in carmine red. My heartbeat quickened lower in me when his tongue snaked out once again to lick his lips. Suddenly his fingers found my scar and massaged it lightly, evoking a moan from me. I rose my hands to hold his shoulders as an attempt to balance myself.

I felt more than heard his laughter. 

“Look at you," he said. As he spoke I caught a flash of long and jagged teeth before it was gone. “‘I’ll never be yours .’ Liar, liar.”

I collected myself and pushed him away when I realised he was mocking me. He didn't move at fist but when I pushed him again he stepped back of his own volition, still laughing. 

“Are you taking the fucking deal or not?”

“No,” he enunciated the word slowly. “I like this game we’re playing and I don’t want it to be over just yet. As powerful as you think you are, you don’t have the power to control me with your blood. I’ve granted you enough as it is.”

“I wasn’t trying-”

“Don’t lie.”

I closed my hands in fists. 

“Fine. Can you at least say you’re sorry?”

“For what?” He raised his eyebrows.

“For Renfield,” I snapped, as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Do you want me to lie to make you feel better?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“I wish Renfield hadn’t attacked you,” he said, sticking his hands on his pockets.

“That wasn’t the apology I was looking for.”

“I know.”

Why did I even want an apology? Was I desperate to find some semblance of regret on him? Desperate to find anything remotely good in him to justify my desire for him? I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep the tears away, hating myself for letting him affect me like that. My whole body desired him while I knew I should hate him for what he did to Renfield, for what he was doing to me. It made me feel like his plaything. 

“Can you please leave? I have work to do.” 

He nodded.

“I assume you’ll take over as my lawyer to assort my affairs.”

“Not like I have an option, is it?”

“Quite. I’ll leave you to it. See you Wednesday!" 

He had already turned away, walking back to the elevator when I fully registered what he said.

“What happens on Wednesday?” I rose my voice to get his attention.

"I take you on a date," he answered over his shoulder.

I marched after him and stopped when I realised what I was doing. What could I possibly do or say to threaten a creature like him? I probably bothered him as much as soft wind did.

"I'm not going on a date with you after what happened today."

He slowly turned to face me again, a big grin on his face. A victorious grin. If he was winning, then I was on the losing side - of what, though?

“Oh but you are. Your deal clearly stated that I am to convince you that immortality is worth it. You didn’t express how I should do it. Therefore that end of the deal is mine to fulfill however I wish. ”

I groaned. Had I removed my brain at some point when I made that deal? I was used to being the winner inside courtrooms, and I had stupidly condemned myself by binding a contract between Count Dracula and I. As much as I would like to withdraw it, I didn't think he would be open to the idea. He had made it clear that he would make me a vampire whether I liked it or not. I had no choice but to abide by my own rules until I came up with a way out.

“I’d rather meet you," I said at last. "Where are we going?”

He smiled widely as he walked backwards, facing me.

“I’ll text you on Wednesday. Goodnight, darling.”

“Night, Dracula.”

   .

.

.

Taglist: @festering-queen​ @mr-kisskiss-bangbang​ @thorin-smokin-shield​ @hoefordarkness​ @dreamer2381​ @girlonfireice

[96thdayofrage]

Until there are consistent severe consequences for the killings of Black people by unqualified, poorly trained, frightened, deviant, RACIST, sniveling white police, this homicidal foolery will continue and only grow horrifically worse.

Why is it that white mass murderers can be arrested unmolested, one even taken to Burger King on his way to jail, while Black motorists literally fear for their lives during routine traffic stops?!!!! A white killer of eight who 'was having a bad day,' was collected and mug shot wearing a bullet proof vest, while an active duty United States Army OFFICER with a spotless record was pepper sprayed, and forced to the ground like a common criminal for simply not having more than a temporary plate on a new vehicle he had just purchased before attempting to drive home. A 17 year old high school drop out from Illinois, in Kenosha, Wisconsin past a mandated curfew, who shot three protestors, killing two, was actually thanked by police on the scene for providing additional support and given bottled water before being ordered to return to his Illinois home. Meanwhile, the subject of that protest was shot in the back and permanently paralyzed by police who feared he may stab them with a knife found in the car AFTER the shooting. All of this while Derek Chauvin, a cretin on no fewer than three video recordings kneeling on handcuffed George Floyd's neck for just under just under 10 minutes, is trying to evade 2nd degree murder sentencing.

Poor Daunte Wright was pulled over because his 'air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror obstructed his view.' Having an extra large air freshener is not a death penalty offense. Once it was learned he had an outstanding warrant, he should have been arrested and read his rights while being cuffed without a weapon ever having been pulled.  Had he managed to evade capture during that encounter, the authorities now had a name, address and full description for him to be collected later.  There was no reason to pepper spray him, taze him, or, worst, open fire on him. Yet, Officer Potter 'feared for her life' and shot him, 'mistaking her 9mm pistol for her tazer.'

This particular extermination scenario was NEVER reasonable, a narrative that grows increasingly egregious and indefensible with every single new flagrant abuse of police authority. I've had it with targeting Black men, in particular, as the level of threat that police are allowed to execute on a whim with impunity. Officer Potter took the life of this 20 year old man over a warrant she could have served at any time after this encounter. Daunte Wright was not wanted for murder. None of his offenses combined amounted to more than fines and light penalties. He had done nothing that posed a threat to either officer on the scene. He was shot attempting to NOT be arrested. He did not deserve to be assaulted in an attempt to subdue him to the ground or killed just because he did not want to be arrested. It's time to bring an end to white police being able to kill Black motorists who openly refuse to be unnecessarily assaulted, abused, and maliciously demeaned during encounters that should only result in a warning or a ticket. Black motorists don't have to grin and buck dance for hateful cops on criminal fishing expeditions just to not be shot. Cops need to be punished fully for unnecessarily detaining, harming and MURDERING Black motorists.

Officer Potter was allowed to resign when she should have been immediately terminated, and ARRESTED on 2nd degree murder charges.  She was a 26 year veteran cop who should have known the difference between a 9mm and a lighter weight, often more colorful stun gun, routinely holstered on the opposite side of the body to avoid this very conflict. She held that weapon in front of her, yelling taser, long enough to have seen that she holding her pistol, yet fired it at close range on an unarmed man who had posed no threat to her whatsoever. Daunte was trying get away from her, not kill her. Once he was dead, however, just like the cops in Ferguson, Missouri did Michael Brown after Darren Wilson emptied a clip into him, poor Daunte Wright was left dead at the scene for hours while cops struggled to pretty up this indefensible atrocity, as a caution to the Black community of the danger of failure to appease and comply with corrupt, homicidal law enforcement.

Black people are done with being pulled out of cars, physically assaulted, or shot like rabid animals during 'routine traffic stops.' Officers need not approach every Black motorist with weapons drawn, demanding we exit the vehicle and lay on the ground in the prone position while a K9 unit sniffs the vehicle. We, too, have drivers licenses, proof of current insurance, and vehicle registration documentation. Every Black motorist is not a drug dealing, drug abusing, unregistered weapons toting potential cop killer, justifying such fear for police safety. Black motorists have families who love us to whom we too want to get safely home to love longer. We are no more criminal than any other demographic of motorists on the roads.

I personally mourn for the Wright family. Daunte could have been my son or nephew, my brother, my cousin, my godchild, or just a friend. Daunte called his mom when he was pulled over. Any reasonable mother of children would have told him to put mom on speaker so she would know where she and his dad needed to go to post his bail. Not Officer Potter though. So, for murdering poor Daunte in some of the most hamfisted feckless policing documented in 2021, she needs to be fired and prosecuted for the outrageous dereliction of her duty as a sworn law enforcer. Killing Daunte Wright is simply indefensible. The city can never replace Daunte, but deserves to go broke paying the Wright Family for the son Officer Potter took from them. Use Officer Potter's retirement fund to make the first payment. She won't be needing it in prison.

[nobody-wants-ice-cream]

The Umbrella Academy in: The Triwizard Tournament

Chapter 5.1 Number Five’s Research

Thank you @seven-misfits and @tehmoonofficial for your amazing beta skills!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340549/chapters/54740578#workskin

Five couldn’t sleep after his encounter with Reginald. It had been 45 years since he had been to private training, but seeing the restraints again had brought back the scared thirteen-year-old he thought the apocalypse had trained out of him. 

Reginald used to tie him in any sort of restraint, like chains or a straightjacket, to an electric chair. If Five couldn’t jump out, he would be electrocuted. It had taken thirty years of drunken conversations with Dolores to finally admit that he and his siblings were abused as children. Being back in that room was terrifying in a way Five had forgotten. Its sudden reintroduction was a blast of ice being poured down his back. 

Instead of sleeping, Five decided to look up a charm to brew coffee- which ended up being Calida Capulus while pointing his wand at a mug with coffee grains in hot water- and then set to work reviewing documents in Reginald’s office. That coffee Allison got him would prove to be very useful. 

Speaking of Allison, her rumor would work in his favor. Reginald couldn’t touch them. More importantly, if Five was caught, then he couldn’t be punished with individual training. He could browse Reginald’s files enough to paint a pretty decent picture of what their lives were like in this universe. 

Just after they turned twelve, the seven of them became superheroes. Vanya and Ben were their heavy hitters. One particular note disturbed Five. “When Number Seven’s powers become too much to contain, I will have to stun her and put her in the isolation chamber. Her powers are essential,” read the disturbing red journal from their toddler years. 

According to 400 Offensive Spells, “The stunning spell should not be used on subjects under 100 pounds or 45 killograms as the magic will overwhelm the castee and may cause permanent damage to the nervous system or magical core”. Vanya was placed under this spell as a very young child over and over again. Five had a small idea that Vanya’s powers prevented the damage from being permanent. He didn’t know how that would be possible, but that irrational hope stopped him from murdering Reginald in cold blood. 

The Commission made him a killer, but he never enjoyed his work. However, after hearing the atrocities Reginald committed on his siblings, he was willing to make an exception. Stunning Vanya was only the tip of the iceberg. The things done to himself and to the version of himself native to this universe were barely a blip in his anger. 

Five skipped around to his section. The book said that this Five’s interest in time travel was a fleeting interest that went away when Reginald brought him books on the runes to create a time-turner. When Five looked up what a time-turner was, he was disappointed in his other self. A device that takes you back or forward a few hours was a party trick compared to what he had the potential to do. At least this version of himself didn’t get himself stuck in the apocalypse. That would have been difficult.

If I time traveled now would I end up appearing here in this universe or would I be stuck in the future in mine? Five mused while moving around some of the papers that surrounded him. 

That was the last bit of semi-coherent thought Five had. He passed out surrounded by books and papers. Specifically, blueprints for a magically expanded Minerva Aircraft, complete with six dorms and a master bedroom. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

“Five. Five. Five. Wake up. Five, wake up. Five, you can’t keep doing this, man." It was Luther being his personal alarm clock again. 

“Mu, wus goin on? Five more mins, Luth,” Five tried while rolling over. 

“Nope! Get up.” Luther pulled Five up and managed to get him sitting up while slumped against Reginald’s desk. 

“Five, how many times have you fallen asleep here? It’s been months, what more do you possibly have to find?” Luther asked. Five had spent his nights in August and September in Reginald’s study reading his notes and pursuing magazines and newspapers that mentioned the Umbrella Academy in any way. 

“When was the last time you slept in your bed, Five. This isn’t healthy." Luther snapped his fingers in front of Five’s face, “Hey! Focus.”

Five opened his eyes again. He had been up until three in the morning due to a teen magazine bender. Those vapid things were somewhat addictive. Not that he would admit it to anyone. 

“I need to know what’s going on.” Five did feel lethargic. He worked and worked until he passed out trying to figure out this timeline. If they wanted to stay off the Commission’s radar, they needed to keep the timeline as consistent as possible. Five struggled to keep his head upright. 

“Hey, did you know the seven of us are the only ones Dad adopted? Everybody else is a boarding student.” Five shared. He was starting to feel more alert. He reached for his mug and the Bunsen burner he used to heat up his coffee water. 

“We have thirty minutes before breakfast. You should clean yourself up,” Luther said before leaving the room. 

Five scowled. Luther didn’t have to get him up this early. Five decided that teleporting to the bathroom was a bad idea this early in the morning and decided to walk so he could find an unoccupied one. He stared at the floor and shuffled his feet like a pissed off thirteen year-old the whole time. At least they weren’t required to stick to one bathroom like in his youth.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

“The elusive old man finally decides to join us! How was your bender? Any wild stories? Amputee hookers? Or were you holed up in Dad’s office the whole time?” Klaus greeted. His bright smile and teasing words were grating. Five scowled at him and picked up the carafe of coffee that Mom had taken to leaving at their table. 

“Well, Klaus. I actually had a wild time. You know teleporting a girl or three in the room wasn’t too difficult,” Five snarked back. Five wasn’t actually interested in the whole sex thing, but Klaus didn’t know that. In fact, nobody except Dolores knew that the idea repulsed him. Besides, Five had a feeling that telling his siblings that he had been up all night reading J-14 and Seventeen would lead to more judgement that he just wasn’t prepared to deal with. 

“Did you actually?” Luther looked green in the face. He put down his knife and fork and gave Five his full attention. 

Five raised his eyebrows and took a sip of coffee. He would neither confirm nor deny. 

“Right, um, moving on. You missed Pogo announcing that we were to report to the foyer for an announcement. One through Twelve. It’s supposed to be super important,” Allison attempted. 

“Who cares? Five, did you-” Ben was cut off by Mom announcing that it was 7:53 A.M. 

“We better go and see what the old man wants.” Five teleported out of the room and into the foyer. 

He was met with Number Ten who looked up from her book in surprise when Five teleported into the room. 

“Hey, Five. I still get surprised when you do that. Any ideas for what the Headmaster wants to talk about?” Ten must have left breakfast early, “Thirteen and Fourteen were pretty pissed that they aren’t included in whatever this is.”

“I don-”

“You know, he hasn’t really talked to his seven science experiments in a while. Did you guys do something? Maybe Three heard a little rumor?” Ten was starting to piss him off. Her tone was condescending in a way he threw people’s heads through walls for. 

“Se-” He was cut off by everyone else entering the room. He was going to question the nickname ‘seven science experiments.’ As if she had the right to call them that!

“Hey Five, hey Ten,” Number Eleven greeted. Eleven was tall, thin, and very good looking. They were extremely androgynous, hence the neutral pronoun. They wore their uniform with the sort of confidence that Five had only seen in himself, Hazel, or Cha Cha. For a split second, Five wondered if Eleven had ever killed anybody, but then he saw Eleven had uncalloused, delicate hands. Those were not the hands of an assassin.  

“Do you think something went wrong? Maybe the rumor-” Allison whispered. Five gestured towards Ten with pointed expression so Allison would shut up. 

Just as an awkward silence was draping itself around the room, Sir Reginald Hargreeves walked in. He stalked around the room and did not look at Five or any of his siblings. 

“The Triwizard tournament is a grand and noble tradition that has lasted throughout the ages, until modern history. You students are amongst the lucky few with the honor and the privilege of submitting your names to the Goblet of Fire. Do not disappoint me. Report back to breakfast for your schedules!” Classic Reginald Hargreeves. Short, simple, and as cold as possible. 

Immediately, whispers broke out amongst the strangers. Excited curiosity and nerves filled the room. Five hoped that it wouldn’t be him. He had proven himself already. Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve filed back into the kitchen. Diego left with them.

Luther addressed the group with, “We should really plan-”

“Haven’t we planned enough?” Klaus clapped Luther on the shoulder and flounced after Diego. 

“Why is it still a Triwizard tournament if we’re joining as the fourth school?” Ben mused behind him. 

“Well,” Vanya piped up to his left, “Quadwizard tournament sounds pretty stupid.”

“It sounds like lazy writing to me,” Allison twirled her dark hair around her index finger, “Like some poor marketing executive or some bad author didn’t want to come up with a better name.”

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Several weeks later, the Academy was buzzing in unrelenting energy and unmitigated chaos as numbers One through Twelve packed their belongings in the single, large suitcase they had each been allowed to bring. 

“Ben! Have you seen my left- never mind!” said Allison. 

“Ow! Sorry, Seven,” said an unknown person. The voice was female, so could have been Eight, Ten, or Twelve. Or possibly Eleven. Five didn’t know what they looked or sounded like today yet. 

Diego could be heard sneering, “Watch, where you’re going, Twelve.”

Five calmly packed the basics. The Commission taught him well. It took him two minutes to pack some uniforms, toiletries, and his school supplies. The same could not be said for the others who were frantically putting things in their suitcases. The Minerva would have dorms once they landed, but there was no point in bringing anything to decorate with. Ben would probably bring enough to make the space feel normal. 

They were going to be sharing rooms in number order. One and Two, etc. Five took a moment to feel bad for Vanya, who would be sharing with Number Eight. 

Then a thought occurred to Five. Five had spent months researching how to assimilate into this universe. Why not try to go home? 

As soon as it was there, the thought was gone. This was home. His siblings were here. Right? Five felt disoriented. His thoughts moved through his brain like jello. Then he simply stopped thinking about it. 

What was he doing? Packing for the tournament! According to Ben and Luther, this would be a dangerous ordeal. The goblet would pick the best candidate. If anyone was going to be picked, it would have to be him for his siblings’ sake. He was the oldest and most experienced. 

Then he remembered that he had already proven himself. So why did he feel the overwhelming desire to win this tournament?

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

On the morning of October 30, 1994, twelve children and their Dad/Headmaster boarded the Minerva Aircraft on their way from The Umbrella Academy to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

The plane ride was almost completely silent. There was still chatter, as Reginald was piloting the Minerva.

Allison and Five were poring over a wizarding teen magazine called Witch Weekly, which was distributed worldwide, while speaking in low voices that couldn’t be heard over the plane’s engine. 

“Since when are you the heartthrob?” Allison poked him and then the picture of him surrounded by tiny hearts. 

“I don’t know! That’s weird right? I guess in this universe I didn’t disappear when I was thirteen and now people think I’m attractive or something? I don’t get it. Who was the,” Five put up air quotes, “‘heartthrob’ in our universe?”

“Klaus and Luther had pretty strong followings,” Allison paused to think, “When we were fifteen, Ben had some sort of cult? And I was the only girl so...yeah. Oh, and Diego was popular towards the end, but no one could figure out why.”

Klaus was looking at the magazine in front of Allison and Five with interest. He raised his eyebrow at Five and gave a small wave before going back to his drawing. 

Eight, Nine, and Twelve were playing a card game a few rows above them. They were oblivious, unlike Ten and Eleven, who were talking in hushed voices and looking at Allison every now and then. Eleven’s hair was a bright shade of electric blue today. They had opted for lithe, feminine curves and the female uniform, but a very close cropped pixie cut. Five barely recognized them. Ten was attempting to ask Eleven to grow their hair longer so she could braid it. 

Luther was watching this argument with an apathetic look on his face, while Diego watched with interest. Maybe he thinks it will turn into a fight or something? 

Ben was completely oblivious to all of this and kept his nose stuck in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. 

“Please, Eleven! It will look really good,” Ten pleaded. 

“For the last time, no. Piss off, Ten.”

“Fine. Sorry. Eight! Can you deal me in?” Ten demanded.

“Yeah, sure,” Eight started shuffling her cards again. 

Diego looked somewhat disappointed at the de escalation and went back to sharpening his knives. 

“Hey, Three, Five! Can I borrow your Daily Prophet?” Eleven asked from across the aisle. 

Since they had already gone through all of their copies of that newspaper, Five said, “Sure,” and handed them the October 29th copy. It was the most recent thing in the pile. 

The rest of the plane ride passed like that. Eventually, Diego borrowed their magazines as well once he ran out of knives to sharpen. 

The Minerva flew on through the clear sky. 

[mattbrandd]

Plato’s Cave Response

In Plato’s Cave by, Susan Sontag is an essay in a series of essays “On Photography”. The main argument of her essay is that people experience photography the same way the prisoners experience life in the cave describe in Plato’s famous cave allegory. Plato’s cave allegory is an extended metaphor in which he expresses that humans see the world around them as if they were trapped in a cave with only projected shadows to represent the world. In the metaphor, the only life or outside world the prisoners know is a result of shadows projected on the wall in front of them by people who pass through the cave. There are a world and a reality outside of the cave but the prisoners are not able to connect with it because they’re only ever been exposed to a world created by shadows. Sontag argues that photography too creates a false perception of reality or a reality that is a result of the photographer’s interpretation and intention and therefore is inaccurate. This causes the viewer to connect with something that isn’t as authentic or true. They see a subject and connect directly to it without considering the photographer’s intent or how they felt when they took the photo. Sontag says that photographs actually distance viewers from reality by giving them a token, rather than helping them to engage with the real subject. (Sontag, Page 6). One of Sontag’s most effective pieces of evidence for this illusion experience of photography is the way the initial shock of photographed atrocities wears off after repeated viewings. (Sontag, Page 15). Viewers of the image only get the initial shock of the image, but the shock or the horror experienced by the photographer or those who actually experienced what is being photographed. The viewer is safe and separate from the horror that is the reality behind it. The image can inform the viewer, but it also separates the viewer from the subjects of the image. Viewers see the worst moments of subjects' lives in photographs of atrocities, but photographs cannot convey the totality of those lives or the complex feelings people have.

Sontag goes on to talk about how photography is used in an industrial and definite sense which has caused consumers of photographs to accept an image more as truth or reality than written word or text. Photography’s use in the contexts of criminal investigations as evidence, its implementation into news articles by journalists, and its role in helping scientists explain their hypotheses and results has caused photography to assume an almost authoritative position that rejects questioning and speculation. On page 16 it states, “Photographs were enrolled in the service of important institutions of control, notably the family and the police, as symbolic objects and as pieces of information. Thus, in the bureaucratic cataloguing of the world, many important documents are not valid unless they have, affixed to them, a photograph-token of the citizen’s face.” Photography started to become a way in promoting the “proper” way to live or dictating a way to operate. This was possible because of what was being taken and shown and the authority associated with the subjects of those images. I never imaged photography as a way to control but only a way to express and create. It is interesting to see the way photography has functioned throughout history.

Sontag uses another piece of powerful evidence when talking about the way photography has generated misinterpretations of how life is for certain individuals. She describes this by saying, “photography makes us feel that the world is more available than it really is.” (Sontag, Page 18). Photography has created this irrational thought that just by viewing an image of a certain subject such as a place or person we can understand how life is in that particular place or for that particular person. She specifically talks about pictures of the NYC slums taken by Jacob Riis that gave people unfamiliar with the slums of New York City a sense of the squalor in which their occupants lived, but viewers can't tell how poverty and filth function in the daily lives of the people in the photographs because as argued by Sontag photographs never tell the whole story or present reality how it actually is.

The last interesting point discussed in the reading is the way Sontag describes the viewing of photography as an addiction in the way people rely on them to confirm reality and make experiences meaningful. It is the way people hold on to and gravitate towards certain images that help them remember an imperfect past or event as perfect or a rough past fondly. Photographs allow us to cling to an imagined reality and a false sense of truth and are dictated by political or social constructs present in the time the image is being viewed. Sontag struggles and hates that photography leaves emptiness needing to be filled but that filling is rarely the structure and meaning found in reality.

Upon reflection, I think Sontag makes several interesting and truthful points. However, I struggled to identify with all that she was expressing or could relate to the seriousness in the tone she was using to express her ideas. Some of what she says is undeniable like the false reality that an image can create or the fact that an image is just a snapshot in time and can never fully encapsulate the photographer's experience or intention. However, I don’t find this problematic. This is why so many photographers take the pictures they do. They want to capture a moment in time motivated by personal emotions and intention but ultimately know that what that image made them feel may not be what it makes another viewer feel. Personally, the most exciting thing about the images I take is seeing how people react and hearing them explain how it made them feel. As I wrote in my artist statement for assignment #2, my goal with my photography, at least as of right now, is to never directly express emotion and intention through or for my photos but let them be a canvas or playground where the viewer can let their emotions and intentions run wild. I also think that it isn’t unethical for photographers to couture some of the subject matter that they do. I think there is a truth that repeated viewings of certain things can cause us to become desensitized as social media has been doing increasingly over the past decade but I don’t think this is a reason to stop taking certain images to record history and capture major events and powerful moments in time. In closing, I fail to connect with Sontag and the way she views and approaches photography. Like other art forms, it is a medium of expression and method of creation and is imperfect. That does not mean it should be frowned upon, discouraged, or stopped. The beauty in photography is its ability to capture more while saying less. Take that as you may.

[le-sejour]

Folly

Words: 1383

Pairing: some very slight Thomas Jefferson x Reader

World: Modern/College AU

Warning: cursing, mentions of furry porn, seductive turtle, Theatre Kid! Alexander, vague to no plotline: just actual stupidity w some romance if you squint

Prompt: Inspired by real chats and true events. One of my greatest friends seriously makes me think of a modern day Alexander Hamilton... Also, he’s a gold mine of hilarious fuck ups and I’m glad I’m there to witness it.

A/N: sweats I’M WORKING ON THE ORGY FIC, ASSUMPTIONS PT2 aND UNDER ARREST I SWEAR I JUST NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT OF MY SYSTEM and also to let u know i’m still alive LMAO

Enjoy~

MacNCheezy: Hey, doll

You: Yes, T?

MacNCheezy: You wanna make $10?

You: I’m not selling drugs for you, Thomas.

MacNCheezy is typing…

Pulling your [h/l] [h/c] hair into a low ponytail, you laughed as the chat window informed you that Thomas was writing and rewriting his response. It was amusing to see him flustered, even if you couldn’t actually see him. The thought of his indignant huffing and puffing was enough to brighten the already shitty day you’ve just had.

Thomas stared into his phone with disbelief. Here he was, genuinely trying to help a friend out (he’ll end up benefiting from this anyway, but, shh) and you were being impudent! The nerve of some people, honestly.

You: Oh, you would know a lot about the drug market, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?

He considers on sending the message then and there, but knew you would jump at the opportunity to Fight™ so he quickly types in his initial intentions.

But your connection to sketchy trades is not why I’m here. I have a commission for you.

ItsKittenBitch: Oh? Yknow I’d rather fuck a cactus than get into bed w you, baby boo.❤️ 

ItsKittenBitch: Besides, $10 is cheap, even for a corner street hooker. 

ItsKittenBitch: Up your game, Teej, and I’ll maybe consider holding ur hand. 😘

The mocaccino incarnate drags his hand over his face in irritation. Why was he asking you again? Oh, right, you were actually more tolerable than the squad you liked to hang around. And also Jemmy was still too sick to help him out.

You: Will you be serious for once, [F/Name]? I’m in a tight spot.

You rolled your eyes as your fluffy haired friend described the situation to you. He lamented over how he had to take care of James while he was swamped with papers for his major and his part-time gig at a local online publication.  

You: So you’re basically asking me to be a ghostwriter for a ghostwriter? 👀 👀

MacNCheezy: Yes, [F/Name], that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do.

You: What do I get out of it?

MacNCheezy is typing...

You: I’m kidding, Thomas. Don’t get your hair curlers in a notch. 

You: I know I get $10 for 500 words. I’ll do it. 

You:  But I’m also expecting ice cream and mac and cheese for this.

MacNCheezy: If you wanted a date that badly, you should’ve just asked, sugar. 😏

You: e w, can you not with the emojis, old man? 😩 You trying to be cool is just... sad. 😔

MacNCheezy: Just give the article to me in 3 or so hours, or you’re not getting ice cream. 

MacNCheezy: I hear the parlor down the street is having two-scoop Tuesday and it would be a terrible shame for us to miss it.

You: I can get ice cream on my own, ya kno

MacNCheezy: I know for a fact you like being treated to free ice cream because you’re broke, [F/Name].

You: di s gu st i ng. You exploit my weakness for free food.

MacNCheezy: See you in 3 or so hours, sweetheart. 😀 😃 😄 😁 😆 😅 😂 ☺️ 😊 😇 🙂 🙃 😉 😌 😍 😘 😗 😙 😚 😋 😜 😝 😛🤑 🤗  😎 🤡 🤠 😏 

You: s T O p 😫😤

It’s been two hours since you’ve been click-clacking away on your laptop, and after agreeing with yourself that you’ve written a decent first draft, you decided to take a break. Drawing one knee up to your chest, you pulled up your web browser and logged onto your Facebook.

Alenhamner Cameltoe: yo [N/Name]!

You: sup non stop kids bop

Alenhamner Cameltoe: I just thought of something

You: wooooah there slow down don’t hurt urself Alex

Alenhamner Cameltoe: Blatantly ignoring that comment fueled by self-hate

I realized why they changed the plot of Anastasia for the stage play.

You: Uh... they did?

Alenhamner Cameltoe: They did.

Rasputin isn't the villain. It's Ramin Karimloo as a violent Bolchevik.

You: huh. Why’d they do that?

Alenhamner Cameltoe: Because...

In the animation, and this was okay for the 90s, right?

Rasputin hates the Tzar over a power struggle so he casts some magic to make the people unhappy and revolt so they kill the Romanovs.

Basically the entire Russian Revolution is because a wizard got mad.

Not because of oppression. Not because of Imperialism..

But because a wizard got mad.

You stared at the screen in slight amusement. Looks like Alex was in his rant days. (You also suspected he was hopped up on several cups of coffee, but you’d let John worry about that.) You shook your head and clicked back to your word document to begin proofreading your piece. You’ll just let him continue to flood your inbox and read over it when he’s done.

After a few minutes of complete silence sans the clacking of your keyboard, you finally realized Alexander had finished telling his story. You read over your piece to make sure it was to your satisfaction before maneuvering back to Facebook.

Alenhamner Cameltoe: So it paints the Romanovs as the heroic victims of this story.

Nowhere does it mention why they were killed and what atrocities were comitted by the aristocracy on the Russian working class.

The plot actually won't hold up today.

Today's audiences wouldn't actually approve of a story like that.

... also you get awesome historical reference lyrics like this.

LINK

The original animation, if released today would be criticized for historical revisionism.

The link opened to another site. You didn’t bother checking the url because it was probably a lyric site or youtube, so you casually scrolled through your newsfeed while it loaded.

A couple of cat videos and a bunch of overused memes later, you found yourself switching to the fully loaded tab.

Boy, you wish you hadn’t because what the fuck.

On your screen sat an anthropomorphic t u r t l e in a very suggestive pose giving you very real, very unnerving bedroom eyes. Chills ran up and down your spine as you checked the url, horrified at learning it was a fucking furry site. 

What the fuck, Alexander.

Hastily, you clicked out of that website before going back to your chatbox. You rechecked the site he gave you, wondering if you somehow misclicked. But no, there the link was, bright as day. To a fucking porn site for furries.

You: WhaT thE fU c K, Ha  mi lt o n

Alenhamner Cameltoe: I KNOW RIGHT?! 

The play might be even better than the animation! 

Wait, what am I talking about? Of course the play is already better by comparison because it plays to a more historically accurate context.

You stared at the screen in confusion. Wait, so... he wasn’t pranking you...? Then that meant...

You: yo if yall wanna be furries das fine w me

Alenhamner Cameltoe: Huh?

You: but keep your porn away from me

Alenhamner Cameltoe: ???

!!!!!!!!!

WAIT NO

THAT’S FURRY PORN

REAL LINK

THIS IS ANASTASIA

You: yo I won’t judge ur weird sexual fetishes, boi. Just make sure it’s safe, sane, and consensual.

Alenhamner Cameltoe: NO!!!

NO THAT’S NOT MINE!

THAT’S A PRANK I PLAYED ON JOHN

GOD DAMN IT I RUINED MY HISTORICAL REVISIONISM RANT

You: L M A O

Greatest fails

Alenhamner Cameltoe: I was trying to gross him out for leaving his goddamned turtles out of the cage again.

You: congrats. you only played yourself. 😂 

Anyway I gotta go furry boi, Thomas owes me ice cream and mac and cheez

Alenhamner Cameltoe: I’M NOT A FURRY

THAT WAS FOR JOHN!

FOR JO H N !

Cackling madly, you logged off of Facebook. You pulled up your email account and forwarded your finished article to Thomas. Eh, you didn’t bother to proofread it a last time because you knew Thomas would be anal enough to go through it and edit it himself.

ItsKittenBitch: It is I, your savior, telling you that I have sent the feature to your email and demand compensation.

ItsKittenBitch: Now get off your ass and get ready for our date before I change my mind, old man. JemBuns will understand.

Thomas’ triumphant smirk melted into a fond smile as he pocketed his phone, handing James a fresh box of kleenex before getting ready.