#also warning for egregious use of the word baby
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Traitors Never Win
Summary: When Feyre Archeron's father promises she'll marry notorious crime boss Rhysand Moreno, Feyre will do anything to get out of the arrangement…including framing him for murder.
Rhysand isn't about to let her go so easily.
Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Now I get to write nessian
Rhys knew he was on borrowed time.
Never more so than when Cassian and Azriel crossed into Wisconsin to track down the newly reunited Nesta and Elain. The sisters were officially out of custody and it was only a matter of time before someone went to check on Feyre. Rhys was no closer to making her his wife that morning than he had been when he met her.
It occurred to him that he could force her. Drag her home, tie her up, gag her, and call someone willing to overlook her distress. He wanted a more auspicious start for them rather than repeat his own mothers marriage. She’d never been happy with his father despite his fathers obsession with her.
Rhys rolled to his side where Feyre lay, her back facing him. Gently, he ran his finger over the soft ridges over her spine and considered his next move. He needed her—and refused to give her back. He was out of options, though.
For the two of them, it was now or it was never. If he told her, though, Feyre would dig her heels in. Stubborn to a fault, Rhys believed she’d refuse to marry him on principle, even if she wanted him. It had to be a conclusion she came to on her own, even if he manipulated her into thinking she wanted it.
Staring at his phone, Rhys reread the message Cassian sent that morning.
Get home if you can. Koschei is on our trail and if he’s found us, he’ll find you.
Oh, no doubt he was sending one of his little soldiers out to Rhys. It was fucked up and he knew it…but maybe a little danger was what Feyre needed. Just enough adrenaline to see him clearly, make a decision she wouldn’t normally, and see it finalized before she could change her mind. Rhys could keep her distracted with his body if she agreed, trapped in a rose colored haze for the next few weeks.
And then it would be too late. There was no divorce for them.
Besides, if that didn’t work he could always just get her pregnant, assuming she wasn’t already. He’d been too nervous to ask if she was using birth control, unwilling to admit any part of his fucked up plans. He’d been poking around her cabinet looking for them—but maybe she used an insert.
Maybe he ought to stop obsessing over her body, he reminded himself. Everything was fine—case and point, Feyre was naked in his bed and he hadn’t had to force her to do it. And while she had kicked him in the stomach once, she’d also flipped herself onto her stomach and raised her ass in the air when she felt his cock pressed against her tailbone.
And he’d take it.
“Hey, pretty baby,” he whispered, brushing his lips against the back of her neck. It was fun to see goosebumps rise on her shoulders, to feel her stir against the morning light pouring through the windows. “Are you hungry?”
Feyre was always hungry—if Rhys didn’t know what she wanted, he could always start with food.
“Do you ever sleep in?” she mumbled.
“Would you like to?” he questioned. Rhys loved to be up early, with a cup of coffee in one hand while he sat outside and watched the sun rise. It reminded him that he was alive and Rhys knew too well how much a gift that was. Especially for someone like him, forever hunted. Even then, Rhys could feel Koschei getting closer and closer.
Not the man himself, of course. He’d let people like Hybern do the work for him, venturing out only if everyone around him failed. If he hadn’t been so focused on Feyre, Rhys would have been working on drawing them out and setting his little traps.
Maybe he still could.
“Yes,” Feyre interrupted, unaware of the slant of his thoughts. “Until at least noon, but maybe all day.
“A whole day in bed?” Rhys practically purred, trying to imagine it. In his daydreams, they were somewhere tropical and isolated, surrounded by warm water and open skies.
Feyre rolled onto her back, making him painfully aware of her perky breasts staring up at him. “Yeah, Rhys. You never spend a day just rotting in bed?”
“No,” he admitted. He got up, he went to the gym, and he went to work—always in that order. Even when he was sick, Rhys thought it was better to get up and power through than to stay in bed doing nothing.
Still, if Feyre was in his bed, the thought of nothing suddenly seemed exceptionally appealing.
“Never?” she questioned, blue eyes focused on his face.
“I could be tempted,” he told her, trying—and failing—not to look at her naked breasts.
“Today?”
This was what he needed—Feyre, inviting him to stay in bed with her where the activities were fairly limited and he was positive she’d have sex with him at least once.
“Why not,” Rhys agreed, sliding his phone onto the table next to the bed.
Feyre settled among the pillows once she’d reached over the edge of the bed for his shirt—he was letting her wear them despite losing access to her body, if only because he liked the sight of her in his too big shirt.
She wore it like a dress, drenched in his scent. There was something primal about it, he decided. Rhys liked the way she looked in his clothes, his bed, his everything.
“What now?” Rhys questioned, hoping she was going to let him slip beneath the blanket and have his wicked way with her.
Feyre considered his question. “Now we just…lay here. We could watch something, or—”
“Or we could talk,” he suggested. Feyre raised her brows.
“Is that a euphemism?”
“No. I like the sound of your voice,” Rhys admitted. “Tell me about your life.”
“What part?” she questioned.
“All of it,” Rhys said, greedy as ever. “Tell me all of it.”
Feyre balked a little—did he want to know about being a baby, she wondered? Yes, he’d declared. Start from the beginning, tell him everything. And Feyre, for her part, did. It wasn’t linear, but she told him stories about her life while Rhys listened, absorbing it all. He did get up to make breakfast, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and nothing else while Feyre trailed after him.
She was less prickly that morning, answering his questions when he asked. And Rhys had a thousand questions—a million, really—that he wanted answered. He brought the food into the bedroom, tempted to feed her fruit from his fingers though he abstained. No need to ruin what was turning into a perfect day.
“Why did you kill him?” Rhys heard himself asking later in the day. She’d danced around her father, omitting him from most of her stories.
Feyre drew her knees to her chest, back resting against the wooden headboard. “I was angry,” she admitted. “I’d been angry for a long time.”
“Why?”
She grew silent for a moment, contemplating her feelings. “I guess…after our mom died, he just became something of a shell. He was spending money recklessly, he was making decisions without telling anyone…”
That explained her anger about their engagement, he supposed.
“All he wanted to do was hole up in his office. He left everything else to me and my sisters and we just…we weren’t accustomed to taking care of his household. Elain was taking care of him and Nesta was just so mad all the time which caused us to fight…I was just tired. And when he came home and he informed me he’d decided to marry me off, I guess I just snapped.”
“You know, I was at home when I heard the news he was dead,” Rhys told her, wondering if she cared about him at all. Feyre looked over, eyes bright again.
“Were you angry when they told you what I said?”
Rhys smiled. “No. I had a good laugh about it, though. If I was going to kill your father, I would have done a far neater job.”
“Were you? Going to kill him, I mean?”
“No. His debts would have killed him eventually without any help from me. I was merely a bandaid for his bigger problems. If you wanted him dead, you should have come to me.”
“And what? You would have done it? Just like that?” she asked skeptically, snapping her fingers to illustrate her point.
“Just like that,” Rhys agreed easily.
“Why me? Why not Nesta or Elain?”
Rhys couldn’t even remember what they looked like. He just shrugged. “Would you hate me if I told you that you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen?”
“No,” she replied with the pinkest cheeks he’d ever seen. “I’m starting to think its not possible to hate you.”
“I’m growing on you,” he said with a grin.
“Like a fungus,” she agreed. “You should hate me, you know.”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why. If I were in your position, I might have done the same.”
“I don’t think I’d be so forgiving,” she informed him, looking over to drink him in. “I don’t know if your face is that tempting.”
“What about the rest of me?” Rhys questioned, running a hand down his bare torso. “Maybe I should have sent you a picture of my cock—”
“That would not have helped!”
“You don’t know that,” he replied good naturedly. “It’s a nice cock.”
She didn’t argue, and Rhys didn’t push her. He knew the truth and besides, there was no point in ruining what was shaping into being a perfect day. She was in his bed, telling him about her life and for once they weren’t arguing or snapping. It was a little peek into the life he wanted—domesticated Feyre purring in his lap like a house cat.
“I didn’t plan it,” she finally said, eyes glazed with memory. “It just happened.”
“I don’t judge you for it,” Rhys told her, unwilling to admit that he couldn’t remember everyone he’d killed.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. I wasn’t thinking about you at the time. I planned to turn myself in—”
“Foolish,” Rhys hissed, immediately frustrated by the thought. Even with all his money and influence, Rhys didn’t think he could have kept her from prison.
Feyre offered him a small smile. “You sound like my sister.”
“You did the right thing,” he praised, not wanting her to feel an ounce of guilt on his behalf. “They’ll never tie me to it.”
“I said you did it,” Feyre reminded him.
Rhys tapped her nose with the tip of his finger. “You didn’t see me, little love. And just as soon as Azriel gets back, there will be no evidence tying you or me to that death.”
“Why do you say that?” Feyre asked, her face paling.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said quietly. “The less you know, the better.”
“I thought we were equals—”
“We would be if you were my wife,” Rhys shot back before he could stop himself. Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing.
“Why? So I can’t testify against you—”
“So I don’t have to testify against you,” he snarled, suddenly furious. “You committed the crime, Feyre—not me. And one of these days some overzealous agent looking for a promotion is going to reexamine the scene, the evidence, and who was standing in that house that day and they’re going to realize what you’ve done.”
She took a breath. “They won’t.”
“They will,” Rhys replied. “Trust me—putting away a mobster is the dream of every cop. They write your names in books for that kind of take down. They’ll be looking for me…but they’ll find you. And then they’ll send some nervous, sweaty asshole to my door offering to look the other way if I tell them what happened when I tracked you down. That’s a tempting offer, Feyre.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
Rhys didn’t think about it. “If I have to. Though, I’d prefer you willing.”
Feyre stood abruptly, her face unreadable. “I need a minute.”
“Take your time,” he replied, climbing out of bed himself. He let her walk toward the back of the cabin, assuming she was going to his office to think. Let her think about the day she’d sat on his cock while he worked, he thought sullenly. Rhys went to the living room so he could stare moodily out the window.
Nothing ever went the way he imagined. It was hard to celebrate fucking her when she didn’t like him or trust him. Would he blackmail her into being his wife? Rhys wanted to be the kind of man who would say not…but he knew he would. He knew if he couldn’t get her to agree in the next two days, he’d be tying her up again and threatening to turn her in.
“Rhys?” Feyre’s voice asked from behind him. He twisted to look at her, stepping to the left to keep balance.
“Ye—”
The glass behind him shattered and something threw him forcefully to the ground as Feyre screamed, arms up over her head.
“Get down!” he roared, terrified another bullet would silence her. He’d been shot, he realized—though rather than hitting him dead center, he’d been shot through the shoulder. It wasn’t ideal, but it was workable.
Someone was coming—Rhys could hear boots crunching against snow. Twisting, he turned to make his way to Feyre only to find she was gone. Fuck. Now he had two problems—a killer at his front door and a runaway wife out the back. He didn’t have time to grab a gun before the door kicked open.
He knew the bitch standing in front of him. He’d recognize that bottled red hair from space—Amarantha.
“Rhys,” she said, flashing him a vicious smile. “You’re getting sloppy.”
He forced himself to his feet, refusing to die on his knees. “Your aim is as good as it's always been.”
Amarantha shrugged, gloved hands holding her rifle firmly. “You know, I usually love our banter but today I just don’t have time. You’ll forgive my—”
A shot fired, sending Amarantha flying to the ground like a doll who’s strings had just been cut. Rhys looked up to find Feyre, barefoot and pantless, standing in the doorway holding a gun. He expected to see fear—or maybe shock—but all he found on that beautiful face of hers was grim determination.
“A friend of yours?” Feyre questioned, dancing back into the house in an attempt to avoid the snow.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rhys replied. Feyre came to him, stepping over Amarantha’s body like it didn’t exist.
“You’re hurt,” she said, reaching out to touch the blood before pulling back.
“I’ll survive,” he replied, grateful adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay. This was what he’d wanted, right? A little danger to soften her? Maybe not like this—Rhys had assumed they’d have more of a warning and less bullets coming at them.
Still.
“We need to go,” Rhys told her, steering Feyre toward the bedroom. He’d kept her clothes from that first night specifically for this reason. He couldn’t drag her naked across the country, afterall. Rhys pulled out the jeans, t-shirt, and jacket before tossing it to the bed.
“What about your arm?” Feyre asked, gun still in hand. “Shouldn’t we dig it out?”
“You’re a doctor now?” Rhys asked, hating that he needed her to do this for him. Feyre shrugged.
“I’ve done it before. For my dad, I mean.”
“You’re a good girl, Feyre,” he murmured, wishing he had the time to bend her over the bed. Rhys could still fuck her, injured or not. In fact, he thought the sight of his blood smeared over her tits would send him into a frenzy. “My good girl.”
“I thought she killed you,” Feyre whispered as Rhys sat on the edge of the tub. “I thought…”
“I’m fine,” he told her, heart thudding in his throat. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Yeah,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Rhys couldn’t take his eyes off her while she worked, swallowing his pain so he didn’t upset her. Maybe, in another life, Feyre would have been a doctor—she certainly had a soft touch. She managed to get the bullet out in one go while he was lucky it hadn’t shattered into a million little pieces.
His arm burned by the time Feyre got to suturing, and all he wanted to do was lay down. Dried blood coated his upper half and stained his shorts, the towel beneath his feet, and likely the white tile, too.
“Can you stand?” Feyre whispered, brushing her fingers against his jaw.
“Of course,” he lied. “Go get dressed.”
But he couldn’t. Rhys wobbled the moment he tried, flinging out his hand to hold the wall so he didn’t fall backward. His whole body trembled from the dull, throbbing pain from his wound that seemed to echo in his skull.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Only that Feyre returned, more blur than woman, and led him out.
“You can go,” Rhys whispered as he collapsed to the bed, too heavy to move. His eye lids were iron, unwilling to open once they’d shut. “You should go.”
The blackness ate away at him before he heard what she said in response.
And then he was lost.
FEYRE:
Rhys was a big man.
She’d never really thought about it before he’d collapsed onto the bed, shirtless and bloody. A dull roaring filled Feyre’s ears as panic threatened to consume her. They couldn’t stay—someone else might be coming. So Feyre forced herself to swallow her fear so she could dress him in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. She packed him a few things, unsure what he’d want to wear when he woke, and then began the arduous task of dragging his muscular body out to the car.
She did it, though. She put him in the back, her guns in the front, and then herself in the car. “We did it,” she said with a grin, turning toward the road with unrestrained glee. His car had a navigation system and after she thought she was far enough from the cabin, Feyre quickly typed in her destination.
And then she drove. It was strange to be in a car again—for the last five years, Feyre had biked everywhere she went. Tamlin had kept her isolated, perhaps to her benefit at the time. Now, though, Feyre finally felt uncaged. Free, somehow.
Feyre drove through the night without stopping, terrified that she was being tracked at first. After she was certain she wasn’t, Feyre worried about leaving Rhys’s unconscious body in the back of her car. The last thing she needed were the cops pulling them over and realizing who they were.
Sheer will alone would keep Rhys from dying.
He was a predictable man. Rhys woke with a start just before the sun began to rise, peering first out the window before looking between the seats at her.
“You’re still here,” he rasped. Feyre smothered her smile.
“Did you think I’d leave you to die?”
“Expected it, actually,” Rhys replied with a grimace. “Where are we?”
“Nevada,” Feyre replied with a grin.
Rhys blinked. “Why?”
“Oh, are you coy now?” Feyre half teased. “Why else would I be here?”
“Feyre—”
“I realized something,” she interrupted, uninterested in his attempts at nobility. It was too late now. “When you were down and I thought you were dead, it occurred to me that I didn’t want you dead. I want to keep talking to you, Rhys. And I know this whole situation is a mess, but I think I might be falling in love with you.”
“Oh, thank God,” he panted, resting his chin on the seat of her chair.
“Plus, I figured this was the only way you’d agree to take me home.”
“You know me so well, darling.”
“Now it's your turn,” Feyre murmured, needing a distraction from the decision she was about to make. “Tell me about your life.”
Rhys settled back against the seat with a soft groan and began to talk. Feyre half listened, mind occasionally wandering to her sisters. She could bring them all back together…though what would they say when they realized the last five years had been for nothing? She trusted them not to betray her, but didn’t trust they wouldn’t shun her.
Nesta, at least.
“What happened after your sister died?” Feyre questioned, wincing at the story of how she’d been shot in the back after his mother had been executed by a rival family.
“Dad went berserk,” Rhys murmured, eyes dark. “He wanted revenge which made him reckless. He died to a bullet, to…and I took over.”
“That must have been hard.”
Rhys shrugged. “Not as hard as you’re imagining. I miss my family, but I was groomed for this. Work is easy.”
“The last five years have been easy?” she questioned.
Rhys smiled. “Frustrating, I suppose…but I found you, didn’t I? Was it all worth it, Feyre?”
“Yeah,” she replied, unsure if that was true or not. There was no reason to give him the satisfaction of being right. “I’d do it all over again.”
Rhys liked that answer, murmuring something about foreplay. It was the perfect time to stop, get a marriage license, and then have a quick, quiet courthouse wedding. Rhys swore up and down he didn’t want anything flashy or big which suited Feyre more than fine. She hated to be the center of attention.
“I want to fly home,” Feyre whispered to him later that night when they were alone, pretending like neither one of them wanted to peel the other out of their clothes. “And I want you to tell your friends to let my sisters come home.”
“What else do you want?” Rhys asked her, fingers laced with hers as he kissed her fingertips.
“If you ever step out of this marriage, I’ll have your balls.”
Rhys chuckled. “I think that’s reasonable.”
There was no question if he needed to issue the same threat. Feyre wondered if Rhys was merely willing to tolerate her indiscretions or if he merely assumed she never would. Feyre knew Rhys well enough to assume if he ever caught her, he’d execute the unlucky man without sparing a second thought.
It should have bothered her and yet it didn’t. Maybe, she thought, she was just as messed up as he was. Maybe worse, because Feyre found herself rolling over to look at him.
“How is your shoulder?” she questioned.
“Fine,” he lied, eyes sharp with hunger.
“Oh? I guess you don’t need me to take care of you, then?” she asked, sliding her leg over his waist. Rhys swallowed.
“You ah…could check,” he said. Feyre straddled him, pushing the hem of his shirt upward over his chest before gently pulling it over his head. She was careful with his injured shoulder, removing that sleeve last so he didn’t have to raise it over his head.
Rhys merely watched, eyes wide while he waited to see what was about to happen. Perhaps this was the moment Feyre would pull out her knife and kill him. Feyre didn’t have a knife on her and the guns she’d stolen were hidden in the hotel room they were staying in, far out of reach.
She merely kissed the wound.
“You can be sweet when you want to be,” Rhys breathed, his good hand resting on her hip.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Why not?” he replied, arching her neck as she pressed a kiss against the hollow of his throat.
“I want to see you live to old age, which means keeping you sharp.”
Rhys sucked in a shuddering breath, relaxing as she crawled down his body. It felt good not to pretend anymore—to just give in to the life that had always been waiting for her. Maybe she’d regret this in another five years.
But maybe not.
She didn’t right then, as she licked a path down his stomach toward the erection she knew was waiting for her. Rhys seemed to be perpetually aroused and today was no exception.
“Feyre,” he breathed as she pulled his cock from his shorts. “Come back here—”
“Stop talking,” she ordered, just before licking a stripe up his shaft. Rhys moaned, lifting his hips in the air. It was tempting to stop and ask him how often he’d fantasized about this. She didn’t. He’d tell her when they finished, if only because Rhys loved to talk more than he loved anything else. He told her his every thought, sometimes as he was thinking them.
Feyre liked that about him.
“Is this what you want?” she whispered, teasing the blunt head with her tongue.
“Yes,” he all but pleaded.
Feyre took him in her mouth like she’d done the first time, though she wasn’t hanging upside down. Stretching her jaw to accommodate him, Feyre watched through half lidded eyes to gauge his pleasure. In turn, Rhys watched her. He gathered her hair up in his hands, wincing from his wound. It clearly wasn’t painful enough to stop him and Feyre wasn’t going to demand it of him, either.
She wanted to make him feel good, easing her own mind after the day she’d had. She hadn’t told him how she’d had to drag him out to the car, assuming he understood how he’d gotten there. It didn’t make the experience any less harrowing.
Feyre worked on taking him deeper, until his cock was lodged in her throat as she softly gagged around him. Rhys swept his thumb over her jaw before moving his hand to her throat as she took him again, feeling himself through her skin.
“Fuck,” he whispered, keeping his hand loosely wrapped around her. He should have let her continue given how much he was obviously enjoying himself, but he didn't. Rhys tugged her, pulling her mouth off his cock so abruptly that strings of saliva came with her.
“Rhys,” she protested as he lifted his hips, trying to line himself up with her own body.
“Please,” he said in response, finding his target. Rhys slid into her with a fluid motion, both hands on her hips to guide her. “Take off your shirt.”
It was all she was wearing. Feyre had become used to wearing Rhys’s shirts and rather liked it, though she’d never admit it. In that moment, Feyre was happy to comply. She tossed her shirt to the floor as Rhys’s hands slid up her body to cup her breasts.
“You’re so fucking pretty, baby. Do you know that?”
Feyre only moaned, rocking her hips against him. While Rhys tried to touch her everywhere all at once, Feyre merely dug her nails into his broad chest and continued moving against him. Every time Feyre and Rhys met, her clit brushed against his skin causing her to tighten around him.
“You feel so good,” Rhys whined, arching his back. “This is my pussy now.”
It was an absurd thing to say and only a man like Rhys could pull it off. Rising up so Feyre was fully in his lap, Rhys pressed them chest to chest.
“You’re my wife,” he whispered against her neck. “Tell me you love me.”
“Rhys—”
His teeth grazed her throat. “Say it.”
“I love you,” she gasped after a particularly brutal thrust that left her brainless. Rhys kissed her, hands bracing her ass so he was doing most of the work. Somewhere in the very back of her mind, Feyre knew his arm must have been killing him.
Gripping the back of his hair, Feyre pulled Rhys back just enough to force him to look at her. “Now you.”
He moaned, “I love you.”
That was enough to send them both careening over the edge, gasping and kissing long after her orgasm had faded. If they had neighbors on either side, they had surely heard everything…and would hear more as they night went on. Who needed sleep, anyway?
Who needed anything at all, beyond the man in front of her.
“Rhys?” she murmured, chin resting on his uninjured shoulder. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything. Just name it.”
“Take me home.”
Rhys smiled, face pressed to her hair. “You got it, baby.”
#feysand#i literally finished this so i could start working on nessian seriously#also warning for egregious use of the word baby#and for rhys saying something i had to look away from as i typed#it embarrassed me hahaha
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hii i wanted to request a argyle x byers!reader where he’s like obsessed with her and he’s all nervous when she’s around and she’s shy but she also likes him
so will, jonathan and eleven try to get them together and its all fluff (sorry for my bad english btw)
i love your writing!!!
Thanks for the request, and patience! I was writing this as a drabble/series of drabbles but this one really got away from me. Hope you enjoy!
name: bewitched
pairing: Argyle x Byers!Reader
word count: 2951
content/warnings: she pronouns. silliness. fluff. some egregious pov switching near the end
-
“No way, man. I can’t drive her alone. She’ll cast a hex on me or something.” Argyle said, throwing both hands up defensively. Jonathan raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“A hex.” He challenged. He knew that Argyle hit the bong a bit hard sometimes, but this was by far the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard from the other boy’s mouth, especially considering he didn’t even know about El’s powers.
“Yeah, man, another one! Your sister has some witchy shit going on.” Argyle wiggled his fingers to demonstrate his meaning, waving them around for emphasis. Jonathan watched him with pursed lips, still skeptical.
“Dude. Argyle. What are you talking about? Another hex? Witchy shit? She’s my sister, and she needs a ride to work later.” Jonathan wasn’t normally the type to get pushy when asking for a favor, but his best friend was truly not making any sense this time. Sure, you sometimes wore your eyeliner a little on the thick side, but that didn’t make you witchy.
“No, man, I’m serious. Like, dead serious. She did something to me last time I drove her alone. She like… whispered something right as she was getting around the van and BOOM!” He clapped his hands together for emphasis, the sudden noise making Jonathan jump, “I can’t stop thinking about her! At first I thought it was just because the van still smelled like her perfume, but nope. Someone ordered her favorite pizza toppings and I caught myself arranging them the way she likes them before I remembered it wasn’t for her.”
When Jonathan didn’t say anything, he continued, “Then I saw her favorite flowers in this neighborhood I was delivering to, and I started slowing down to pick them! I see her everywhere dude, in everything. I’m telling you, she cursed me.”
Jonathan stared as his friend, slack-jawed as he tried to deflect his painfully obvious curse into some sort of magical phenomenon. If Argyle wasn’t staring at him so earnestly, he would have laughed. He wanted to laugh anyway, but in a disbelieving sort of way. In a, am I really going to convince you that you’re in love with my baby sister kind of way.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a curse, Argyle.”
“Dude, are you listening? I can’t even talk around her anymore, man. I get all tongue tied, like, I just don’t know what to say. Or I know what I want to say but it never comes out right and she just gets this sweet look on her face and laughs. Doesn’t say anything, just laughs.”
Oh, he had it bad. Of course, Jonathan and the rest of the population of Lenora Hills, California already knew that Argyle had a crush on the Byers sister, but Jonathan had just laughed it off until now because it was Argyle and you were you and it was nothing serious. This was sounding serious.
“What if Jane rides with you?” Jonathan offered, glancing back at the house. He couldn’t miss his scheduled phone call with Nancy again, and his car had been giving him too many problems to reliably get you to work anyway.
Argyle hummed, considering.
“Come on, dude, please? She wouldn’t dare do anything in front of Jane, you know. She’s way too protective.” Jonathan knew he shouldn’t feed into it, but he needed this favor.
Argyle sighed but acquiesced, finally.
“Fine, but only if Jane rides with us. And no witchy shit!”
-
You drummed your fingers nervously on your lap as Argyle drove, something inoffensive playing quietly over the radio. He was uncharacteristically quiet, and you weren’t sure if you had done or said something to upset him. Under normal circumstances, you probably wouldn’t have asked, and with El being oddly insistent on riding with the two of you today, you certainly had nothing to say.
“Your hair looks good today; did you do something different?” El called from the back, surprisingly chipper. You turned your head to raise an eyebrow at her, but she just smiled at you, “Don’t you think it looks good, Argyle?”
You turned to look at Argyle, and caught his gaze when he glanced over at you. You offered him a confused smile, but he quickly turned his eyes back to the road.
“Uhhh, yeah, dude. It looks good. Looks great. Pretty.” He offered, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel as he rambled, “Pretty… hairy?” You giggled; you couldn’t help it. Argyle was always so adorable when he was tripping over words. Somehow, it made whatever he settled on even sweeter. Pretty. Hairy. You shook your head fondly.
“Thanks, but it’s really nothing different. Just showered.” You shrugged, teeth immediately finding your bottom lip. Listening to Argyle was easy, but talking to him was something else entirely. He was always just so calm, so self-assured. You were so in your head about everything that you worried it would scare him away if he caught onto that.
You could feel his eyes on you, briefly, but neither of you said anything else. You thought you heard a quiet sigh from the back seat, but when you looked back, El was just staring out the window. You weren’t sure why she had wanted to come along anyway.
The drive to your job was nothing special, just flat desert for miles. Sometimes you would be daring and try to pull a rant out of Argyle, but with El as an audience, you didn’t dare. You would usually quietly remark on something innocuous and he would latch on, turning it into a full on rant or story that would leave you in stitches. Without that, this was just… awkward.
Your salvation came in the form of the small diner you had been waitressing at appearing on the horizon. The drive to work had never felt so long.
Argyle pulled into the ‘No Parking’ zone and you gathered your belongings quickly, flashing a smile as you hurried to exit the van.
“Thanks for the ride, drive safe!” You waved your goodbye and hurried inside, glad to be free of the lingering awkwardness.
You found yourself thinking of Argyle for the entire first half of your shift. The way he said pretty before amending his statement. The brief eye contact you had made, his pretty brown eyes meeting yours. The way he hummed softly along with whatever was on the radio, even when he clearly didn’t know the song. You were glad that you could at least be friends with someone like him, since you'd never been able to work up the nerve to say something that might change that into something more.
-
Back at the Byers house, Will swung his legs as he sat on the edge of his bed, listening intently to El and Jonathan as they each filled him in on their side of the story. Internally, his brain was whirring. If only Dustin and Mike were here, this would be easy. They were good at meddling. Even Lucas would’ve known how to drop the right hints in the right places. Without those three, though, they would need a friend. But first, Will needed answers.
“Let me get this straight. You want to hook your best friend up with our sister?”
That was exactly what Jonathan wanted, it turns out.
-
You knew from the very beginning that your siblings were planning something.
Will had always been terrible at lying to you, and Jonathan always got this weird look on his face when he was planning something he didn’t want you to ask him about. Still, it was El that provided the final nail in the coffin. When she suddenly became very interested in what you were wearing to the drive-in that evening, you knew for sure.
“El, it’s just the drive-in. No one will even see me!” You protested, putting away the miniskirt your mother had bought for you during one of her rare “you’re young, go be young! Take advantage of it!” phases. You had never managed to convince yourself to wear it out of the house, not wanting the extra attention it would bring.
El snatched the skirt back from the top of the drawer and dropped it back onto your bed.
“Exactly, wear it.” She insisted stubbornly.
The two of you glared at each other over the clothes. You thought to call her out, the words ‘Friends don’t lie’ just at the tip of your tongue, but you simply huffed and gathered the clothes instead.
First Jonathan had announced a last-minute plan to take you to movie, and then Will was suddenly super excited about a movie he had never mentioned before, as if Will was even capable of being excited about something without talking your ear off about it. Now, El was being weird about your clothes, and of course your mother was all for whatever would get the lot of you out of the house, so long as Jonathan was there to keep a keen eye on everyone. If the four of them had aligned against you, you had never had a chance in the first place.
“Fine, I’ll wear the skirt, just let me get dressed.”
El flashed you a smile on her way out of your room that did nothing to make you feel reassured.
They were clearly planning something, but what? It wasn’t their style to embarrass you in public, despite the way you felt as you tugged on the miniskirt. (The top, thankfully, was full length.) There wasn’t much they could even do at a drive-in. Certainly nothing that involved you. It didn’t make any sense.
At least, it didn’t make any sense until you walked downstairs to see Argyle standing next to Jonathan at the door, talking animatedly about something that had happened on the last stop of his pizza delivery route.
“…And that was it. I told her that Surfer Boy Pizza only accepts cash payments and she slammed the door. Didn’t even come back for her pizza, so I figured we could add a fresh pie to our snacks instead of letting it go to waste. It was your sister's favorite toppings, too. ”
You couldn’t help but to smile at the sound of his voice even as you tugged at the bottom of your skirt, struggling to force it to cover any more skin.
“Oh, you’re coming, Argyle?” You asked, finally swiping your purse off a chair to hold in front of your legs.
You missed the look Argyle gave you, eyes wide, mouth half open, scanning the length of your bare legs. No one else missed it, though, and they shared a knowing look before Jonathan broke the silence.
“We figured both cars would be more comfortable. I’m taking these two, so I figured you could ride with Argyle.”
It was so heavy handed that you couldn’t even think of a legitimate reason to protest. You couldn’t say that you didn’t want to spend time alone with Argyle. Not when it wasn’t true, anyway, and certainly not when Argyle was still trying his best not to look at you all mystified. You could already see their plan playing out before their eyes, so you just smiled and went along with it, pretending not to notice the looks they shared over your shoulder.
-
What you didn’t expect was for the three of them not to show up at all. The two of you had found a good spot at the drive-in and laid out all the snacks, but the movie was starting and Jonathan’s car still hadn’t pulled up. Sure, he had car troubles sometimes, but this felt too convenient. Too intentional.
Being alone with Argyle wasn’t anything new to you, but the tension tonight was. He had always been a little nervous around you. He would talk a little too fast, laugh a little too loud, stare a little too long, but this was different.
He idly spun the spark wheel on his lighter back and forth, eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance despite the movie playing on the screen up ahead. You tried your best to focus on From Beyond instead of the boy sitting across from you, but the repetitive rrrrrrrrrt sound drew you out of the movie enough times that you gave up, your eyes falling instead to an imaginary loose thread on your skirt. Anything to stop yourself from staring.
You wondered if he knew this was a setup. And if he did know, what did he think about it? Was he embarrassed, angry, uncomfortable? You supposed it would be too much for the boy you had been crushing on to feel the same way, especially when he was your big brother’s best friend. Especially when most interactions with him involved him doing favors for said big brother. The insecurity bloomed in your chest and you grit your teeth to keep it at bay. Maybe your siblings had read the whole situation wrong, maybe you had read the situation wrong.
“I’m not sure they’re coming.” You said quietly, picking at the hem of your skirt in a way that drew Argyle’s eyes back to your legs again.
He forced his gaze away, lighting his lighter proper to watch the flame dance in his hand before extinguishing it. When he didn’t respond, you frowned.
“Argyle, are you upset with me?” You asked, instead.
That got his attention. He looked up urgently from the lighter, eyes meeting yours across the spread of snacks in the van. He had the audacity to look like he was the one hurt, eyebrows high with concern.
“What? Dude, no!”
You frowned, unconvinced. He hadn’t even bothered to light the joint tucked behind his ear, and if that didn’t mean something, nothing did. His eyes lingered on the curve of your lips and you scooted forward, pushing the pizza further into the van so that you could get closer to him. He tensed, not quite freezing, but not relaxing either. You chewed your bottom lip, unsure of how to proceed now that you were next to him. How could you confront him when he was looking at you like that?
“It just, like, worked too well. You can stop now.” Argyle said after a moment. Your gaze snapped to him, but he was looking off again, still fidgeting with his lighter.
“It worked?” You asked, voice soft, unsure. He shook his head, long hair spilling messily around his shoulders.
“Dude, the curse. The hex. You know what I mean! You can stop it now, I already liked you before. You barely say anything, but all I can think about is you. Some guy ordered your pizza toppings and I started spreading them out the way you like. I see your favorite flowers and I want to pick them. I don’t know what you did to me, but…”
He sighed, trailing off as he realized you were staring, a smile playing across your plush lips. He didn’t explain the rest, you should be aware of your own curse. Still, your face was flushed a pretty pink and he had to force himself to look away. To fight the urge to reach out and touch you – to kiss you. He had never felt this way, and certainly wouldn’t without you doing whatever it was that you had done to him, right?
For weeks, his thoughts had been nothing but you and now that you were sitting all pretty in front of him with rosy cheeks and that impossible skirt on, he was confronted with the full force of whatever it was that he was feeling, had been feeling for a while. Maybe even before the curse.
“Argyle…” When you said his name this time, it was like music, and he could feel himself sinking further under your spell. You could have asked him anything, could have asked him to do anything, and when he opened his eyes and found you beaming at him he felt something clench in his chest and knew that he was lost. Everything he had done to avoid this had failed. He was utterly and completely at your whim.
He didn’t realize that he was leaning in until you were already kissing him. It was the slightest brush of lips, but it sent electricity down his spine and Argyle knew that he could never go back. You started to pull away, an excuse already falling, stuttered, from your lips, but he pulled you back in, lips seeking yours eagerly.
His lips were chapped, and he tasted vaguely of burnt weed and pineapples, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to mind when your hand was bunching up the bottom of his shirt, finally getting what you had wanted but had never dared to ask for. All the car rides spent yearning, all the diary entries with his name scribbled over, all the things that you had been too shy to say out loud; crystallized right now before you in the form of the boy with his lips on yours, smiling into your kiss, holding you close even when you had to pull away for air.
"If you're under a spell, what's my excuse?"
And then he was laughing, everything that he had been bottling up for the past few weeks bubbling out as he crushed you to his chest, words failing him as you took the chance to press kisses against his cheeks, his nose, his forehead.
He still wasn't convinced that you hadn't done something, changed something, but he couldn't find it in himself to care when you were this close, fighting a smile as you leaned in to kiss him once again. A guy could get used to being bewitched.
#Argyle x Reader#Argyle Reader Insert#Argyle Imagine#Argyle Fluff#Stranger Things Reader Insert#Stranger Things Imagine#Fluff#2500 - 3000#she/her pronouns#fem reader
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An Ancient Evil Reborn in Today’s America
By Hal Lindsey
On a spectacularly beautiful September morning in 2001, hijacked planes struck the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York and the Pentagon in Washington. The bloodlust of radical Islam needlessly took the lives of thousands. And, briefly, America woke up.
That short-lived awakening was purchased at a terrible cost. But while it lasted, it was amazing. People from sea to shining sea realized again what it meant to be Americans. They didn’t suddenly become blind to the nation’s shortcomings, but they also saw what was rare and precious in the American spirit. Then the nation drifted back into slumber.
While the people slept, an ancient evil rose among them. At the beginning of this millennium, most people, including Jewish Americans, thought antisemitism had mostly been banished from the land. But after 9/11, against all reason, it started growing again. Today it manifests itself everywhere. Young people speak antisemitic slogans as a bizarre form of virtue signaling.
We can see it in the signs and hear it in the chants on campuses and in the streets. Young people, most born after 9/11/2001, today sing out the ideologies of our 2001 enemy — “Death to America!” … “There is only one Solution, Intifada. Revolution!” … “Long live Hamas!” … “Death to Jews!” They compare those who disagree with them to the Ku Klux Klan. But who would agree more with the chant, “Death to Jews!” than the KKK? These pitiful children have become the thing they decry.
They warn us of their intent, saying, “The 7th of October is going to be every day for you!” They often cry out, “We are Hamas!” If they are Hamas, it means they want to kill Jews and Christians. Their hate has nothing to do with so-called colonization. It is all about hatred for “people of the book” because they are Jews and Christians. By claiming to be Hamas, campus radicals are actually saying they want to murder your babies and burn your homes. They want to behead and mutilate. They want to rape, take hostages, and then keep on raping. That’s what October 7th was about and what they praise.
If they “are Hamas,” they want to replace democracy with a theocratic ruling elite. Hamas leaders have not held an election in Gaza since they came to power in 2006. Gaza’s Hamas overlords ended women’s rights, destroyed freedom of religion, criminalized freedom of speech, and have done their best to end freedom of thought. They murder homosexuals, a group whose cause most of these young people consider dear to their hearts. The control Hamas exercises over its subjects knows no limits. They tell women, for instance, exactly what clothes to wear.
Antisemitism is just one aspect of the ancient evil. It can be described more generally as open rebellion against God. God loves people, so the ancient evil hates people. God chose one people for the task of presenting Himself to the world through His words and the Word. So, the evil does everything it can to engender hatred against the chosen nation, and especially toward a Jew called Jesus Christ, the Word incarnate.
What is the answer? Be faithful. If you are a Christian, draw close to the Lord. Pray fervently. Study His Word. Stand as a friend to Israel. It is not that they can do no wrong. They can, and often do, make egregious errors. They have embraced many of the same sins and ungodly attitudes that are bringing about America’s moral freefall.
But in all that, remember God’s Word. Israel is what God says that it is.
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i have a mad thomas x reader request where reader is forced to marry thomas (idk how just-) and is disgusted about it but eventually ends up liking him.(? idk how to explain myself:’)
No one look at me,,,,,,,,,,also this is heavily inspired by the Scarlet Letter and was supposed to be a tad darker but I copped out (also someone asked for a pregnant reader recently so this + that = this fic)
A Lie They Would Believe (Mad Thomas x Fem!Reader)
Warnings: dark themes, 1600 standards, values, and laws, affairs/cheating, ex-relationship with the pastor is mentioned, Thomas is Thomas, mentions of drinking, webs of lies, public humiliation, AFAB and Fem reader, pregnant reader, pre-marital pregnancy solved a la shotgun marriage, twisted win-win situation turns into love?, slow burn(?),
Word Count: 3.7k
You could accept your punishment with a turned cheek, you told yourself over and over again.
You could stare out at the audience of towns people, even as the sun beat on your face. You could stare out into the angry faces of the elders, into the pitying faces of your friends. Into the ashamed faces of your parents. But, you could not look at Cyrus Miller.
You'd missed your blood two months ago. You'd begged, prayed, everyday that it would come. But, the only thing that came was the morning sickness. You'd tried to hide it, tried to think of what to do. But, when you placed your hand over your stomach, you couldn't bring yourself to find the hag in the forest. And, when your mother held your spotless, white sheets in your face, you'd crumbled. You confessed in the privacy of your room as if you were confessing in church. You told her everything.
Well, almost.
"Tell us his name!" Cyrus said, a voice that you couldn't force to fall into the background. "Tell us the name of your accomplice and you shall suffer no more." He said, and you wanted to believe him. You let your eyes close for a moment, but your lips did not move. Your mouth did not open. "Tell us the father's name, so that your baby will not be born a bastard!" He said, and his hand reached out to grab your arm. His grip was strong and tight, unlike the caresses you'd become so accustomed to with him. While his words begged you to say the name, his name, the action spoke differently. You peeled open your eyes and looked up at him, at his raven hair and kind face. His dark, soft eyes. Tears pricked the corners of your own eyes, hard and glassy as you looked up at him. But, you were silent. Even as some of the townspeople yelled for you to confess.
But, how could you tell them that it was your persecutor who was the father of your child? That your pastor, the leader of this town, had sinned so egregiously? He had a wife, a daughter. You'd known both of those things when you'd fallen for him, but it was harder to ignore in the harsh sunlight. When both of them stood in front of you.
You knew you'd have to face punishment. Sex before marriage was a crime after all, completely forbidden. To think they didn't know you were an adulterer also. You didn't know what it'd be, but you knew you'd have no option but to accept it when it came. You'd already made your peace with it, made your peace with whatever God could condemn you to. Perhaps, you'd have to live alone, wear a scarlet letter on your breast. Perhaps, they'd cast you out completely, and you'd be shunned. Perhaps, they'd hang you. You touched your stomach at that thought. Perhaps, there were certain punishments you couldn't bear.
Your lips only fell open when a voice yelled,
"It was I." And a gasp fell from your mouth. Your head turned, snapped towards the voice. Towards the sea of faces that was the crowd. But, you knew that voice. "It's my child." He said, and your eyes fell on a face you knew all too well. And, at that moment, you knew exactly what type of punishment God had set out for you.
Mad Thomas.
***
The day had gone by in a blur.
Over and over in your head, one question repeated itself. Why? It was almost loud enough to drown out the constant whispers, the stories being spun by every person who seemed to have a tongue.
Union couldn't seem to stop talking about it. Of when it started, how long it'd been going on, when the pair of you had even had time to sneak off. You'd even heard a young Constance Berman whisper about how she'd always known something was going on between the two of you, only to be shushed by her older sister as you passed. As you'd been let free of the top of the church steps.
You'd been left outside, left out in the sun. Inside the church went your father, the pastor, and Thomas. You had no idea what Thomas was going to say, what lies he was going to spin.
You couldn't bring yourself to leave, to speak. You felt as though a blanket of white noise had covered your ears, covered your mind. You were surprised, to say the least. You'd thought a wave of devastation had washed over you the first moment you'd realized you were with child, but this? It made it seem like ripples in a pond. The only thing you could do was stare at the church door and wait for them to come out. But, you felt a warm arm wrap around your waist and you turned to see the face of your mother.
"Come," She said, and you looked back at the door blankly. You didn't want to leave. You wanted to be there when they came out. But, you couldn't find the words to say or the strength to keep your feet firm. So, you let her guide you away from the crowd, and towards your house.
It was only later that you were told you and Thomas were to be married by the end of the month.
***
You and Thomas were never allowed a moment alone. You didn't know whether to be relieved or not, but Thomas, a man who you quickly found was far more confusing than you thought, was playing a charade. He brought you flowers, carried your water pail for you, and even took you on chaperoned walks. You, however, were stony and stiff, barely able to contain your disgust for him. It was on your first walk that you whispered,
"Why? Why are you doing this?" And, for a moment, the incorrigible man seemed to pretend not to hear you. He glanced over his shoulder, as if the wind was at his ear instead, and you saw him cast a sly glance to the man behind them. It was one of your father's friends, walking only about two yards behind you. Finally, when he decided he was far away enough, he responded,
"Would you rather I had let them cast you out? Let you and your child starve in the woods?" Thomas said back, the most sober you'd ever heard him. It seemed that apart of your father's deal with him was that he cut back on the drink. He didn't even stumble as he walked.
"Don't pretend you did this out of charity. Why, Thomas?" You asked, and you, for only a moment, reached out to touch his arm. You pulled it back just as quick, hoping that your chaperone hadn't seen. Thomas looked down at the action, before he smirked and shook his head.
"Aren't we a perfect match?" He asked, and you gave him a look of confusion. He continued with, "You think I don't know what people say about me? Don't you see, girl? It doesn't matter if your father is the best woodworker, or the richest in Union anymore. No one would have you, or your bastard child. Except me." He said, and you almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. He continued, his words a whisper now, "Besides, it's a lie they would believe." You stared at him, flabbergasted by his words. Flabbergasted by how right he was.
Thomas had, well, a reputation. It wasn't out of character for his wedding to be one out of necessity, and perhaps it earned you some pity from the townspeople. How many women had Thomas seduced? And how many of them could truly judge you? Not to mention, his words left one thing clear.
So, it was my dowry, you thought. It wasn't an unheard of reason, and it made sense given the man you were talking to. Your father had been avoiding selling you off, even as you reached far into your womanhood. And, surely, your father would never have considered him under any normal circumstance, but now...You didn't seem to have much of a choice.
Thomas paused, picking up one of the wildflowers and handing it to you. You took it, knowing now that you had to play along. That you had to act as if he truly was the father of your child, and not someone as foreign to you as the land outside of Union.
"Your father was going to start building us a house. I was thinking right here," Thomas said, his voice only slightly louder for the chaperone to hear, but you barely paid attention. You were staring down at the yellow flower in your hands, before you glanced up at the man in front of you.
He was tall, but his hair was lighter. His cheeks were stubbly and his eyes- They were a clear blue. Almost the same shade as the sky above you. You watched as he talked, as he laid out his plan. And, while the idea of being married to anyone that you didn't love sickened you, you tried to tell yourself that it wouldn't be as terrible as you felt it would be.
***
You and Thomas sat out in the sun, where you were making a flower crown and he was rambling about one thing or the other. You'd gotten very good at pretending to be in love, even in the span of only a couple of weeks.
You gave him smiles and laughter, and he gave you gifts or stole a caress. It was enough to stir the people of Union so no one would be the wiser. And, with your father at his station a short way across the field, the pair of you could be somewhat alone. But, still within viewing distance.
"You're not listening." Thomas said, and you smiled to yourself for a moment. You looked at the finished crown, before you looked up and reached over to where he was laying on the blanket. He was half-sitting up, and you placed the flower crown atop his head as you said,
"Yes, I was." You replied simply as you adjusted it, and Thomas stared at you and gave a small scoff. He caught your hand as you went to pull it away, his grip loose. He held it almost gently, and said,
"Then kiss me." And your brows drew together. A quick,
"What?" Fell from your lips, and you watched how Thomas smiled. He laughed, letting your hand go as he said,
"So, you weren't listening-" But you were quick to interrupt him.
"Why would- Why?" The idea- the simple idea was preposterous. Why would you kiss him? In broad daylight no less? The suggestion made you nervous, made a weird feeling start in your stomach. And, you ignored how this feeling wasn't entirely unfamiliar.
"They're going to expect us to kiss on our wedding day, girl. Shouldn't we have some practice?" He said, and you thought perhaps the first time he proposed it had been kinder. You stared at him, thinking over his words. Thomas waited, reaching out to touch your skirt. It was only to pick at it for a moment, before he drew his hand away.
You couldn't tell if that was the only reason Thomas wanted to kiss you, if there wasn't some ulterior motive somewhere. You wouldn't put it past him. But, really, he was right. Not to mention, while the pair of you had been affectionate, had you been affectionate enough?
That's what was so aggravating about Thomas. He was always right. He saw clear through whatever facade anyone put up, and saw the truth. Perhaps, that's why he was such a good liar.
Perhaps, that's why he was staring at you.
"Fine." You said, before you looked over your shoulder. You were in the field, but you were more or less a public spectacle. You could hear Thomas draw closer, feel the warmth of his hand reach for your arm.
"Let them look." He said as he gave a tug on your arm, and you turned back to face him. It was strange to hear him say that, such a stark difference from what you were used to. To have him so close was different than before, but Thomas didn't close the gap. You supposed he was waiting for you to do that. He whispered, "Well?" And, finally, you did. It was a short kiss, a quick stolen one. Still, it made Thomas smile. "So chaste." He let out a small laugh, and it was your turn to scoff. "Are you sure-" And you could guess what he was going to say. You kissed him again, if only to silence him. It was deeper, firmer than your last had been. And you hated to admit that you didn't hate it. Thomas was well-practiced, and the feeling of his thumb grazing your cheek was nearly as warm as the feeling of the sun on your back. It made another feeling start, one that you tried to stamp out that very second. You pulled away again, cutting it short. Thomas, for just a moment, tried to follow you before he pulled back. He had a small smile on his face, one he didn't try to hide as he pushed his hair back.
"You're practiced." You said quietly, the closest thing to a compliment you could give him. You'd heard rumors of him galavanting with the likes of Abbi Berman and some of the others. Perhaps, there was some truth to them. Thomas glanced over, and returned the words,
"Aye, so are you." When he smiled and glanced down at your belly, you knew the jab had been intended. And, unfortunately, he'd managed to make you laugh.
***
You knew it was coming. You had prepared yourself for it. Before the wedding, the pastor would counsel both of you. And, he was going to counsel you first.
You stood in a dress your mother had made, with your corset done loosely as not to press on your stomach. You'd been staring out the window, at the cloudless day and the happy faces of your town. Why shouldn't they be happy? It was the day for a celebration.
You'd even caught glimpses of Thomas. Your mother was fussing over him, and Issac had swiped his pouch. He looked- Well, you could tell he'd been scrubbed down. Most of his teeth were still black, but in clean clothes and with a clean face...Perhaps, he didn't look terrible. You tilted your head, and, almost as if he could feel you staring, Thomas' head turned. He caught your eyes, and reflected your posture with a tilt of his own head. It made you smile, something you found was less forced the more time you spent with him. Your head turned from him when you heard someone come in.
"Wonderful day for a wedding." Cyrus said as he closed the door to the chapel, and you tried to manage a smile. "Sit." He said, and gestured to one of the pews. You did, and you both kept your distance. The chapel was dim, only lit by the light outside. The pair of you were silent for a moment, before Cyrus said, "The magistrate is here. He seems eager to start. Do you," He paused for a moment. "Do you have any doubts?" And you felt that the question was not quite as empty as anyone else would think.
You'd been staring at your hands, and you finally lifted your gaze to him. To his deep, dark brown eyes. After a moment, you found your voice.
"None at all. Thomas is- He shall be the father to his child, and he shall be my husband. I shall do my duties, and, I- I love him." It was hard to say, at least when Cyrus sat in front of you. "What is there to doubt?" You asked, your question equally as heavy. While none of you would say it plainly, you knew from the way he looked over your face that he understood you perfectly. The pair of you would never confess your secret, and you'd let the hatchet be buried. Forgotten.
"Does he know?" Cyrus asked, and you knew what it sounded like. In case any of the others were listening. Like he was asking if your soon to be husband knew you loved him. The question couldn't be more disguised. Really, his eyes said, Does he know about us?
"Yes. Or, I think he does." You replied, and you watched how Cyrus reached to touch his clean-shaven face. His face was half hidden by his hand, but you could see his eyes were disturbed. A secret was harder to keep the more people knew, but you said, "And he loves me. He'd do anything to keep this union." You told him, and you hoped he got your meaning. When Cyrus glanced at you, you guessed he did. Silently, your eyes said, If he does, Thomas won't tell. And, after a pause, Cyrus let out a sigh.
"Then, there seems little I have to counsel you on."
***
"Have you thought of a name?" Thomas asked you, and you hummed.
You were picking at your sheet, looking towards the window. It had been months, five if not nearly six. Your baby was due in only a few weeks now, and you still hadn't decided. Your husband, a word to describe him that didn't seem so weird now, laid besides you facing up towards the roof.
Thomas, well, he was not what you thought. He had a good, if not sometimes strange, sense of humor, and did not bruise easily from even the harshest words. He could take care of himself, after years of doing so, and, subsequently, you as well. Your mother and the mid-wife still came by to make sure you were in good health, but Thomas had most of it handled. He was a little lazy when it came to work, especially the work your father tried to give him, but he seemed to find that the work that came with having his own house agreed with him. The pair of you had become- Well, familiar. That was the word you would use. You couldn't say, nearly six months later, that it was still just pretending.
Still, Thomas didn't touch you in any way you wouldn't want him to, and you had to lift your head to throw a glance back to him.
"I have some ideas. Perhaps, if it's a girl," You paused, a sly grin coming to your face, "We could name her Abigail." And you watched him scoff and roll his eyes, even lift his head off of his arm for a moment as he said,
"Absolutely not." And you snickered to yourself as you went back to facing away from him. It was just a jest, a reference to an old dalliance of his, but Thomas, if anything, was fun to tease. The only issue was that Thomas was just as sharp when it came to his wit. "Y'know- Fine. Then, if it's a boy, we shall name him Cyrus." And you let out a noise of protest. You tried to roll over, declaring,
"No!" And now it was Thomas' turn to laugh. He placed a hand on your shoulder, trying to ease you back down. You let him, and even reached to hold his arm. To pull him closer. He followed, and you guided his hand above your bulging stomach as the pair of you adjusted. "Fine- Neither of those names. But, we must think of something." You told him, feeling as he stretched his fingers over where your baby grew. He held you, his warmth against your back. His hand rubbing your stomach lightly.
It made a strange sense of warmth fill you, one you couldn't blame from body-heat. And, it wasn't so terrible that you tried to push it, or him, away.
***
"She cries like no other child in Union." Thomas said as he climbed into your bed. You were supposed to be resting, healing, even weeks, nearly two months, after your child's birth. You felt like you'd been confined to your bed for so long that you were starting to become a part of it. Thomas was only here for the break your father gave him half-way through the day. Still, you smiled to yourself from where you laid on your side, and said,
"Perhaps, it is your smell that disturbs her." You said, your voice thick with sleep but a cheeky grin working onto your face. You shouldn't have prompted him, because he took the opportunity to drape himself heavily over your back.
"Oh, should I sleep outside tonight then?" He asked, and you giggled when you felt his stubble tickling your cheek.
It was already long into the day, and you'd become lazy from bed-rest. It felt far too nice to have his warmth wrapped around you, to where you nearly wanted to fall asleep. You had grown too used to it now, and you could barely imagine a night without it.
"I never said that." You responded, and turned your face back towards the softness of your pillow. You felt Thomas' hand raise, his fingertips brush against your cheek. He was being brave, especially when you felt his lips brush against your neck. It made you bite your lip, a twinge of something not so unfamiliar swirling in your belly. You wondered if he would continue. Hell, you wanted him to. But, it was nothing more than that.
Thomas, to your surprise, had more restraint than you would've assumed. He kissed your cheek, went to stand, and excused himself with,
"Your father will begin to wonder where I am." And you lifted your head to watch him step away, before you settled back down. He was clean, cleaner than he had been when he'd been sleeping in the outhouse. His hair was softer and longer, tied away from his face. And his arms seemed stronger, perhaps from the days of working with your father. He was, if you dared to think so, a kind sight to your eyes now. "Sleep. I'll be back by the time you wake." He told you, and, as he left, you found yourself hoping he was right.
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Oh My Dear Master List
Summary: For [F Name] [L Name], Manhattan was nothing but a hellhole. She got out and wasn’t ever coming back. When a set of cut-rate superheroes tears the city apart, however, her grandmother sucks her back into that familiar life of loneliness and angry customers. Even worse, one of those superheroes has decided to use [Name] in another crazy plan to “help” his best friend. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Tony’s plan just might work-if only for a few months.
Challenge: “#1 AVENGERS ULTIMATE CHALLENGE!!!!“ by DancingBubbles on Lunaescence Archives.
Ratings/Warnings/Tags: T (foul language; sexual references; manipulative friends who won’t take no for an answer; dead parents; difficult relationships with family members; some language that might border on verbal abuse from a family member; angst; contrived coincidences; a generally unresearched depiction of paraplegia; set post-Avengers (2012) and pre-Age of Ultron; Tony & Bruce friendship)
Pairings: Bruce Banner/Female!Reader; Tony Stark/Pepper Potts; Past!Bruce Banner/Betty Ross
Notes: This is my very first (and thus far admittedly only) completed novel-length fan fiction. As a result, it is, in my humble opinion, not great. It’s not quite to Old Shame levels, because I’ve definitely written worse...*casually shoves Digimon 02 OC fan fic written in high school into a dark room* I’m pleased to have completed something, however, so I continue to tote it around with me from site to site. The style is simply very bare bones compared to my current writing style. Also, while I did do research for some things, there’s a lot left that, if I were to write this story from scratch today, I would spend more time researching (or things I would research, period, that I didn’t at the time).
This has been edited for basic grammar and spelling and paragraph formatting and a handful of quick fixes to the more egregious plot holes in the past year. I’m sure there are still mistakes. As always, you are welcome to make me aware of any that you find.
I was actually asked to answer this challenge. The only two requirements (well, for the most part) were that it be a certain amount of chapters (20, if I recall correctly), and that the reader be a civilian. I’m happy to report that I won…but there was only one other entry that didn’t even meet the requirements, so it’s not really something to brag about.
Posting Status: Complete
Chapter 1: Meet Cute
Chapter 2: The World for a Coconut
Chapter 3: What Else Is New?
Chapter 4: With Friends Like These
Chapter 5: Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Wrong Life
Chapter 6: Blind Date
Chapter 7: Dead on Arrival
Chapter 8: Second Time’s the Charm
Chapter 9: From a Different Point of View
Chapter 10: Just Who’s in Charge Here?
Chapter 11: An Ass By Any Other Name
Chapter 12: Two Steps Forward, Three Steps Back
Chapter 13: Can’t Keep Your Demons in a Bottle
Chapter 14: Regrets? I’ve Had a Few
Chapter 15: Ghosts of the Past
Chapter 16: Baby Steps
Chapter 17: Just Beneath the Surface
Chapter 18: Skeletons Live in More Than Closets
Chapter 19: It’s Never Pretty
Chapter 20: Breakdown
Chapter 21: “Luck” Is Not the Right Word
Chapter 22: True Beauty Is on the Inside
Chapter 23: Let’s Just Get This Over With
Chapter 24: NDA
Chapter 25: Beautiful Things
Epilogue
#fan fic#straw writes#master list#reader insert#second person pov#bruce banner#hulk#avengers#marvel#mcu#bruce banner x reader#bruce banner x you#bruce banner x y/n#hulk x reader#hulk x you#hulk x y/n#mcu x you#mcu x y/n#mcu x reader#marvel x reader#marvel x you#marvel x y/n#avengers x reader#avengers x you#avengers x y/n
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Maxwell Lord’s Aphrodite - Pt 1
Summary: When Maxwell Lord’s world comes crashing down, you, his personal assistant bring him back from the pits of despair.
Pairings: Maxwell Lord x Reader (female), Maxwell Lord x You
Rating: Mature 18+ ONLY - I’ve also put a smut alert ahead in bold if you want to skip straight to the good bits ;)
Word Count: 7,381
Warnings: Sexual intercourse, foreplay, mentions of domestic abuse, trauma, drug/alcohol abuse.
A/N: This is my first fan-fic, so the writing might not be fantastic, but if you have any pointers/advice please tell me! I always read stories about Maxwell being a domineering guy and never stories about how he can be romantic and soft. When I watched WW84 especially at the end I saw how emotional and vulnerable he was with Alistair and wanted to write a story that portrayed him as a big cuddly teddy bear under all that masculine exterior. Enjoy!
You’ve worked for black and gold corporation for the better part of 7 years. You were hired as an intern assistant at just 21, soon after the company jettisoned from its humble beginnings inside a matchbox office suite on the corner of a strip mall, to a stock market listed company leasing the top floor in the tallest high rise office building in Los Angeles. Soon after moving in, the top floor office was packed with young, vibrant men and women who helped profits soar. But even at its busiest, Maxwell always made time for his staff. No matter what he was going through, he would give his staff his undivided attention and empathy. If they were having personal or professional problems, he would do everything he could to help. It aligned with his company motto, “life is good, but it can be better”.
He believed it was important to be as personable and helpful to others as possible, he felt that it was imperative to his own success. Only you knew this really stemmed from his less than favourable upbringing, being abused by his father, bullied by his peers and having to work hard for his achievements. He could be having the worst day, but he would never make it known to his team, all except you of course, being his personal assistant. As you spent a large amount of time together, Maxwell confided in and involved you in many personal areas of his life. 6 months after you started working for Max, he invited you and your then boyfriend to his wedding, stealing a waltz from you at the Reception. A year later, when his son, Alistair was born, he would show you picture after picture of baby photos, gushing about how proud he was to be a father. 3 years later when the company had its first day on the US stock exchange, you and Max stayed up all night at the office running through press releases, interviews and planning the next 6 months of his now very hectic schedule. When Alistair would come to the office to visit, you would babysit and play with him, change him, feed him, read him stories and sing him to sleep.
As he started to grow up, you soon rivaled Max in Alistair’s favourite person to spend time with at the office. Two years ago when you ended up in a very bad car accident and broke your arm, Max showed up personally to the hospital looking frantically worried about you. He even brought along Alistair who was helping carry a giant bouquet of flowers, a teddy bear and balloons. He stayed overnight after your surgery, sleeping in the most awkward positions on the single armchair next to your hospital bed. While you were in surgery, he made sure your work health insurance covered every cent and even provided company paid physiotherapy so you could get better properly. You knew you were in love with him since that dance at his wedding, but you had too much respect and adoration for him to be a homewrecker. Plus, you just assumed as he was so involved with all of his staff, that it didn’t mean he would be into you romantically.
As you were required to attend many of the shareholder and CCO/CEO/CFO meetings to take minutes, you became intrigued with the world of business and economics. So you enrolled in a Bachelor’s degree part time through a local University. At the time, women in business was largely unheard of, and to avoid sexist comments and discrimination, you told no one. When the Global Financial Crisis hit, it slammed into Maxwell’s dreams like a meteoroid. Overtime was required at the office and you spent most of your time in Max’s office doing paperwork for staff that had been laid off due to the budget cuts. Each day he would be on the phone, yelling at other business men on the other side of the world. You watched his positive energetic demeanor slowly chip away, as his drinks cart full of spirits and liqueurs dwindled alongside. Not long after, Black and Gold’s Chief Financial Officer and advisors within the company were arrested for Insider Trading and other shady business dealings.
Throughout all of this, you had given Max as much support, personally and professionally as you could, while still being respectful and platonic as he was a married man. With most of the staff gone and the company’s finances in disarray from the GFC and mismanagement, the universe dealt Max the final blow, his divorce. His wife, who was clearly only interested in him for his money and how it could provide her a cushy lifestyle, filed for divorce as the company was failing. She tried to take him to the cleaners financially, but Max was smart enough to have a prenuptial agreement and keep what was left of his dwindling fortune. So she used their son, Alistair, as a pawn in her game. The courts granted Max shared custody, but only one visit per fortnight. This devastated him as his son was his whole world.
He didn’t want to become destitute by giving up his fortune to his wife, but he didn’t want to lose his son, either. It started to tear him apart, leading to drunken nights in his office, alone. Except, he wasn’t totally alone. Every night, after everyone had gone home, you would stay back late each night to check on him and make sure he hadn’t done anything stupid. You would sit in one of the barren office cubicles with a vantage point to his office, but invisible to see from his desk. With tears sitting at the edges of your eyes, you silently watch him drink enough alcohol to chill out a bull, take some pills, flip through photo books of Alistair and start to sob. This went on for months. Overdue bills and foreclosure notices started to pile up on his desk. Egregiously inflated child support payment requests from his ex-wife littered the coffee table in his office.
Today was an exceptionally hard day, Max had received a resignation letter from his second last employee, leaving just you and him in the office. He slept on the futon in his office the night before, waking up looking disheveled, his tie pulled loose, shirt half tucked, suit jacket on the floor and his shoes god knows where. He looked awful.
Night falls, shrouding the office in darkness. Apart from a few desk lights, the floor is cold & dark. As you start packing boxes with office paperwork and belongings, you glance over to see the outline of Max at his desk, with his back turned, silently smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of whiskey on ice. He reaches back for a brief moment, to press the answering machine, illuminated by his desk lamp. *beep* Message received, Wednesday, 4:33 pm “Hello Maxwell this is Brittany from AMP investments, your lease agreement with us has been defaulted for 6 months now with $150,000 in rent arrears. If it is not paid by the 30th of this month, building management will deactivate access to the floor and repossess any remaining belongings on the property. *beep* End Message. Message received Thursday, 5:43 pm “Max it’s Barb, I’m cancelling Alistair’s visit this weekend, seeing as you don’t want to pay me any extra child support.” *beep* End Message. Message received today, 7:02 pm “Hey Daddy, it’s Alistair, Mommy said I can’t come over because you’re working too much to see me. I wish you weren’t working all the time so we could play together and go to the movies and-“ you hear Barb, Max’s ex wife cut him off with “Alistair? What are you doing on the phone?! Who are you talking to?” Alistair whines, “I wanted to talk to Daddy” suddenly the sound of the receiver slams into the phone. *beep* End Message. You have no new messages.
The office is dead silent, but you can audibly hear the sound of Max’s heart shattering into a thousand pieces. He begins to cry, slowly shrinking in his chair, slumping down with his forearms on his knees and his head bowed. The cries slowly become more intense, with Max gasping for air between the long loud shrieks as his whole body shakes. “Alistair! My Alistair! My boy! I’ve failed you! Your Daddy failed you!” He wails, tears freely flooding down his face and snot dripping out of his nose, both like endless waterfalls. He drops to his knees and collapses onto the carpet, like he’s been shot right through the chest. He continues to sob & wail, forgetting that he isn’t alone in the office. You walk to the doorway of his office, frozen with indecision. Your heart was pounding and eyes on the verge of tears from what you just heard. On one hand you feel like you’re intruding on something extremely personal and maybe somewhat embarrassing for Maxwell, but you’ve never seen him like this and he looked like he was physically dying.
“Mr Lord, is everything okay?” Your soft voice quietly called out from the doorway of his office. Your medicated voice jolts Max out of his catatonic state and into a sitting upright position, as he quickly wipes his face and fixes his hair. “Oh, Ug-I’m so sorry for you to see me like this, it’s quite unbecoming of me” Maxwell apologises, trying to play it off with a light hearted chuckle between quiet heaved sobs. You catch a frozen stare, peering straight into his soul past the bloodshot, weepy but warm, brown irises.
Your heart is thumping hard, as if to try and break out of your ribcage and fly over to him. Max had been there for all of his staff, especially you. You couldn’t walk away after everyone else in his life had abandoned or given up on him. “You don’t need to apologise, Mr Lord.” You slowly reply, stepping over the booze bottles littering his office floor as you walk over to him. He’s frantically adjusting his outfit and hair, to look as put together as possible before you sit down beside him on the floor. You both sit there in silence, with the odd sniffle coming from Max’s nose. You finally pucker up the courage and say “I didn’t want to intrude but I heard the voice messages, I’m so sorry all of this has happened to you, Max”.
He had never heard you say his name before, it was always “Mr Lord”. It felt like honey soothing his dry strained throat as it rolled off your tongue. You continued, “You’ve always been there for me”, you paused to redirect attention, “for all of us. What can I do to help?”. You reach out and place your hand on his. Your warm, soft touch sends a shock wave of emotion through his body. No one has cared about him like this before, let alone touched him in such a gentle way. Max stares at your now teary eyes, realising he can be vulnerable and trust his longest and closest friend.
He collapses by your side, crying into your shoulder “I’m a failure” he sobs “My business, my marriage and most importantly I’ve failed my son. I just hope one day that he can forgive me and love me and be proud of me. He is my whole life, I just want him back”. You start to choke up but you have to remain composed. You look up and away, silently biting your knuckle and blinking tears back into your eyes before responding. “Max, you are not a failure, you are an exceptional human being. You built this company from nothing and you changed peoples lives. And don’t even get me started with Alistair, you’re the best father a kid could ask for, it’s not your fault your ex wife is being abusive”. He continues to sob, so you wrap your arm around his side and let him cry for a few minutes. The smell of his chemically lightened & straightened dark blonde hair filled your nostrils as his forehead pressed against your chin.
His large fingers and palms grip your free hand. They’re surprisingly soft & very warm. You freeze as his touch sends zaps of electricity up your arm and down your body. As Maxwell leans against you, your perfume overloads his senses, bringing him back to a conscious state. What was he doing? He thought to himself. I’m a failure, and everything I get close to fails or leaves. He looks down at your hands. I can’t hurt such an amazing person. I have to rip off the metaphorical bandaid and be cruel to be kind. “Thank you” he sighs, catching his breath after minutes of sobbing “You can go home now. In fact, I want you to take a redundancy payout so you can find another job. There’s nothing left for you here. I’m a failure and I don’t want you drowning with the ship” he says, in a clinically professional voice. Max hands you a company envelope with your name on it. He sits up to take a sip on the remaining whiskey left in his glass.
Your ears begin to burn and your cheeks redden with anger. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes, begging for them to flow. “Alfred will take you home in the company car, or wherever you want to go”. He continues, now smoking a cigarette.
“But what If I don’t want to go?” You whisper, trying to hide the sobs that are trying to break through your voice. “Please, I just want you to be happy” Max replies. You take great offence at his ignorant statements, as if he knows what makes you truly happy. “How do you know what makes me happy, Max?” You huff, standing up abruptly and folding your arms. “Well, I don’t know, but I can’t exactly see how you would be happy staying here while my company fails” he answers, shrugging. You feel your heart begin to break, realising that even being single and having such a close professional relationship with you, Max seemed to hold no deeper feelings for you and was almost starting to turn on you. You stand there wanting to run for the door but trying to think logically. Men are dim, maybe he doesn’t realise your true feelings? Maybe he’s preoccupied with his own and too overwhelmed to face them?
Max’s embarrassment from being caught in such a vulnerable state compounded with offending you takes its toll and he starts to get frustrated and impatient. “I think I just want to be alone now”. He sighs, looking away. The words cut deep, slicing you apart like ribbons. You begin to feel yourself fall apart, your emotions and thoughts spilling out with force. “I can’t leave” you sob, hanging your head in shame. Hearing you start to cry, he starts to hate himself more as he's clearly made you upset. With emotions bubbling over, he stands up, looking at you with tears in his eyes. “Why? Why can’t you leave!?” He shouts, a pained look of frustration and confusion on his face as he puts his hands on your arms, gently shaking you to get you to speak.
The last of the ribbons tying up your words from coming out fall down around you. You look deep into his crazed brown eyes, longing for an answer. “Because I love you!” You blurt out, sobbing. The tension in the room is now thick enough to cut with a knife. “I’ve loved you since the night we danced at your wedding. I fell in love with one of the most empathic, intelligent, hard working and compassionate men I know. You changed my life and every day I wish I could’ve shown you the love & kindness you deserve. That you need”. You step back from his grip, straightening your pantsuit as you compose yourself. “But I guess if I’m not needed anymore, I’ll leave you alone, Mr Lord”. The duality of your emotive declaration of love against the rigid clinical final words lurched his heart forward like a freight train and then slammed against his rib cage with the force of 100Gs.
You start to stride towards the door, but Maxwell follows behind you quickly, grabbing your hand, where you turn around on your heels. He grabs both of your hands and brings them up between you, squeezing them gently. “Pl-please don’t, don’t leave me” he begs, “you-you’re all I have left”. His dark brown eyes shimmer with tears as he shoots you a pleading gaze. He drops to his knees, wrapping his arms around your legs and squeezing tight like he's hanging on for dear life. You stand frozen on the spot, feeling Max’s warm breath on your legs as he heaves a few more cries. As you start to run your hands through his dark blonde locks, the sensation calms your mind and you reach your hands down to cup Max’s face, tilting it up to look at you. “I won't, Max” you say with a concerned gaze. “As long as you don’t push me away”. Max nods silently as he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his pocket square. He stands up and starts to gently wipe your tears away. “I’m so sorry” he apologises “I lashed out because I felt like a failure and I didnt want to let you down anymore and disappoint you.” he continues while making sure he’s wiped all of the tears from your cheeks and cleaned up some of your smudged makeup. “You’re not a failure, Max” you reply, “You’re an incredible man and you should be proud of everything you have achieved”.
Max gives you a small smile, blushing slightly as he gently embraces you with his big arms, pulling you close against his chest. His strong cologne masked the slight tinge of body odour from not showering mixed into a masculine and attractive scent. You quietly inhale as much as your lungs will allow, savouring every smell. As he starts to brush through your curls with his large fingers, he plants a small kiss on your head, making you feel like you could melt out of his arms and into a puddle on the floor. “I’m sorry, too.” you whisper. “Sorry for what?” he quizzes, looking down at you, puzzled. “For telling you that I love you. It’s true, but I feel like it was not the most appropriate time to tell you with everything that’s going on with Alistar, the company, your-” Max interrupts your sentence “Come with me”. Max strides you across his office floor with his arm around your waist. You both walk over to an unassuming door, which you always thought led to a supply closet. Upon its opening, you step into the room to reveal a whole bedroom, complete with a dining table, sofa, TV and ensuite. You had been Max’s personal assistant for 7 years and had no idea such a room even existed. “Wow” you manage to blurt out in complete shock. “I had this room made so that when I was working long hours my ex-wife and Alistair could stay here” Max explained, adjusting bits and bobs around the room “Although my ex-wife never stayed. She always accused me of sleeping with other women in this bed when in fact I was actually working. I kind of live here now, having sold my estate to pay to keep the company running”
He gestures to you to sit on the timber art deco dining chair, as he picks up the phone on the coffee table. “Alfred. Can you please take a drive and bring back any decent takeout food you find. Make sure to get some for yourself, too”. Max hangs up the phone before turning on the radio and then grabs two wine glasses from the small bar by the lounge and a bottle of red wine. He places both glasses on the table and fills both half way. You pick up your glass and walk over to the floor to ceiling window, overlooking downtown LA. As Max is fussing over tidying and making the room perfect, he glances over to see you standing alone, looking out the window. Lost in your own little world, you feel Max’s large soft hand intertwine with your free hand. “I started black and gold in a shoebox office inside a strip mall, over there, in South LA” he points just in front of the hills. He pauses. “I expect that after I get evicted I won’t even be able to lease that same office”. You give his hand a small squeeze. “Maybe I could help you”. Max looks at you dubiously. “How do you mean?” He inquired.
Just as you were planning to answer, Alfred arrives with some food. Max walks over to your dining chair and pulls it out, gesturing for you to sit. You take your seat and he flaps a linen napkin into your lap, before sitting down adjacent to you. Alfred had bought some delicious Mexican food, the intoxicating smell of meats, cheeses and spices filling the room. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll call you again if we need anything” Max smiles, patting Alfred on the back as he leaves. You both sit at the table for hours, eating, drinking and talking about the company. Max finally learns the secret that you’ve been hiding about studying at University. “I haven’t officially graduated yet, but learning what I have, I could probably help Black and Gold get out of its current predicament. I also might know some investors that I befriended in the same units as me from the University”. Max shoots you a soft smile. “You really are the best assistant and friend anyone could ask for” he beams, placing his hand on yours. Embarrassed by his compliment and burning with desire to want to kiss him, you stand up and head over to the couch to distract yourself from your intense feelings. Max realises the use of the word friend was probably a poor choice. He must be honest with you and tell you how he feels. Max joins you on the couch where your arms are crossed and you’re staring ahead. You’re trying to avoid eye contact else you’ll burst into flames.
********SMUT ALERT********
“I hope you don’t think I’m rude or ignoring the impassioned declaration you made earlier” Max smiles “I just wanted to give you a semi-decent first date”. You feel your cheeks begin to blush and you unfold your arms. “The truth is” Max continues, resting his hand on yours. “I feel the same way about you. Even before my ex-wife divorced me, I started to fall in love with you. The way you are with Alistair, how committed you are to helping me. I just didn’t think you’d wanna be with an older man like me and even more so when everything started to go downhill”.
You place your hand on top of Max’s, both now staring at each other softly yet intensely. “Max” you turn to face him, edging closer. Max nervously places his hands on your cheeks. “I’ve waited for 7 years, please kiss me”.
Max finally kisses your lips, setting your whole body alight. Dizzy from the sensation, you lay back on the couch as Max follows down on top of you. He begins peppering slow, thoughtfully placed kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a whimper as your hands twirl through his hair. Every movement he makes is slow, as if he is trying to slow down time and make this moment last forever. Max comes back up and passionately kisses your mouth, your tongue begging his for entrance. As your tongues intertwine, he holds your head and neck with one hand, while stroking your hair with the other. Max holds you gently yet strongly in his arms, like he’s holding onto a fragile Fabergé egg. With the position you’re in on the couch and the impracticality of your work attire in non-work sitting positions, he senses that you’re uncomfortable.
“May I?” He asks, holding the zipper to your dress as he places his arms behind your back. You nod and he slowly unzips it, gently slipping it off you and carefully folding it over the armrest of the lounge. Overcome with passion and desire from Max’s romantic gestures, you blurt out “I want you to take me, Max”. Without a word, he scoops you up in his arms and walks you over to the bed, placing you down gently in the middle. Max sits at the foot of the bed, marvelling at your stunning body. You’re wearing stockings and a purple lingerie set, coincidentally Max’s favourite colour.
Max leans down and kisses the top of your foot, peppering kisses up your legs before reaching the clips of your garter belt. He unclasps them before rolling down the stockings, kissing back down your legs. Burning with desire, you unclasp your bra and garter belt, throwing them to the side of the bed. Max looks up from kissing your legs to see your breasts exposed in the moonlight, your nipples hard from his gaze.
“Y-you look absolutely beautiful” he chokes before climbing up on top of you to reach your face. You blush, feeling Max’s extremely hard cock straining in his suit trousers against your thigh. “Kiss me, Max” you moan, brushing your lips against his and moving your hand down towards his crotch. Max slowly and passionately begins to kiss you, your tongues swirling in each other’s mouths, the taste of wine and chilli making for a sensual combination. As your hand reaches Max’s crotch, you begin to grope and rub his sizeable length, causing him to let out a loud moan. You shoot him a cheeky sexual gaze, but he grabs your hand and brings it up for you to cup the side of his face. “Not just yet my little dove” he whispers. You pout but decide to put your hands to better use and unbutton his shirt, revealing his strong chiseled chest. Max starts to breathe deeper from arousal as you unbuckle his belt and throw it to the floor. “I want to take my time with you” Max whispers “You’ve waited so long and I want this moment to be everything you deserve. I want to worship and pleasure you completely”.
Your pussy is now completely soaked, the faint squelches from your juices against your panties sounds in the background of Max kissing your neck. Maxwell is more preoccupied with taking his time in a combination of making up for lost time with you, giving you the best first time with him and making this moment last as long as possible. “Guide me” Max sighs between kisses, giving you his free hand. Holding it with both hands, you guide him down your neck and to your breasts. Max traces your breasts, flicking your nipples as he watches you whine with pleasure. Slowly he leans down and begins to suck on them, gently swirling his tongue and flicking. He kisses from one breast to the other, squeezing them in his hand. “Your body is perfect. Your skin is so soft.” he moans. By this time you’re rubbing your thighs together in an effort to stimulate your clit without your hands as they’re gripping Max’s dark blonde hair.
“Max, take off your pants” you pant, becoming overstimulated from all this teasing foreplay. He stands up off the bed and unzips his trousers, pulling them down to reveal his rock hard cock. “Oh Max” you moan, reaching down under your panties to touch yourself as his cock twitches. Max hurriedly crawls onto the bed and back up to your face, pulling your hand out of your panties. He brings your fingers close to his mouth and rubs them on his lips before bringing his tongue out to swirl around them, sucking your juices off them. “Touch me Max” you immediately whimper “I need your touch”. Max moans before kissing you passionately. As you both enjoy your tender kiss, Max traces his hand down your body, over your breasts, along your stomach and reaches the edge of your panties. Max reaches into your panties and gently places a finger at the top of your pussy, gently but firmly pressing down as he traces over your clit and down to your opening. Your wetness has coated every inch of your pussy. “You’re so wet” he pants, the sensation starts to send some beads of precum out the tip of his cock. “For you” you moan, writhing in pleasure at his calculated & lingering touch.
Looking deep into your eyes, Max rubs your folds slowly before he inserts two fingers gently but deep inside you. He begins to switch between a circling and a come hither motion on your g-spot, sending sparks shooting up through your body. You arch your back and let out a moan, while Max kisses your neck. “Oh Max baby that feels so good” you moan, gripping the sheets. “You feel amazing” Max sighs, brushing your hair out of your face so he can study your facial expressions as he pleasures you. Just when you thought it couldn’t feel any more amazing, Max places his thumb onto your clitoris, bringing you closer to climax in a matter of milliseconds. “Oh my god Max, Max I’m gonna cum” you moan into his neck, biting him. Max continues fingering you, intently watching your face waiting for you to reach orgasm.
Between Max’s fingering, his kisses and eye contact it doesn’t take long for it all to send you over the edge, riding into a full body orgasm, squirting all over Max’s hand. “You’re so beautiful baby” Max coos, holding your body close with his fingers still inside you as your back arches and your body trembles while you let out a long loud moan. Despite this exquisite display and sensation happening between your legs, Max keeps eye contact with you, peering deep into your soul, completely enamoured. As you start to come down from your orgasm, Max slowly removes his fingers and sucks them clean. “You taste incredible, so sweet baby” he moans, licking the squirt off his hand. As you begin to catch your breath, Max kisses down your body and reaches your pussy, where he begins to lap up the rest of your juices. Very gently, Max parts the puffy pussy lips covering your clit. He starts to lick in between the folds, avoiding your clit as it recovers from the intense orgasm. He travels down to your entrance where he sticks his tongue inside, tasting your juices inside you.
The hum from his moan as he eats you out relaxes you like a lullaby. Max then comes back up to your face, kissing your forehead. “That was incredible Max” you pant, staring up at the ceiling. He rests his lips against your neck, cupping your breast and gently squeezing it and thumbing your nipple. “Let me pleasure you Max, please” you beg, giving him a pleading gaze. Max obliges as you change positions with him now lying on his back. You cup his face with one hand, giving him a loving smile as his hand grabs yours. He starts to kiss you as your hands both guide down his chest, stomach and reach his groin. You begin to tease him, tracing your fingertips around the base of his cock, then up the shaft. Your light touches cause his cock to twitch. “Your touch is magical'' Max groans as your hand grips his shaft and travels up to his tip. His precum has soaked the head, giving you enough lubricant to slowly jerk your hand up and down, gripping tightly.
The sensation for Max is heavenly, panting and moaning between kissing your cheeks and forehead as you concentrate your gaze on his pulsing cock. Your jerking movements become more intense as you look up to see Max with his eyes closed, like he’s dreaming and if he opens them you’ll cease to exist. You continue to jerk him as you kiss his neck, feeling his cock harden even more and begin to pulse rapidly, like he’s getting close. “W-wait” Max whimpers. “I want this night to be about pleasuring you. Your mere presence pleasures me enough.” He kisses your hand & cups your cheek, looking deeply into your eyes. “What can I do to please you? Would you like t-to make love?”. Your heart bursts with emotion as this man is so set on pleasuring you so much. “Yes Max, I would love that very much” you sigh.
You lay back down on the bed, Max lying by your side. He begins to embrace you, running his hands over your body before kissing down your neck and chest as he rubs your clit. Max stops for a moment, studying your beautiful naked body. He then moves down and pushes your legs up, exposing your pussy. As you squeeze your breasts and look at his chiseled jaw, Max nervously lines up his cock before rubbing it on your clit, soaking the tip in your wetness. Impatient with how he’s teasing you, you whisper “Fuck me Maxwell”. Slowly, he pushes his cock down your clitoris and through your folds before the tip pushes inside. Without even being all the way inside, he moans “this must be what Heaven feels like”. With one gentle thrust, he’s completely inside, shuddering as your warm, tight, wet walls squeeze his cock shaft and tip. “Oh my god Max. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment” you moan, as he starts to slowly thrust. “M-me too beautiful” he grunts, feeling pure ecstasy wash over him as your pussy tenses, massaging his twitching length. A few minutes go by of you both silently staring intensely into each other’s eyes, kissing passionately. With every thrust you begin to connect deeper to Max, your bodies intertwining on a physical, emotion and spiritual level. Max’s cock twitches inside you as he watches you moan and bite your lip, squeezing your breasts.
“I can’t believe you love a man, a man like me” Max says still in disbelief, watching your body motion up and down as he slowly strokes in and out of you. He studies your body intensely, watching the moonlight and shadows play across your curves as your breasts bounce with every thrust. “You’re so beautiful Hermosa”, his mother tongue now coming through “como una diosa, like, A-Aphrodité.” he sighs, cupping your face with both hands. You cover his hands with yours, interlocking your fingers, turning your face each way slightly to kiss his palms and stare back at him lovingly and seductively, feeling like you could float away. “Your Aphrodite” you sigh, arching back slightly in pleasure, gripping his hands to guide them down to your breasts for him to lovingly caress and fondle. In slight shock at your romantic response, he immediately leans down whilst thrusting and peppers kisses all over your lips, letting out a sniffle.
With his eyes closed, focusing on lasting to bring you pleasure and to hide his emotions, a few tears drop onto your cheeks as he continues to thrust, now grunting each time into your neck to cover up the small sobs. You kiss his cheek, to take his tears away, the saltiness turning into sweet nectar on your tongue. “It’s okay baby, you can be vulnerable with me, I will protect you. I love you”. You choke, now crying also. Both sharing a connection transcending physically, in that exact moment, without an increase in volume, the lyrics of the Bob Dylan song playing on the radio seem to stand out and ring true in this very moment;
Storm clouds are raging all around my door, I think to myself I might not take it any more. Take a woman like your kind, To find the man in me. But, oh, what a wonderful feeling, Just to know that you are near. Sets my a heart a-reeling, From my toes up to my ears...
Your foreheads now together, staring deeply into each other’s eyes, Max whimpers “I love you so much” as his whole body begins to tense, signalling he’s on the precipice of an orgasm. Feeling his cock become even harder as it thrusts into the deepest part of your pussy, slamming the extra nerves to unlock your powerful orgasm. “Oh my god Max I’m gonna cum” you moan, slamming your eyes shut as you begin to try and slow down so this moment can last forever. “Cum mi reina” Max pants, keeping the tempo of his thrusting steady as the waves of your orgasm reach its peak before crashing down & flooding your entire body. Your body arches and trembles as you scream “Oh Max!” while your pussy clamping down & releasing in pulses on Max’s cock. The sight of you orgasming tied with the sensation around his cock sends Max over the edge. “Cielo” Max groans, shuddering all over as his cock spurts thick ropes of cum against your sensitive cervix. You both share a passionate kiss as Max’s cock softens inside you. “That was amazing Max” you pant, your body weak from the two mind blowing orgasms Max gave you.
Max collapses on the bed beside you, kissing your neck and running his fingers through your hair. “I can’t wait for us to do that again” Max chuckles against your neck. You kiss Max’s forehead, sighing as your body still slightly shakes from the two powerful orgasms Max just gave you. “I think a shower is in order” He embraces you momentarily before scooping you up in his arms and carries you off the bed, walking towards the ensuite. “Are you ever gonna let me walk again?” You giggle, nestling into his neck. “I like feeling you be as close to me as possible” Max laughs, before your feet land back on the tiles inside the bathroom. Max turns on the water and you both step into the shower, the steam now filling the room. Max has an assortment of body washes and shampoos, ranging from musky to citrusy and floral scents. You step closer to Max as he takes some lavender body wash and begins to rub it down your back, his hands dancing over the rest of your body as he starts to wash you. “I know I keep saying this, but you are so beautiful” Max sighs, running his hands over your ass, grabbing a cheek in each hand. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome” you giggle against Max’s neck.
You both spend at least an hour in the shower, washing each other, chatting and sharing a few more intimate moments. Soon, the wine from dinner, the warm shower water, the scent of lavender and your fatigue from your orgasms starts to take its toll and you feel your eyelids drooping. Max finishes washing you and grabs a towel to help you dry off with. As your eyelids close completely Max has already scooped you up and walked back to the bed, placing you in the middle before wrapping you up in blankets and placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Goodnight my love” he whispers. “Mmmm” you moan, already in a dream state. Max soon gets under the covers with you, embracing you tightly as he watches you sleep, twirling his fingers through your hair. The smell of lavender on your skin soon lulls Maxwell to sleep.
The next morning you wake up, dazed and a little hungover, but well rested. As you look around the room, you survey the many pieces of clothes, miscellaneous items and wine bottles strewn across the floor in a tornado of passion from the night before. As your eyes adjust to the sun, you see Max in an under-shirt and pyjama pants over by the dining table. Max, in his own little world, frantically setting the dining table with some breakfast Alfred had brought up while you were sound asleep. He’s making sure everything is laid out perfectly, straightening the cutlery and pouring Orange Juice and Champagne into a glass from the bar. He hears the cotton sheets move behind him, immediately turning around to see if you’re awake. “Good morning beautiful” Max hums, rushing over to the bed to pepper your cheeks and lips with hundreds of little kisses. “Morning handsome” you giggle, running your hands through Max’s hair, in an attempt to match your bed hair. “Are you hungry, mi amor?” he asks between kisses. “I’m famished” you reply, stretching to help you wake up more. As you writhe around in the sheets you notice you’re wearing a chiffon baby doll.
“I hope you don’t mind I uh, had it in the wardrobe & wasn’t sure if you liked to sleep naked so I put it on you just after you fell asleep.” Max laughs, scratching the back of his head. You blush, feeling embarrassed that you got that drunk, but Max’s reassuring smile makes you feel at ease. “I do usually sleep naked, but I like it, it makes me feel beautiful”. Max sighs “so beautiful”, wrapping you up in a tight embrace and planting a single kiss on your forehead. Max scoops you up and carries you out of bed before you lightly plant your feet onto the carpeted floor. As you glance over to the dining table, Max comes up behind you and helps you slip on a long beautiful chiffon robe, accented with feathers on the hem.
“Another little something for my beautiful mariposa” Max coos, kissing your cheek before pulling out your chair at the dining table. You feel like you’re walking on clouds as you step over to your chair and sit down, Max flapping a napkin onto your lap. “Oh my goodness Max you’re such a gentleman” you blush. “My mother taught me to show women the highest level of respect and care. She made me the man who I am today.” Max replies, looking out the window momentarily. You outstretch your arm across the table to squeeze Max’s hand “And she would be so proud of the man that you’ve become” you beam with a sweet smile. Max soon draws your attention to the diverse spread of pastries on the table, pointing out the different fillings of each and asks if you would like coffee. You nod before noticing a large bouquet of red roses in the middle of the table. As Max places a few pastries on your plate, you feel a sense of intense attraction wash over you like a wave.
Your internal monologue starts to read back to itself, reflecting on how loving, generous and respectful Max is towards you. How much he takes care of you and oh god, how handsome he looks…you start to feel aroused by this somewhat submissive gentleman, sensing a rising heat from your core. Max submitted to your every want and desire last night, raising you up and worshipping you like a goddess, now you wanted to submit to him. Knowing now that you can be vulnerable and honest around Max, you lean back in your chair, biting down on a blueberry pastry.
To be continued..... ;) muahahahaha
a special thanks to the users below for the inspiration and encouragment!
@pintsizemama @anaaaispunk @maxlordsgf @rav3n-pascal22, @pedrostories, @absurdthirst @pedrosbrat
#maxwelllord#maxlord#max lord x reader#max lord x you#max lord smut#maxwelllord smut#max lord x f!reader#maxwell lord x f!reader
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The Price of Having Great Friends (U-1146 Scenario)
Warnings: Fluff, overprotective friends.
Anonymous Request: CAW fic: 1146 and 3803 are starting to date but not yet in a full relationship. The WBC squad is protective of 3803 whenever they think someone is hitting on her. But 1146 is the one who gets embarrassed about it and wishes they'd stop butting in (3803 is oblivious to their antics).
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U-1146 loved his friends, truly he did. After having been raised and trained in the same portion of the bone marrow, they banded together and continued to stay together as a group well into adulthood. Through thick and thin, through better or worse, 1146 knew that he could rely on any of them to aid him in times of need.
They were practically his brothers and they had shown that after a lifetime of battles, they would do the same for him.
Unfortunately, such fierce loyalty was not always necessary. At times, the fact that they were all close friends somewhat hindered what 1146 set out to do.
In this case—
“Please stop.” 1146 muttered as he hunched over the cafe table, the brim of his cap lowered over his eyes. “It’s definitely not what you think it is, so just stop.”
U-4989 looked like he was about to grab the plate filled with sugary confections and start pelting it at his source of ire. That wellspring of frustration was none other than an innocent red blood cell who happened to be caught making AE-3803 laugh. It wasn’t the most egregious offense that could have occurred, but it was one that mattered in this context.
“What do you mean it’s not what we think it is?” U-2626 kept a steady, but piercing gaze on his friend. As one of the calmer cells of the group, he wasn’t as quick to action unless he was on the battlefield. However, 3803 was more than just a friend, she was practically a sister and his friend’s significant other. Now, he was eagerly leaning forward, a frown tugging down his usually smiling lips. “It’s already obvious that you and Little Miss Red are dating—”
“We’re still figuring things out!” 1146 yelped.
“—so that other red blood cell should know better than to try and take her away from you.”
1146 wished that the ground beneath his feet would swallow him whole. The prospect of death coming for him was far more preferable than having to talk some sense into his teammates because they were not listening to him.
“Miss Red Blood Cell is someone I can rely on and trust, no matter who she decides to spend her time with. That said,” here, the neutrophil leveled his coworkers with a look that bordered on glacial, “I want to make it clear that just because Miss Red Blood Cell and I are… involved, that doesn’t mean that you should go go around assuming things about the intentions of other cells.”
“You say it like you haven’t noticed that Little Miss Red is obviously very popular around other cells.” 4989, the so-called baby of the squad, looked rather infantile as his lips jutted out in a pout that would have looked better—and cuter—on a platelet. He stuffed a pastry into his mouth, wincing at the overpowering flavor of sugar overwhelming his senses. “Didn’t 2048 say that one of the hosts at the liver was chatting her up?”
1146 massaged his temples. “2048 had a little too much to drink and the hepatocyte was asking her if she needed help transporting us back to the barracks.”
He held up a hand when it appeared as if these two troublemakers were about to start ragging him some more.
“And before you ask, 2001 also made the mistake of thinking that yet another innocent cell,” 1146 stressed the word ‘innocent’ to make it clear that no one was in the wrong, “was being too handsy with Miss Red Blood cell when it was really because she happened to trip on her.”
“But can you really be sure?”
1146 rolled his eyes. “Anyone with two eyes can see that Miss Red Blood Cell can handle things on her own. It’s kind of rude to say that she would be unfaithful.”
At that, both the cells immediately hung their heads like young myelocytes who had been caught sneaking off into the sparring area during lights out.
“I… I guess we didn’t think about it like that.” 4989 muttered.
“Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from,” 2626 agreed, if just a little bit sullenly.
At that moment, before any of the three neutrophils could try and move on, the red blood cell in question finally made her appearance.
“Coming from where?” She asked, all chipper and cheer.
1146 decided to let 4989 and 2626 stew and writhe in their own shame as they tried to apologize without actually bringing up the exact reason why they were apologizing.
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If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.
HATARAKU SAIBOU (CELLS AT WORK) MASTERLIST
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Laws of Motion
Marcus Moreno x Reader (fem)
Rating: +18 (minors do NOT interact)
warnings: light smut, dry humping/making out, egregious physics jokes, if i’m missing anything i’m sorry!
word count: 1.8k
A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! My resolution is to write more and I’m happy to kick off the new year with a smutty little marcus one shot! I haven’t posted fic in a long time and I apologize if my grammar is off. I have a basic understanding of physics lol so if it’s not accurate then I also apologize for that. I hope you all had a happy holidays. Enjoy!
• • •
Marcus Moreno had been on you all day. A lingering touch as you exchange files and cups of coffee to each other at the office. A hand on the small of your back as he passes you by in a hallway with more than enough space for two people to walk. It’s deliberate. You’ve been craving his touch for a few weeks now. Both too busy with work to truly feel each other. The want has been building and you might just combust if you wait another moment to have him.
He stops by your office during your lunch break, sitting on the edge and playing with the Newton’s Cradle on your desk. Stopping the motion of the cradle in it tracks before gently lifting a finger of one side and allowing it to fall, continuing its demonstration. You watch his ministration while sipping on your coffee, lost in the thought of his hands working you in similar ways. He can read you very well, and he takes note of your distracted state.
“Did you know,” he interrupts your thought and you look to find him staring into your eyes with a glare you can’t quite read. “By lifting one side, you are creating potential energy. And when you release it-“ He releases the ball and the cradle begins its demonstration again, all while keeping his eyes locked on you. “It converts to kinetic energy and transfers that energy to each ball until it gains the momentum to propel the last one forward. And the cycle repeats. Creating a seemingly infinite motion.”
You hide your smile behind your hand, trying to hold your giggling from him. He is prone to scientific tangents and you are in constant fascination with the Heroic, but the simplicity of this is just too cute. “Marcus, I am well aware of the mechanisms of a Newton’s Cradle.”
He drops his hand into his lap and fiddles with a loose thread from his jeans as you set your coffee mug down next to him. Before you’re able to move your hand away he quickly takes it into his and intertwines them.
You look back into his eyes to find them dark and serious. What you couldn’t read before, becomes abundantly clear. He wants you. While the direction of the conversation only serves to confuse you, Marcus continues.
“Maybe we should turn our potential energy,” he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “into something kinetic.”
The contact sends a jolt to your hand and up your arm. Your chest tightens until you realize what he just said. It’s a moment of silence before it’s filled with your laughter. Loud and booming through your office as you try and fail to contain yourself. Marcus drops your hand and stands next to you. “Alright, Geez. It was corny, I get it.” He pats your back as you wipe the tears pricking your sight.
“I’m- I- Oh my god, Marcus, I’m so sorry- I can’t- I- Did you just u-use a physics pick-up line on me?” You hold your palm to your chest, taking a deep breath and letting a few giggles escape.
“Yeah, Yeah I get it. I was trying to be romantic.” He shakes his head and adjusts his glasses. You stand and wrap your arms around his waist. “Baby, I love you, but that was a little too cheesy to be sexy.” You tell him as you rub between the planes of his shoulders.
“Hmm.” He grunts and pushes his tongue against his cheek. “Guess it just needs a little momentum.” He smiles down at you and you raise your brow.
“Was that another pick-up line?” You grin up at him and he meets you with a kiss, pulling away reluctantly and walking toward your office door.
“I’ll see you after work, baby.”
• • •
Finally, you’ve found yourselves back at Marcus’s house. Your relationship wasn’t new by any means. It wasn’t a secret, but you were still being slowly introduced to The Moreno’s family dynamic. You didn’t want to freak Missy out, so you both kept any and all public displays of affection to a minimum. This, mixed with your busy schedules, has left you both high and dry. Tonight, however, Missy was attending a sleepover with her new friends, which gave you the perfect opportunity to be intimate.
You’re barely through the door before Marcus has you pressed against it, pulling you against his chest and pushing against your hips with his own. You wrap your arms around his neck and card your hands through his hair as his tongue glides along your lower lip. He sucks on it and releases it with a graze of his teeth, drawing a moan from you. He grins, knowing he has you in the palm of his hands. Growing impatient with his teasing, you grip the curls by the nape of his neck, dragging him back to your lips. Your faces meeting in a clash of lips and teeth, and your noses pressed to the other’s cheek. His glasses push at an odd angle against his forehead and you take a moment to lift them and set them aside, safely.
“Couch?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
He turns you around and guides you backwards, his lips attached to your neck as your knees meet the cushions and you fall into a tangle of limbs, only separating long enough for you to kick your heels off, pull your pants down and toss them over the side of the couch while he shucks off his leather jacket.
Marcus grips your thighs and pulls you so you fall, unceremoniously, straddling his lap. The zipper of his jeans rubbing deliciously against your clit through your panties. You move at a steady rhythm against each other for a few minutes and he groans beneath you, feeling his cock harden through his jeans.
One particular thrust catches on your sensitive nub and you throw your head back. Marcus takes you in with lust-blown, nearly black eyes. He clenches his jaw, baring his teeth. He wraps his leg around the back of one of your knees and pulls on your hips, flipping you over and onto your back. He then pins you hands above your head and pauses to study you.
His show of strength has you clenching your thighs to ease the loss of pressure from changing positions. “Baby? Why’d you stop?” You try to grind against him, but he takes one of his hands from above your head to pin your waist to the couch.
“Have you heard of Newton’s Laws of Motion?”
You give him a curious look. What is going on with him today? “Marcus, we are in the middle of something a little more important, so it’s kind of hard to remember-“
Marcus moves a strand of your hair behind your ear and leans in to whisper. “Sweetheart, when i’m done, you’ll be reciting them.” The feel of his lips along your neck is the olive branch he extends from your brief disruption.
He grinds against you with a slow and steady pace. Not quite enough pressure, but at least you’re moving. “The first law states that a body in motion stays in motion, and a body at rest-‘ he stills your hips and you whine at the loss of friction. “will stay at rest unless a force acts upon it.” He releases your hands and you tug on his belt loops in protest as he begins to move again to your relief. He grabs your hips and holds your center against his thigh, applying a little more pressure, but still keeping that slow rhythm.
“This brings us to our second law. The acceleration of an object is dependent on force and mass. Try to move against me.” You rid yourself of your lustful daze long enough to listen. You try to grind up into him. You’re barely able to move him, much less yourself. “Not quite.” He tuts. “I am the mass. You have to generate enough force to move me. Try again.” he says in a raspy voice that drives you to do as he says. This time you grind against his thigh with enough force to move him and pick up the pace. “There it is, baby.” You nearly fall apart at his words. This is so much hotter than you imagined and you are quickly reaching your peak just from rubbing against him.
“Now for the third law.” He grasps your thighs and holds you to him as he starts to move in tandem with you. “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” With every push of your hips, he returns in kind. dragging his restrained cock against your clothed center. Your vision is blurring and you’re not sure you’ll last much longer, surprised that Marcus has managed as long as he has.
A husky moan escapes Marcus’s lips as he stills your movements to control his own strokes. “I-I’m close, baby. uuuhhhhh F-fuck.” He pushes your shirt over your chest to reveal your pebbled nipples. He kisses up your sternum and nips under your breast. Your breath hitches as he takes a nipple into his mouth and pulls it taut between his teeth.
“Oh, Fuck! Marcus!” His thrusts, just the right speed and pressure, paired with his mouth on your tits. It has you seeing stars. Your pussy constricts with blinding pleasure as you cum. Marcus is not far behind as his steady stride becomes erratic. He grunts and his hips stutter against yours, gripping your biceps while he rides the high of his orgasm.“Fuck.” he collapses on top of you, knocking the wind out of you.
“Ugh! Marcus, baby…” You push him into a more comfortable position for the both of you, his torso between your legs and head resting on your chest. “Sorry, we didn’t make it past the living room this time, honey…” He huffs, rubbing next to your panty line over the dips of your hips.
“Hey, you won’t see me complaining.” You pull his shirt over his head to get you both more comfortable. “Hey, Marcus?”
“Yeah, baby?” He tilts his head to look up to you with those beautiful brown eyes that you’ve fallen for countless times.
“That…. was sexy as hell.” you bite your lip. His smirk grows to a toothy grin.
“Yeah? You think so?”
You nod your head, mirroring his expression. “Yeah, you were really cute at work with those pick-up lines, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn’t into any of it. But this was something else entirely.”
He chuckles and starts to stand. You groan at the loss of him, not wanting to part just yet. But he has other ideas. He leans over you and picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder. You squeal in protest and he smacks your ass. You realize he’s leading you to the bedroom.
“Don’t worry, baby, we still have plenty of energy to transfer, tonight.”
#marcus moreno#marcus moreno x you#marcus moreno x y/n#marcus moreno x reader#marcus moreno x fem!reader#marcus moreno x female reader#we can be heroes#wcbh#marcus moreno one shot#hot dilfs in your area#pedro pascal characters
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the many faces of tom riddle, part 5
- more myth than man... or not? the mortality of tom riddle and the anatomy of a villain-
That leaves us with Ralph Fiennes’ portrayal of adult Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort in movies 4-8.
I generally find adult Tom Riddle disappointing, even in the books, in terms of character depth. Instead of delving into his motivations and the inner psychology of a villain, we get... slight body horror? And in the movies, it’s even more egregious.
If a story is as good as its villain, adult Tom Riddle is a bit of a let-down, especially on-screen.
“I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.”
Perhaps the very first time I watched it, I found this scary, but I must confess that nowadays, Voldemort’s resurrection is more funny to me than anything else. The forked tongue and the nose slits, yes, are supposed to allude to Tom Riddle’s loss of humanity, but I don’t think it...worked out that way in practice.
I know that’s how it is in the books, but ugly equals evil (and vice versa) is a tired trope. not only that, but under the CGI, Lord Voldemort is so difficult to relate to, so inhuman, that it’s hard to (1) see his true depravity (2) connect with him emotionally (3) at least for me, not laugh at him flapping around the graveyard in GOF like an oversized crow.
Now, the reason I’m going on about this is not (just) me being petty. Lord Voldemort is the Boggart for most of the characters in the HP universe, meaning their greatest fear is Lord Voldemort. He represents Fear; as such, he should be utterly terrifying. Now, I don’t mean horrifying in that sense, but Voldemort’s grand entrance should at least feel somewhat unsettling, have some sort of a Gothic atmosphere...
"But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron."
Visually, this looks great. But it’s not scary. And I’m not a purist by any means, but the words are scarier than the book. Darkness induces fear.
“The lack of any kind of visual stimuli increases anxiety, uncertainty, and tension.”
So, having Voldemort’s pale body materialize isn’t as scary as it could be.
Furthermore, I think Fiennes’ overexaggerated expressions would actually come across as properly horrifying/threatening rather than funny if they just left his face alone. Yes, Fiennes does manage to emote the fear and the anger through the CGI, but it’s like he’s too alien to be scary, at least to me. The amount of memes with Voldemort suggest I’m not the only one this way inclined.
I think there’s probably a problem going on with the uncanny valley. (Images from the Mori essay linked).
[When things are still]
[Creepy things are creepier when moving]
Now, I assume Voldemort is meant to be zombie-creepy, or at least that how Harry describes him in the books.
"The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry...and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake's but with slits for nostrils...."
Now, we can’t get Harry’s experience of being haunted by Voldemort in his dreams, because what I think makes Voldemort’s countenance so truly frightening to the other characters isn’t his snake-like nose or his red eyes, but the potential. Voldemort is, in essence, the Grim Reaper. You are at his mercy, and you’re probably going to be dead.
“This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.“
And yes, Voldemort can be quite funny and witty, but..
“I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers will give their right hands to perform.” (To Peter Pettigrew)
...it’s still incredibly dark, sadistic humour. Whereas the teenage Tom Riddle we’ve been discussing has just barely dipped his toes into evil, Voldemort is, well... swimming in it. At this point, he think he undeniably enjoys causing pain.
And much of what makes Voldemort scary is subtle.
For example, what I personally consider haunting is the fact that he’s got a cave full of Inferi. A cave full of reanimated dead bodies.
Either he dug them up, which is unlikely... or perhaps, a twenty-seven-or-so-year-old Tom Riddle would lie in wait like a bird of prey, very quietly and patiently, perhaps reading a book, waiting for an unsuspecting Muggle to wander past. Maybe killing is a game to him at this point, when it’s not so personal as killing Harry Potter. Maybe it’s a whispered Avada Kedavra, and then he carries the dead body away to his cave. Maybe he Imperiuses them to walk off the cliff. Maybe he tortures them first.
Shudder.
And I don’t think you can show that kind of horror through any CGI or make-up, so...
You know what is terrifying? Revolting? True crime; real-life people who do unspeakably horrible things. And I think a lot was missed out on, in stripping Tom Riddle physically of his humanity. Yes, Riddle is a monster...
But, as we’ve seen, he’s a human monster, not some eldritch horror from the seventh level of hell or something.
I just think it would be interesting to have this perfectly normal-looking human do all the horrific things Voldemort does. I want to see that sick joy in a human face and feel disgusted. I want to see fear make his bottom lip tremble, and feel a misplaced sense of empathy. (Think President Snow from the Hunger Games -- now, that’s a sick, twisted villain who we can relate to as a human being, but still love to hate -- or what about The Joker?).
And out of everything they chose to CGI, why on earth did they not make his eyes scarlet? That might have made him look at least somewhat menacing, rather than a failed lab experiment.
(Don’t even get me started on his and Bellatrix’s death scenes in the movies-)
Here’s President Snow. He’s got a cute little granddaughter, he sends kiddies to kill each other Battle Royale-style every year, and he poisons all his political opponents. He’s also a master manipulator and has a penchant for white roses. They cover up the smell of the sores in his mouth from eating the poison too, to conceal his treachery.
Heath Ledger as the Joker in Dark Knight (2008), who is, according to NYT (which I totally agree with), the best Joker. Now this is a villain done right, with many Voldemort-like traits. On a scale of one-to-ten, he’s absolutely terrifying. Why? He’s (unlike Voldemort in the movies) incredibly intelligent, shows young-Tom-Riddle-like skills for charm and manipulation, plays with humans like they’re his own personal psychology experiment (and to hell with the Institutional Review Board), and has one, single, very clear goal -- chaos. Like Voldemort, he wears an inhuman mask that’s not horrifying in its own right; but unlike Voldemort, the human is all there -- terrifying, real, and with a bottomless, obsessive desire to destroy. His disordered thinking is all out there for the audience to see. The Joker’s motivation is to enjoy himself; whereas Voldemort seems to lack drive. Why does he want to take over the world -- who knows, with Voldemort? The Joker wants to see it burn.
Let’s try to do the same with Lord Voldemort:
[SLIGHT FLASH WARNING]
I had to go with this because Voldemort isn’t legitimately terrifying in many scenes. And yes, this unrefined anger somewhat speaks to Tom’s immaturity
By this point, seventy-one year old Tom Riddle is a hollowed-out shell of a human being. After decades of building his power, he was defeated by a one-year-old, and ended up slumming it as a spirit for a decade, got defeated again, was a shrivelled-up baby for a year, then finally got his body back.
He’s angry, okay! And Fiennes does a great job of portraying the sheer, destructive, unbridled rage of this character.
The body language. again, since his face is inhuman, this is super important. and Fiennes’ body language is great. Voldemort/Riddle commits to his actions. He is very emotionally-driven.
But yet, he doesn’t feel capable, in the way that the Joker or President Snow do. Yeah, we know anecdotally that he’s incredibly evil, sadistic, and second only to Dumbledore in terms of power, but he loses to a baby, and then that same baby as a teenager. So, we really could have done with seeing Voldemort’s power, cruelty, and evil firsthand a lot more often.
Voldemort is not well-characterized. I don’t understand his motives, and the ones that I do understand are not compelling.
Not to die? Well, he’s already made several Horcruxes. Why not sit back and relax? Why start a war and risk himself?
JKR said that Voldemort’s great desire was to become all-powerful and eternal. But that’s... boring! It does little to tell us about Voldemort, other than that he’s a villain and a wannabe dictator.
Furthermore, the charm, manipulation, and cunning that are hallmarks of younger Tom Riddle’s personality are gone.
Is Voldemort (to return to Jungian terms) all shadow? An empty creature of simple creation and destruction, perhaps? We’ll discuss this further down...
And this isn’t a problem of having a fantastical world with magic and the like. Grindelwald’s quiet, self-possessed, almost coy “So you think you can hold me?” was infinitely scarier than anything that has ever come out of Voldemort’s mouth. It was chilling.
OOTP is my favorite book, and the Ministry sequence is one of my favourite in the films.
This scene where he psyches out Harry, talking so quietly that he could just be a little voice inside his head (and again, during the possession scene)? Absolute perfection.
Why? Because this showcases what’s truly scary about him. Voldemort can get into your head. He can make you do things. And perhaps, if we had seen that more often, we’d understand how scary he is.
I wish this had been his grand entrance, and not whatever that scene in GOF was. Somehow, him screeching “I WANT TO SEE THE LIGHT LEAVE YOUR EYES!” is not menacing. At all.
But, I can’t help but think how much greater the emotional affect would be if he had more human features (think the burned-and-blurred, waxy features from Dumbledore’s memory).
Just imagine these scenes if Voldemort looked human, and spoke as quietly as he did in this one.
Because of the reason that I have little to go on in terms of characterization that I haven’t already covered, we’ll discuss the myth and legend of Lord Voldemort.
I can’t decide if the statue in the films is supposed to be the Angel of Death or the Grim Reaper. He has a skeleton and carries a scythe, but he also has wings. There are so many different interpretations, attitudes towards, and personifications of Death across the world that I don’t want to draw any one conclusion. But I must wonder if Lord Voldemort, with his yew-and-phoenix wand (which carries heavy symbolism of immortality and rebirth) and almost deified figure is meant to be a personification of Death himself? His name, Lord Voldemort, is a shade close to Lord Death.
For years, it has stumped me that wizards and witches are afraid to utter Voldemort’s name, especially since we only see the Taboo in the middle of the last book. It didn’t make sense just based on fear; in the real world, we don’t circumvent Hitler’s name, for example.
Perhaps this may have been obvious to others, but it wasn’t to me.
Here’s a counterargument to myself; why Voldemort shouldn’t look human.
Voldemort, in the Wizarding World, is seen as a literal deity.
I promised to attempt to answer this question in Part 3:
And so, I can’t help but wonder if the opposite is true… if Tom Riddle creates Horcruxes, would that grant him additional magic powers?
In Part 3, I likened Tom Riddle to a sorcerer in Russian folklore, Koschei the Deathless, also famous for sequestering his soul in objects. This source suggests that Koschei was considered not an ordinary magician, but a representative of the ‘other’ world, the world of death.
So, what if... creating Horcruxes makes you... more than human? Now, I could definitely see god-like status being appealing to sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle. Perhaps, even appealing enough to kill for. Now, his proclivity for Avada Kedavra makes sense. We know it’s an incredibly sinister spell, but at the same time, it’s a very humane way to kill. Why might it be so horrifying?
Here’s a weird theory.
To the best of my knowledge, no one but Voldemort is seen using the Killing Curse more than once or twice.
Perhaps, ordinary mortals can only cast Avada Kedavra a few times, but Tom, having split his soul and having become in some way a non-human instrument of Death, can cast it however many times as he likes, and that is part of what serves to make him so terrifying.
This makes the idea of Voldemort tossing around Avada Kedavras actually incredibly terrifying, if you take into account what that might mean.
The collective cultural fear of speaking Voldemort’s name supports this theory.
Take the chthonic (underworld) deities of Greek mythology; most notably, Hades and Persephone, the king and queen of the underworld.
Hades, the god of the dead, was feared.
So feared that the word ‘Hades’ (”the unseen one”) was so frightening, that people came up with all sorts of euphemisms to circumvent actually saying it and he was rarely even depicted in art. For example, they would refer to him as Pluto (”the rich one”), Clymenus ("notorious"), Polydegmon ("who receives many"), and perhaps Eubuleus ("good counsel" or "well-intentioned"), amongst many other names.
However, he was not seen as evil; just stern, cruel, and fair. Like most Greek gods, he had an associated cult (the Death Eaters, anyone?)
Another interesting connection between Hades and Voldemort is that Hades was associated with snakes.
Persephone (suggested to have a pre-Greek origin and probably pre-dates Hades), who was also a vegetation/fertility/spring goddess, similarly, was referred to as Despoina (”the mistress”), Kore (”the maiden”), etc, because as the terrible Queen of the Dead, it was considered unsafe to speak her name aloud. In mythology and literature, she is sometimes referred to as ‘dread Persephone.’
--Just like how Lord Voldemort is referred to as The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who... (and if you’re Dumbledore, ‘Tom’.)
Her central myth served as the context for the secret rites of regeneration at Eleusis (which was basically a mystery cult devoted to her and her mother, Demeter), which promised immortality to initiates.
We don’t know for certain what exactly went on, because, mystery cult -- the members were sworn to secrecy -- but it revolved around immortality and rebirth and possibly psychoactive drugs.
Perhaps ironically, in comparison to the Death Eaters, anyone could join, as long as they could speak Greek and had never committed murder.
And that concludes my assessment!
#tom riddle#the many faces of#tom marvolo riddle#character analysis#lord voldemort#character study#tw: murder#the body horror was 1/10#don't make your character design hilarious if you want him to be scary#i'm not saying voldemort is a vegetation deity#but i'm not-not saying it either
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Bonus Level Unlocked
This week marks the release of Jason Schreier’s Press Reset, an incredibly well-researched book on catastrophic business failure in the gaming industry. Jason’s a good dude, and there’s an excerpt here if you want to check it out. Sadly, game companies going belly-up is such a common occurrence that he couldn’t possibly include them all, and one of the stories left out due to space constraints is one that I happen to be personally familiar with. So, I figured I’d tell it here.
I began working at Acclaim Studios Austin as a sound designer in January of 2000. It was a tumultuous period for the company, including a recent rebranding from their former studio name, “Iguana Entertainment,” and a related, ongoing lawsuit from the ex-founder of Iguana. There were a fair number of ghosts hanging around—the creative director’s license plate read IGUANA, which he never changed, and one of the meeting rooms held a large, empty terrarium—but the studio had actually been owned on paper by Acclaim since 1995, and I didn’t notice any conflicting loyalties. Everyone acted as if we always had been, and always would be, Acclaim employees.
Over the next few years I worked on a respectable array of triple-A titles, including Quarterback Club 2002, Turok: Evolution, and All-Star Baseball 2002 through 2005. (Should it be “All-Stars Baseball,” like attorneys general? Or perhaps a term of venery, like “a zodiac of All-Star Baseball.”) At any rate, it was a fun place to work, and a platformer of hijinks ensued.
But let’s skip to the cutscene. The truth is that none of us in the trenches suspected the end was near until it was absolutely imminent. Yes, Turok: Evolution and Vexx had underperformed, especially when stacked against the cost of development, but games flop in the retail market all the time. And, yes, Showdown: Legends of Wrestling had been hustled out the door before it was ready for reasons no one would explain, and the New York studio’s release of a BMX game featuring unlockable live-action stripper footage had been an incredibly weird marketing ploy for what should have been a straightforward racing title. (Other desperate gimmicks around this time included a £6,000 prize for UK parents who would name their baby “Turok,” an offer to pay off speeding tickets to promote Burnout 2 that quickly proved illegal, and an attempt to buy advertising space on actual tombstones for a Shadow Man sequel.)
But the baseball franchise was an annual moneymaker, and our studio had teams well into development on two major new licenses, 100 Bullets and The Red Star. Enthusiasm was on the upswing. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention when voice actors started calling me to complain that they hadn’t been paid, but at the time it seemed more like a bureaucratic failure than an actual money shortage—and frankly, it was a little naïve of them to expect net-30 in the first place. Industry standard was, like, net-90 at best. So I was told.
Then one Friday afternoon, a few department managers got word that we’d kind of maybe been skipping out on the building lease for let’s-not-admit-how-many months. By Monday morning, everyone’s key cards had been deactivated.
It's a little odd to arrive at work and find a hundred-plus people milling around outside—even odder, I suppose, if your company is not the one being evicted. Acclaim folks mostly just rolled their eyes and debated whether to cut our losses and head to lunch now, while employees of other companies would look dumbfounded and fearful before being encouraged to push their way through the crowd and demonstrate their still-valid key card to the security guard. Finally, the General Manager (hired only a few months earlier, and with a hefty relocation bonus to accommodate his houseboat) announced that we should go home for the day and await news. Several of our coworkers were veterans of the layoff process—like I said, game companies go under a lot—and one of them had already created a Yahoo group to communicate with each other on the assumption that we’d lose access to our work email. A whisper of “get on the VPN and download while you can” rippled through the crowd.
But the real shift in tone came after someone asked about a quick trip inside for personal items, and the answer was a hard, universal “no.” We may have been too busy or ignorant to glance up at any wall-writing, but the building management had not been: they were anticipating a full bankruptcy of the entire company. In that situation, all creditors have equal standing to divide up a company's assets in lengthy court battles, and most get a fraction of what they’re owed. But if the landlords had seized our office contents in lieu of rent before the bankruptcy was declared, they reasoned, then a judge might rule that they had gotten to the treasure chest first, and could lay claim to everything inside as separate from the upcoming asset liquidation.
Ultimately, their gambit failed, but the ruling took a month to settle. In the meantime, knick knacks gathered dust, delivered packages piled up, food rotted on desks, and fish tanks became graveyards. Despite raucous protest from every angle—the office pets alone generated numerous threats of animal cruelty charges—only one employee managed to get in during this time, and only under police escort. He was a British citizen on a work visa, and his paperwork happened to be sitting on his desk, due to expire. Without it, he was facing literal deportation. Fortunately, a uniformed officer took his side (or perhaps just pre-responded to what was clearly a misdemeanor assault in ovo,) and after some tense discussion, the building manager relented, on the condition that the employee touch absolutely nothing beyond the paperwork in question. The forms could go, but the photos of his children would remain.
It’s also a little odd, by the way, to arrive at the unemployment office and find every plastic chair occupied by someone you know. Even odder, I suppose, if you’re actually a former employee of Acclaim Studios Salt Lake, which had shut down only a month or two earlier, and you just uprooted your wife and kids to a whole new city on the assurance that you were one of the lucky ones who got to stay employed. Some of them hadn’t even finished unpacking.
Eventually, we were allowed to enter the old office building one at a time and box up our things under the watchful eye of a court appointee, but by then our list of grievances made the landlords’ ploy seem almost quaint by comparison (except for the animals, which remains un-fucking-forgivable.) We had learned, for example, that in the weeks prior to the bankruptcy, our primary lender had made an offer of $15 million—enough to keep us solvent through our next batch of releases, two of which had already exited playtesting and were ready to be burned and shipped. The only catch was that the head of the board, company founder Greg Fischbach, would have to step down. This was apparently too much of an insult for him to stomach, and he decided that he'd rather see everything burn to the ground. The loan was refused.
Other “way worse than we thought” details included gratuitous self-dealing to vendors owned by board members, the disappearance of expensive art from the New York offices just before closure, and the theft of our last two paychecks. For UK employees, it was even more appalling: Acclaim had, for who knows how long, been withdrawing money from UK paychecks for their government-required pension funds, but never actually putting the money into the retirement accounts. They had stolen tens of thousands of dollars directly from each worker.
Though I generally reside somewhere between mellow and complete doormat on the emotional spectrum, I did get riled enough to send out one bitter email—not to anyone in corporate, but to the creators of a popular webcomic called Penny Arcade, who, in the wake of Acclaim’s bankruptcy announcement, published a milquetoast jibe about Midway’s upcoming Area 51. I told Jerry (a.k.a. “Tycho”) that I was frankly disappointed in their lack of cruelty, and aired as much dirty laundry as I was privy to at the time.
“Surely you can find a comedic gem hidden somewhere in all of this!” I wrote. “Our inevitable mocking on PA has been a small light at the end of a very dark, very long tunnel. Please at least allow us the dignity of having a smile on our faces while we wait in line for food stamps.”
Two days later, a suitably grim comic did appear, implying the existence of a new release from Acclaim whose objective was to run your game company into the ground. In the accompanying news post, Tycho wrote:
“We couldn’t let the Acclaim bankruptcy go without comment, though we initially let it slide thinking about the ordinary gamers who lost their jobs there. They don’t have anything to do with Acclaim’s malevolent Public Relations mongrels, and it wasn’t they who hatched the Titty Bike genre either. Then, we remembered that we have absolutely zero social conscience and love to say mean things.”
Another odd experience, by the way, is digging up a 16-year-old complaint to a webcomic creator for nostalgic reference when you offer that same creator a promotional copy of the gaming memoir you just co-wrote with Sid Meier. Even odder, I suppose, to realize that the original non-Acclaim comic had been about Area 51, which you actually were hired to work on yourself soon after the Acclaim debacle.*
As is often the case in complex bankruptcies, the asset liquidation took another six years to fully stagger its way through court—but in 2010, we did, surprisingly, get the ancient paychecks we were owed, plus an extra $1,700-ish for the company’s apparent violation of the WARN Act. By then, I had two kids and a very different life, for which the money was admittedly helpful. Sadly, Acclaim’s implosion probably isn’t even the most egregious one on record. Our sins were, to my knowledge, all money-related, and at least no one was ever sexually assaulted in our office building. Again, to my knowledge. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure we remain the only historical incident of corporate pet murder. The iguana got out just in time.
*Area 51’s main character was voiced by David Duchovny, and he actually got paid—which was lucky for him, because three years later, Midway also declared bankruptcy.
#gamedev#gaming#pressreset#acclaim#acclaim studios#bankruptcy#midway#midway games#layoff#layoffs#turok#vexx#bmx xxx#game company#corporate shenanigans#all star baseball#quarterback club#penny arcade#sid meier#sid meier's memoir#memoir#area 51#david duchovny#iguana#jason schreier
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Alright, friends, you know the drill by now. Here’s Part III of Sarcasticles’ overblown thoughts on sexism in One Piece. If you haven’t already, go read Part I and Part II before proceeding.
I promise after this I’ll be done. By hook or by crook, we’re getting through the point of the original question. To the Anon who originally sent the ask, sorry it took this long to get here, I hope it’s helpful.
Also, I allude to some very, very minor Wano spoilers, so if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing here’s your warning.
Characterization? I Don’t Know Her
What makes a good character?
I’ve spent an awful lot of time talking about character designs, when, funnily enough, it’s one of the aspects I pay the least attention to when it comes to deciding if I like how an author portrays their characters. I personally don’t care for fanservice, never have and never will. But unless it’s particularly egregious, I tend to ignore it because there are other factors I think are more important.
The secret sauce for building characters is hard to define, because a good writer can take a concept that has no right being any good and turn it into something incredible (Oda does this all the time) where bad writers will seemingly slot all the right information in the right holes and still have their characters come out of the developmental oven flat and under cooked.
One of the biggest buzzwords floating around these days is agency. Is a character active in their own story, or are they jerked around by the needs of the plot? Is their voice heard? Is their voice unique, or do they blend in with the background?
This is particularly important, because the term Strong Female Protagonist has been warped into shorthand for “girl who fights a lot and looks pretty doing it”. You can have a girl strong enough to lift mountains and still have her be a shit character. You can write a girl who’s main motivation is to get married and have babies with phenomenal depth. What matters is execution.
The Petition to Call A Group of Rescue Arcs a ‘Damsel’
Both Nami and Robin had to be rescued, their main arcs bearing similarities that are impossible to ignore. But these aren’t copies of one another as much as variations on a theme, and with the existence of Marineford and Whole Cake Island I think anyone would be hard-pressed to say that One Piece’s rescue arcs are a girl’s thing. At this point it’s a feature, not a bug.
Which makes sense given how fundamental the idea freedom is to the series. Hell, the first thing Luffy does after becoming a pirate is free Coby from Alvida’s tyrannical reign. Then he frees Zoro from an unjust authority that would have killed him had Luffy not intervened.
Notice a pattern here?
One Piece is written like Pachelbel Canon, in that a very simple core of ideas are repeated over and over with layers of complexity and nuance added over time, examining the same themes from every possible angle.
And when you look at the Four Big Rescue Arcs -- Nami, Robin, Ace, Sanji -- you’ll see that it’s Ace who’s given the least agency throughout his arc. Nami chose to hijack the Going Merry, repeatedly chose to push away the Straw Hats until she reached her breaking point, at which she chose to ask for help, with Luffy only intervening once she does.
Robin is a little less obvious, but during the post-Water 7 party chapters, Aokiji makes the interesting observation that Robin could have escaped CP9, but chose not to
Remember that before Robin’s backstory was shown, Luffy specifically said he didn’t care if she wanted to die or not, so long as she was with the Straw Hats when she made her decision. No one bullied her into “I wanna live”. It was a choice she made of her own volition after realizing the depths the Straw Hats would go on her behalf.
I know there are people who disagree with me, but Nami and Robin are well-written characters. I’ve expounded enough on my reasoning both here and on my main that I don’t want to spend the time belaboring the point. What I do want is to note that Luffy wouldn’t be able to attain his dreams without them. Nami keeps them on course while also severing as a sort of moral compass for the crew -- remember she was the one who insisted on saving the giant kids at Punk Hazard -- while Robin’s ability to read the poneglyphs is what’s going to get the crew to Raftel.
Robin admittedly doesn’t have the same presence within the Straw Hat Pirates as Nami, but I would hardly call that sexism. Since Water 7/Enies Lobby she’s been pretty content to go with whatever Luffy says, and the fact that she’s literally quieter than anyone else in the crew means she doesn’t get as much focus. I think there could be more scenes with her using her specific skill set, like her investigations in Wano and the forensic anthropology scene in the pre-Jaya chapters, but I’m okay with her being a supporting character.
The East Blue Crew have consistently gotten the most focus of any of the Straw Hats. They are the core of the crew, something Oda admits in a roundabout way in the Color Walk where they all appear together for the first time in a color spread
With the main cast as large as it is, not everyone is going to have the same amount of focus or development. Robin is given a unique voice within the story because she doesn’t overreact the way literally everyone else does. Through her silence, she stands out. I find there to be very meaningful character development when she feels comfortable enough with the Straw Hats to start calling them by name in Thriller Bark, relaxed enough with her friends to comitt her first facefaults in a series lousy with them in both Dressrosa and Wano.
In an ideal world, Oda would better rotate through his cast, much like how Brook was the unsung MVP on Whole Cake Island (where Nami was also excellent in a supporting role) but I don’t think people realize how hard it is to juggle almost a dozen different people in a story that’s bloated exponentially over time. To his credit, Oda has handled his expanding crew better than most writers.
I also find it hard to judge this aspect of the series because the manga’s not done yet. I don’t know how Robin and Nami will be used in the future. I mean, Robin never got a chapter title declaring her “The Seventh” which I find suspicious, so Oda could very well have events in store that completely turn our perceptions upside down. It’s impossible to say.
I will acknowledge that the lack of big fights is somewhat disappointing, but neither Robin nor Nami’s dreams revolve around them getting stronger. Robin doesn’t need to use her power to make people explode from the inside out, Nami doesn’t need to fry end-game bosses with her lightning stick. That’s simply not their narrative purpose. With the exception of Tashigi, I’ve found that the female characters advertised as fighters have lived up to their billing. Hancock came out of Marineford unscathed. Carrot’s sulong form was awesome, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. The whole climax of Whole Cake Island revolved around surviving Big Mom’s wrath. Not beating her, not fighting her, it took all the Straw Hats had to just survive. Once again you’re left with a number’s game where where there just aren’t enough female characters to even pretend things are balanced.
All said, I think if you’re going to complain about the lack of Robin fights then I think you also have to complain about the lack of Brook fights, and that’s just not something you hear about, especially after Whole Cake Island. You can’t have it both ways. Either there needs to be more even distribution of major fights throughout the entire crew, or you have to acknowledge that a character’s worth isn’t dependent on their fighting prowess.
One Piece is a battle manga, and I do think that it’s fair to criticize when a character isn’t allowed to fight when they’re perfectly capable of kicking ass. But it’s also an adventure story, and that opens up entirely new space for a character to occupy, and that’s where I think Nami and Robin (but especially Nami) really shine
That Moment You Realize Humor Isn’t A Universal Language
I’ve spent so much time defending Oda’s designs and characters that it might seem like I’m perfectly okay with everything that’s portrayed in the manga. To be clear, I’m not. If the messages and comments I’ve gotten over the past several days have taught me anything, it’s that many fans share the same sticking points I do, namely in regards to some of the gags.
I again want to be careful here, because I’m hardly an expert on Japanese culture and it’s really hard to tell if Oda writes his jokes because he thinks they’re funny, or if he thinks his audience will find them funny. I’m again going to default to somewhere in the middle, because if Oda truly found the perviness distasteful he probably wouldn’t have included it, and I’ve read enough SBS to know the guy likes his dick jokes.
First and foremost, one must address the culture gap. Japan ranks last among G7 nations on gender equality, In 2004 two-thirds of Tokyo women in their 20-30s reported to being groped while on public transport. There are numerous barriers that make it difficult for a woman to succeed either in the workplace or politics.
From what I can gather, some of these trends are reversing, albeit slowly and with great resistance. Contrary to what many people seem to believe culture is not always value neutral. And I say that as an American, recognizing there are plenty of things about my culture and country that are really fucked up.
But who gets to decide who’s right and who’s wrong?
When inside that kind of environment, that kind of culture, it’s a lot easier to understand how a character like Sanji can exist. It’s easy to understand why Momo shoving his face into Nami and Robin’s boobs might be played for laughs. It’s not an excuse, but an explanation. And with Sanji failing more often than not, being the butt of his own joke as he slowly turns into a parody of what he once was, one could almost say Oda is pointing those types of people and saying, “Look how pathetic this guy is. Now go laugh as he gets a nosebleed so bad he needs multiple blood transfusions in order to not die.”
I say almost, because Sanji is never condemned for his actions, nor does he learn from them. Instead you have this character who’s supposed to be one of the kindest characters in the series decide to immediately go peep on a woman’s bath house after gaining the power of invisibility.
Stay classy, Oda.
As distasteful as I find it, I don’t find fanservice to be an inherently evil thing that must be eradicated at all costs, and with Oda doing things like putting his entire cast, male and female, into skintight leathers you can hardly say that he’s excluding the men.
Everyone will have their line in the sand, and mine goes back to agency. When Nami did her Happiness Punch way back in Alabasta, that was of her own volition. When Nami and Robin dress in clothes that show everything but the nipple, that’s something they chose and feel comfortable in.
But when Smoker and Tashigi swapped bodies at Punk Hazard, Tashigi specifically asked Smoker not to strip, and he did anyway, opening her coat and removing her bra. This is especially egregious as Tashigi is one of the very few women in the series who is always shown wearing very conservative clothing. Oda specifically showed Tashigi getting upset at Smoker’s actions, and Smoker repeatedly refusing to listen to her.
That’s where I draw my line.
Some Final Thoughts I Couldn’t Fit Anywhere Else
Thought The First--Oda has an interesting habit of turning his most despicable, scummy pieces of flaming human garbage into the butt of the joke. Villains like Crocodile and Doflamingo are certainly evil, but it’s the idealized, cool type of evil that makes you almost admire them. There aren’t very many real-world Crocodiles, but just about everyone knows a Spandam, or an Absalom, or a Vander Decken. These kinds of villains aren’t scary because of their physical prowess, but their unyielding obsessions and the power they’re able to wring from the system, and -- surprise, surprise -- all three are either actively trying to be creepy sex pests or coded as such with the visual language of the comic.
And Oda turns them into a mockery.
While there are some who feel like not treating serious issues like sexual assault seriously are doing a disservice to people who have endured similar experiences I think there’s merit to turning them into a laughingstock. As someone much smarter than me said once, if an opinion cannot withstand mockery it’s revealed to be ridiculous, and these scummy-scum villains are certainly ridiculous.
Thought The Second--It’s hard to say how much sexism is a thing in-universe. Kuina is the only one who is explicitly told her dreams were impossible because of her gender, but with the recent reveal confirming that her family came from Wano, which in turn is based on Feudal Japan, it’s hard to say how widespread these beliefs are. Tashigi brought it up again at Loguetown and Bellemere specifically told her girls that they lived in an era where “girls needed to be strong, too”, but otherwise it’s not a topic that’s been explored in any depth
Thought The Third--The in-universe fetishization of mermaids has some implications that I think are unintended but worth discussing. Shirahoshi has a reputation of being one of the most beautiful women in the world despite not leaving her tower for over 10 years (she’s 16). Mermaids whose tails have split are worth less on the slave market than those whose are intact. Even Zoro erased Kokoro from his memory after meeting the more attractive Caime. It’s one of those odd things that when combined with the more obvious racism themes could have some unfortunate implications, and I think could have been avoided had Oda show a little more restraint with some of his jokes. Unintended consequences are still consequences.
Thought The Forth--There are many other instances throughout the series that people bring up with talking about sexism in One Piece. I feel like a lot of these can be explained away individually -- for example, both Belo Betty and Rebecca’s stripperific outfits were inspired by other media, the painting Liberty of the People and Red Sonja respectively; Lola chasing after an obviously abusive man makes a whole lot more sense when you meet Big Mom; Hancock’s love sickness could be seen as an emotionally stunted woman experiencing her first crush, etc., etc -- it’s when they’re all put together that they begin to read as “Problematic”.
It would be impossible to go over all these individually, but I tend to fall on the side of leniency. In the end, everyone has to make their own decisions based on their own values. I’m hardly unbiased, and my enjoyment for the series will undoubtedly make me look the other way when another might call the exact same incident The Worst Thing Ever. The thing is, opinions are like assholes, everyone has one and most are convinced that theirs don’t stink. I include myself in that statement. In the end it’s a comic for kids. It’s supposed to be fun.
Thought The Last--I have spent entirely too much of my time writing this up, but in the end I guess I have to go back to what I said when I talked about my thoughts on Sanji: Everyone has their own personal line of acceptable bullshit, and for me Oda does more good than bad. Sanji specifically gets very little leniency from me because I don’t like a lot of the gross behavior Oda passes over as a joke. But the female characters themselves, generally speaking? They’re fine. There are other mangaka that have more equal male to female ratios or have women play more active roles in the story, but Oda does a lot better than most other shonen titles I’ve read.
It’s okay to be critical of media you enjoy. It’s okay to complain. But remember that One Piece is a very long series, and there are some fans who have been a round for literally decades. I myself started reading weekly around the time Duval was introduced, way back in 2008. Every time a new batch of fans comes in the same old arguments get stirred to the top of the pot: Sanji is a creep, Oda can’t draw women, why doesn’t Robin ever get to fight?
It can be exhausting to go through the same hoops time and time again. So if you’re someone who is being critical and feel like no one is listening, or that a bunch of fans are going out of their way to defend Oda, that could be one of the reasons why. They’re tired of having a series they enjoy be shit on.
There are other fans who legitimately don’t think that Oda’s done anything wrong, that jokes are just jokes. If you happen to fall in that category, remember that not everyone feels that way. Art reflects life, which in turn reflects art. One Piece is a few million copies away from outselling Batman. To say it isn’t influential to young readers, both in Japan and abroad, is beyond asinine.
I thank everyone who’s taken the time to read this so far. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how civil the discussion and my inbox as stayed. Even if I didn’t respond to your message, I promise that I did read it.
I wrote as much as I did because I know this is a topic a lot of people care about, and also so I hopefully don’t have to write about it again. A lot of hours has gone into this project, and it’s been exhausting, but in a good way, if that makes any sense. I’m ready to put it to rest.
I was joking with some friends that I think I’ve hit just about every hot topic issue now, so hopefully I can go back to fun questions like speculating if Wapol can eat a person and poop out a devil fruit.
Until then, Sarcasticles, out
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February 13: Star Trek Beyond
Some attempted thoughts on Star Trek Beyond.
So first it was bad lol. It is the worst. I thought maybe it would be less the worst than I had previously thought but it really, really is just irredeemably bad.
Trying to keep up with what was actually happening and talk in the group chat was too difficult and I now feel very exhausted lol. And I’m not even sure what I watched.
I liked Jaylah a lot, including her back story, characterization, “house,” traps, and cool mirror tricks.
I also like Kirk in that emergency uniform with the jacket unzipped.
That’s it! That’s all I liked.
In the past I’ve also said I liked the Spock and Bones parts but I honestly wasn’t a fan of them either this time around!
None of the characters felt IC and none of the relationships felt true or were compelling. Which is particularly egregious given that the alleged theme was strength in unity.
The movie was especially lacking in K/S content or even K & S interaction, which obviously didn’t please me. And it’s definitely the worst Kirk characterization I’ve ever seen. There’s no excuse for that either because it’s halfway through the 5YM, which means he should be pretty close to TOS Kirk--yes, he has a different set of experiences, so there’s going to be some variation, but there’s comparatively less excuse for a radically different characterization than in STXI and STID. They should have had Shatner read the script and make notes lol because whatever else you might say about him he KNOWS Captain Kirk.
Like, he (Kirk) lacked humor and charm and, often, confidence. He had moments when he was very smart and moments when he had a commanding presence. But he had just as many moments when he was whiny or bored and his Captain’s log??? I deserve financial compensation for every time I’ve listened to that. Bored of space?? No, this man is bored when he’s stuck on Earth. He stagnates in desk jobs. He is an adventurer and explorer before he’s ANYTHING else; if you don’t get that, you don’t need to be writing Star Trek.
Also, as I have frequently complained, I’m tired of him having no internal conflict or emotional complexity past his father issues. First reboot movie: dealing with his dead father’s memory and his step-father’s abuse. Fine, that makes sense for how they set up the AU. Second reboot movie: entirely motivated by the need for Manly Vengeance upon the person who killed his father figure. And for this redundant story line (in many sense) we had to lose Pike? Third reboot movie: you’d think he’d finally be ready to move on to other conflicts but actually no this time he’s sad about his birthday and having a longer life span than his...you guessed it!! father!! Yet again.
What else has ever motivated him? Legitimate question.
The destruction of the Enterprise was truly horrific. Long, boring, unwarranted, and without any emotional punch. As if it were just any ship! No, she’s a character in her own right and she’s not to be sacrificed like that but please tell me again how Simon Pegg is a true fan who brought the franchise back to its roots?
B said he did like that they split up the crew into unusual units but I have mixed feelings about it. I don’t entirely disagree, but I don’t think they did a lot that was interesting with any of those separated units. Uhura and Sulu are a cool pair (but this would have been a good opportunity to include Sulu’s semi-canonical crush on Uhura but whatever... a different rant) and they almost did some interesting stuff with them. There were glimmers of a caper in that story line and times when I could tell they were straining especially hard to make Uhura, their Sole Female Main--now that they cut out Rand, Chapel, and even Carol Marcus--into something Feminist and Interesting. But it didn’t quite gel for me. Like, Uhura would be having almost interesting dialogue with the villain and holding her own...and then she loses track of her colleague and has to watch that person die, thus undercutting everything she just said about unity and seeming to prove the villain’s point. Is she competent or not?
Bones and Spock are a pair I care about and like but again I think their canonical relationship in TOS is more interesting than STB showed. I personally read them as like...reluctant best friends who originally just had one person in common, and then realized they also like each other too, but they’ll never really say it. They understand each other but pretend not to. They have fun with the barbs they throw at each other. They both deeply love Jim but in different ways. They enjoy their intellectual debates. (That’s one thing that was definitely missing from them here! The intellectual debates!) So again, there was something there but not enough.
And Kirk and Chekov just happened to land near each other; nothing was done with that relationship per se. They really aren’t people who have much of a relationship in TOS so there’s not a lot to work off of but then on the other hand there IS an opportunity to create something new. Maybe I’m being too harsh and too vague but it just didn’t gel for me. The only specific K and C moment I remember was that supremely un-funny joke about Kirk’s aim as he sets off the “wery large bomb.”
But like there are possibilities.. they’re both pretty horny and Chekov is a whiz kid and Kirk is also very smart and has always been smart... Like in other words people Chekov’s age don’t end up on the bridge crew, in either ‘verse, without the Captain’s say, so even though he’s TOS!Spock’s and AOS!Scotty’s protege, Kirk is important to his life. Something with that maybe??
I’m upset that Spock’s individual story line was about whether or not he should go off and make baby Vulcans because, again as I have complained many times before, that was a conflict he faced and resolved in ten minutes two movies ago, and it doesn’t make sense to me for him to bring it up again now just because the Ambassador is dead. Like... the Ambassador told him to stay in Starfleet!! “Ah, yes, I will honor him by doing precisely the opposite of what he wanted me to do.”
Also--if they had made his motivation different or gone into it more, I would have been more into it. Make it about New Vulcan! Say there’s news from New Vulcan that it’s not doing well. Or what if T’Pring got in contact with him? Or what if we used this as an excuse to bring in Sarek?
This is part of a larger point for me which is that STXI set up a really cool AU and STID tried to do something with it--a little hit or miss, but it tried--and instead of pushing even more at the AU and developing it more and doing more with it... STB just ignored it! Was that part of what Paramount was warning about with making it “not too Star Trek-y?” Was it SUPPOSED to be a movie you could watch without having seen the last two? If so they did succeed but like.. .why? They made the supremely ballsy move of blowing up a founding Federation planet two movies ago and now they’ve just forgotten about that and all the reverberations that would necessarily have?
But of course we got a call back to Kirk being a Beastie Boys fan so.... Guess it was Deep all along.
We all three agreed that the core story of this film was potentially interesting but could have been done as a 50-some minute episode of a TV series rather than a whole-ass 2 hour movie. First off, cutting or cutting down the action sequences would have shaved off half an hour easily.
I’m frustrated in large part because there are certain things that are interesting here. I do like the concept of the crew being pulled on to an alien planet by a ship of former Federation crew, from the early days of the Federation/deep space flight, who were presumed missing but are somehow still alive because they have turned into aliens/used alien tech to prolong life, and who have also captured other aliens, like Jaylah, for the main crew to interact with. All of that was cool.
I would even be okay with these old Federation crew being villains but I don’t think that’s necessary or even the most interesting take.
But...first of all, as my mom pointed out, Krall was basically Nero in his illogical motivations: feeling aggrieved because someone who couldn’t help him didn’t help him and then just maniacally wanting revenge. It made more sense to me with Nero in a way. Maybe that was because he was better characterized, maybe it was because his anger was more personal (the loss of his wife), maybe--probably--it was because he was angry at Spock and Spock had actually promised to help, so there was some kernel of logic in his sense of betrayal, even if it was out of proportion etc. Also, Nero’s mania was portrayed as mania--we were all supposed to recognize that the strength of his emotion was warranted but his logic was deeply flawed. I think we were supposed to think Krall had some kinda... real criticism of the Federation, but in fact he doesn’t! He’s wrong! So like if he’d been angry with the Federation for abandoning him but the narrative and the other characters explicitly recognize that he’s wrong--the Federation tried but he was just doing something very dangerous and he recognized that danger on signing on--that might have been more palatable to me.
I’m not sure I’m making sense here entirely or explaining myself as well as I could.
I just don’t entirely get Krall’s beef with the Federation. I don’t get that whole “being a soldier and having conflict makes you strong and having people you can rely on and connections and community makes you weak.” That seems pretty obviously false. It also doesn’t really seem, not that I’m an expert, but particularly in line with military ethos either.
BUT the idea that he had a life that was comfortable to him as a soldier and then the Federation comes in and forms Starfleet and says, actually, we’re going to pull back on the soldiering and up the diplomacy and the exploration and the science--yeah, I could see that. I DO think Starfleet is military but even if you must insist it’s not, it’s clearly based on and formed from the military, and it has certain military functions. So obviously the first people to join or be folded into Starfleet probably were more explicitly military.
So he’s one of those people. Now he’s supposed to be a scientist and a diplomat and an explorer and he doesn’t like that. He’s given this very prestigious and interesting mission and jumps at it. Starfleet warns him, you might go beyond where we can reach, we might not be able to help you. That’s fine. But then when his ship is stranded and he is lost, he gets angry--maybe somewhat irrationally, but understandably--why?? Why did the Federation do this to him? What was even the point? When he put himself in danger before, at least he knew why. But just flying around space for the hell of it, and this is the cost? So that’s what creates his anger.
I thin this could be tied into Kirk’s diplomacy at the beginning--if the scene were written to not be a comedy bit where Kirk looks like an incompetent buffoon and is completely disrespectful the whole time. He’s good at this job and we should say it. But we could emphasize that this IS a diplomatic mission often, just as often as it’s a military or scientific mission. Maybe we could include other bits of their missions, too, to play up the variety of things they do and roles they play.
Another thing I think could be interesting, going back to my point about Spock, Vulcan, and using the first two movies and expanding on the world building... what if Spock wanted to leave Starfleet for better, more well-defined reasons, and we used that? Paralleled the two? Connected the two?
Because I think Vulcan in the AOS verse is very interesting and the movies didn’t do nearly enough with it. First, we have the Romulans showing up way earlier, at least visibly: in TOS, no one knew what they looked like or their connection to Vulcans until Spock is in his late 30s. In AOS, it happens not long after he’s born. So he’s growing up probably with more anti-Vulcan racism floating around the Federation. THEN Vulcan is destroyed. Now it has nothing and it needs to rely on the rest of the Federation, which must be both humbling and frustrating to many Vulcans, on top of the extreme tragedy of losing everything. Most of their population, a lot of their history, their manufacturing, their scientific facilities, their resources, their animals, literally whatever else you can think of that a planet has--all gone. Now all of the survivors have lived some period on an alien planet, by definition, and they’re probably very dependent on the Federation not just to set up the new colony, but to replace all of the resources--natural and Vulcan-made--that they lost. And they’re a founding Federation member, Earth’s first contact. They’re especially important. And now they’re weak, and reliant on others.
So maybe Spock, early on, hears from New Vulcan and they’re not doing well. Maybe we hear from Sarek or T’Pring (...I’d just like to see reboot T’Pring). Maybe it’s not about, or just about, having children, but about being from an important and ancient family, and being seen as a hero for his part in the Narada mission, that makes him want to go and help rebuild their government (taking his mother’s place perhaps? she was on the High Council) or their scientific facilities, or the VSA, or their space travel capabilities--you know Vulcan had space ships of their own, outside of Federation ships. This would be the perfect place to showcase that tension between wanting to be independent--out of pride, out of fear, even--and needing help, because Vulcan could not survive without the Federation, probably less than 10 years out from the original planet’s destruction.
And then you feed it back into Krall.
So I could see like... well the tension, and then Krall comes in, and he's angry that the Federation "abandoned" him, but we actually explicitly address this. Maybe Spock gets to interact with him and say "I get it. You had a life and a mission and a purpose that was comfortable for you. Then the Federation came in and changed everything. A lot of my people are also feeling upset for similar reasons. But here's why actually you're wrong."
So anyway as you can see I’m smarter and more interesting than Simon Pegg.
I also hated, speaking of writers of this movie, the gay Sulu thing and HEAR ME OUT on this. It’s homophobic. His husband doesn’t have a name? Might not be his husband at all? Looks like he could be his nanny or his brother? As B said “at least grab his butt or something.” That was the most sanitized, no-homo depiction of a gay person I’ve ever seen. He’s gay (see, progressives and queers! gay! you like that right!) but DON’T WORRY STRAIGHTS--he’s in a monogamous relationship and has a child, he’ll show nothing but the most platonic physical affection with his male significant other, and the plot point will be so minuscule you’ll need a microscope to detect it. Also, we’ll throw in a no homo joke about two male characters not wanting to hug and we’ll make sure Kirk and Spock interact as little as possible, because we know they give off Big Queer Vibes every time they’re together.
Yes the last point is a little unfair but can you blame me for being angry about all the “look how hip to the times we are” back-patting that went on in 2016 when canonical bisexual Kirk is RIGHT THERE and we could have had ex-boyfriend Gary Mitchell instead of Unnamed Nanny??
Also Sulu is a hella random choice because again, like... he may not have had an s.o. in TOS but nor was there any indication he was gay. So it seems a LITTLE like they picked him because (1) his original actor is gay and gay people can’t play straight people duh so probably Sulu was Gay All Along I mean did you not get vibes???; and/or (2) asexual Asian stereotypes preclude giving Sulu any kind of love interest, male or female, that is actually... sexual, outright romantic, anything.
Anyway I can’t remember if I had any other thoughts, but I’ve said quite enough I think.
I miss Kirk so much... real Kirk... even my version of AOS Kirk who is probably not even characterized that well but at least I worked with love!!!
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Mother Mayhem || bdrptask
Word count: 6241
Description: Different moments between Franny and her mother, Sophea, featuring a common thread.
CW: Nothing triggering is discussed in detail but I wanna put some content warnings for the following; violence, implied slurs, slut-shaming, violence, mentions of what you’d expect from broaching the topic of Khm*r R*uge
Sophea Sor was never one to hide things from her daughter. Many survivors of war and the like shielded their children from their stories but Sophea was always straightforward about why she had to leave Cambodia.
Age appropriate, of course.
She didn’t whip out words like killing fields and genocide when her daughter was small, but she did explain that some very bad people caused some bad things to happen. She explained that people were very sick, very sad, and very hungry but couldn’t find food, so that was why she had to come to America.
As her daughter grew older, she filled in the gaps.
Five years old…
Mak had to leave Cambodia because people were fighting and hurting each other, and people they weren’t even fighting with got hurt too.
“Mak, I’m sleepy,” five year old Darareaksmey complained, crawling into her mother’s lap the second her mother sat down for probably the first time that day.
Without taking a sip of water from the plastic cup she’d just filled, a woman ran her hands, the color of the spiky balls that fall from sweetgum trees through the little girl’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She pulled the hair tie out of her own hair and began to work her daughter’s hair into a braid.
“You’ll be even sleepier after we finish cleaning the restaurant, baby. Then you can go straight to bed instead of tossing and turning until you do fall asleep.”
“I want to go to bed nooooow.” The little girl pouted, crossing her arms across her chest and letting out an indignant huff. “Why do I have to clean, I’m five. Jobs are for adults.”
“It’s not a job if I’m not paying you, silly.” Sophea Sor said, tying the ponytail holder around the braid. “It’s just chores. Kids don’t get paid for chores. Be lucky yours are inside and we don’t have a farm.”
“Ew, farm cows are smelly.”
“That’s right, now do you think you can mop the floor while I finish the dishes in the back?”
“Mhm. Can I sit down a minute first?”
“We can start after we finish this water.”
Six years old…
A lot of people died, that’s why Mak doesn’t have a daddy, and she got separated from her own mak. None of her family could come to her wedding because she wasn’t sure if any of them were still alive and where in the world they might be. That was why little Darareaksmey being supportive of her mother marrying Adrien was so important.
“Let go of my hair, Art! Or I’ll beat you up!” Darareaksmey shouted at her soon-to-be brother as he pulled on her braid, making her flail her arms wildly in her attempts to wallop him. “I’m gonna break your face!”
Gaston groaned as he flicked a fuzz off of his wedding clothes, realizing he was going to have to step in if they kept this up. He did not want to step in! Dara might be younger than him and Art both but she could punch! But if he teamed up with her and hit Art, then Art would get mad and say he betrayed his brother for their step-sister, and Dara would cry because she can stay ‘step-brother’ all she wants but the second the boys say ‘step-sister’ she throws a fit, and then she and Art would just start a new fight.
Being the big brother was exhausting sometimes.
Luckily, Gaston didn’t have to choose whose side to fight on, because Sophie glided into the room to pry the youngest two apart.
“Dara, be nice to your brother,” Sophie muttered, gently tugging her hair out of the braid to re-do it.
“He started it! And he’s not my brother, he’s just Adrien’s son!”
Sophie sighed and with one hand continued to unbraid her daughter’s hair, and with the other, beckoned Art to come closer. “That’s not what you were saying a few days ago, when we tried on your dress for the wedding. You said you were excited to have two big brothers.”
“That was before I realized Art was mean!” Dara stuck her tongue out at him.
“Brothers and sisters are mean to each other. Sometimes. Other times, they play together. But all of the time they don’t let anybody else be mean to each other.” Sophie explained as she started to fix Dara’s hair. “But. Art should apologize for pulling your hair.”
Sophie stared at Art with disapproving mom eyes until he shuffled his feet and looked down at them sheepishly. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair, Dara. And called you ugly. And said I didn’t want an ugly sister. And said your flowers smelled like butt. They don’t smell like butt.”
“Am I ugly?”
“You’re not ugly, I was just being mean. You’re a perfectly not ugly sister I’m excited to have after my daddy marries your mommy!”
Twelve years old…
About a quarter of the population of her mother’s home country died during the Khmer Rouge regime. Franny was lucky to have been born at all, and she should be very proud her mother taught her their language and culture.
Franny couldn’t remember the last time someone other than her mother used her given name except to make fun of it. Even her brothers called her Franny by then.
It was the start of a new school year and Franny dreaded the first day; not because of having to wake up early, not because of having to do homework again soon, but because new school years meant new teachers and new teachers. And new teachers for Franny and the handful of other children of Southeast Asian refugees in town meant a horrid butchering of their names at roll call.
It was the same song and dance every year.
Inevitably, one teacher would get to Phuc Kieu’s name and say something that sounded like “fuck you” and the class would laugh while Phuc meekly raised his hand and said, “You can just call me James.”
Serey Mam was lucky, it wasn’t hard to correct ‘Siri’ or ‘Sare-ee’ or ‘Sar-ee’ to ‘Sa-rey.’
It was the Lao kids that Franny felt most sorry for. Franny could only pronounce and spell Chanthanouvong, Douangphachanh, Nanthavongdouangsy, and Sibounheuang because she was also Southeast Asian so she bothered to learn. But at least with Serey’s name, teachers tried. With the Lao names they took one look at them and said ‘time to butcher it in the most egregious way possible.’
She had mad respect for Chitpasong Nanthavongdouangsy, who refused to go by an “American name” and forced teachers to learn to say Chitpasong. “I was born here,” Chitpasong said one time. “Chitpasong is an American name because I’m an American person.” Franny wished that six year old Darareaksmey had had that resolve, and wished twelve year old Franny could summon it, but she didn’t. She’d rather only hear Darareaksmey from her mother because at least she said it right.
“You look a bit glum.”
Speak of the devil and she shall appear.
“Hi, Mak.” Franny said, waving as she grabbed the last of the dishes from the soapy water to rinse it.
“What’s wrong? Don’t want summer to end?”
Franny shook her head. “No, I kind of miss all my friends. You know, the ones not in bicycling distance. I just don’t like the first day.”
Sophie let her daughter rinse and dry the final dish before she pulled one of the dining chairs out and snapped her fingers, manicured nail pointing down at it. Franny sat down as her mother grabbed the brush from her purse resting open on the table.
“Were girls mean to you last year?” Sophie asked as she got to brushing the knots out of Franny’s hair.
“Not really, I just punch them if they are.”
“Darareaksmey, we don’t resort to violence.”
“It’s my last resort, I promise, but it’s on the table.”
“So what’s wrong?” Sophie grabbed the hair tie from around her wrist and held it between her teeth as she started to braid from the top of Franny’s head. “You let me get this far, so you’re trapped now.”
“It’s the teachers. I hate roll calls on the first day.” She admitted. “I feel embarrassed.”
“About?”
“My name.”
That gave Sophie pause but her hands quickly got back to work on Franny’s hair. “Why?”
“They...say it wrong. Nobody can say Darareaksmey.”
“It’s not a name from their language, I’m sure it is difficult.”
“They don’t even try, it’s why everyone calls me Franny, nobody has ever tried. And it makes me feel embarrassed and sorry that I have such a weird name.”
Sophie was quiet for a long moment, her deft hands working at her daughter’s hair, until she spoke up again. “Are you embarrassed? To be Cambodian. About your name.”
“No...it just feels bad when they get it wrong. So I let them call me Franny. Is that bad?”
“No. I let them call me Sophie, don’t I? As long as you know how powerful your name is and why it's so special.”
Franny turned her head toward her mother but Sophie clicked her tongue and angled her head back forward, muttering something about her hair looking lopsided if she did that again. “Heeeeey, I was paying attention to you.”
“You’re trapped in this seat, you have to pay attention even with your back turned.”
“Fair. Why’s my name special?”
“Because you are. I thought very hard about your name. Darareaksmey means ‘bright, shiny star’. I know you remember I was raising you alone before I married your father. You remember, right?”
Franny, truthfully, sometimes forgot that Adrien Framagucci wasn’t always in her life. It was easy to forget that he wasn’t her biological father because she had never known any other man to be her father. She didn’t know her biological father’s name. Did she want to? Maybe. She hadn’t ever thought about it enough to decide anything; or to consider there was anything to decide.
Adrien raised Franny. Not only raised her, but he’d wooed her by proving what a great dad he’d be at the same time he was courting her mother. When he came to Mr. Tran’s home to pick Sophie up for dates, he’d bring Franny some amaryllis flowers he’d grown himself. A thanks for letting me borrow your mother today, he’d say. When Franny won Kindergarten student of the month at her elementary school, Adrien asked Sophie if he could treat Franny to a celebration dinner. When Franny mentioned the memory offhand a few years later Sophie said he did that to audition to be Franny’s dad.
Your father always knew that if he wanted me to believe he loved me, he’d have to love you, too. You were always part of the deal. He wanted to be your dad so he got to proving it to you.
If her original dad didn’t even stick around long enough for her to remember him but the dad she had put as much effort into wooing her as he did with her mother...then was it worth knowing about him? At twelve, Franny didn’t think it was.
“Yeah, I remember living in Mr. Tran’s shed with you.” Franny said.
“It used to be a shed. Mr. Tran fixed it up to be a tiny little house, we had a tiny little kitchen and air conditioning! Right, so you remember it was just me and you...we aren’t the only Cambodians in Clayton County, are we?”
Franny shook her head. “There’s some at my school. And some that live in Lovejoy, Riverdale, and Jonesboro that work at the restaurant.”
“Mhm. Are any of them your Aunties and Uncles? I know we call everyone Auntie and Uncle, but are they my brothers and sisters?”
“...y...yes? Yes, right?”
Sophie shook her head. “Not one. You’ve heard me talk about my brothers and sisters in Cambodia, right? The ones I climbed trees with or who helped me sneak back into the house at night, I talk about them sometimes. I had eleven of them.”
“...had?”
“I’m not sure how many are still living. Or where they might be.”
“Don’t you have their phone numbers, Mak?”
Sophie chuckled, the warmth in it seeming out of place to Franny even at that age. It seemed like her mother was broaching a very sad and difficult topic. Cambodia was always a toss-up. It was either sad or so happy it sounded like heaven or nirvana. This did not seem like the setup to one of her mother’s rose-colored talks about Cambodia.
“Or can you write letters?”
“I don’t know anything, my love.” Sophie admitted. This was the first time Franny had heard her mother say ‘I don’t know anything’ since she’d been alive! “I know some of the ones who died early on during the Khmer Rouge. Because I was there when they did. But eventually we became separated, and by the time I escaped to Thailand I didn’t know where they were. My brothers, sisters, my cousins. My own mak.”
“What about your dad?”
“Dead. That one, I know for sure.”
“...what happened?”
“That part, I’ll tell you when you’re older. You’re still a child, dear. I’m only telling you some of the basics today.” She cleared her throat and continued. “I escaped across the border into Thailand and accepted I’d never see my family again. I decided it would be an insult to them to not keep living though, so I waited to be resettled to a safer country as a refugee. First I was in Thailand. Then at a re-education center in The Philippines. And then I found out I was going to America. I wasn’t here very long when I got pregnant with you.”
“You weren’t married or anything?”
“I was not. And I had to stop working where I was working, and then I didn’t have any more money. That’s when I walked into Mr. Tran’s restaurant and tried to trick him into thinking I was Vietnamese. He picked up my Cambodian accent right away and told me that we are united by the wars waged by the West in our countries and by our struggles in America. Mr. Tran gave me a job, right away, and even let me move in with his family. Until he converted the shed into a little house, we lived in the main house with his family. We shared a room with his youngest daughter.”
“Leah?”
“That’s right. So. I was alone. I was unmarried. I barely spoke English at the time; I knew French and Vietnamese from Cambodia, of course Khmer is my native tongue, but my English was embarrassing. Still is.”
“No way, Mak! You speak English better than anybody who says that about you!” Franny argued, whirling her head around to face her mother now that she felt her hands move from her hair. “Who says that about you? I’ll cook them into soup!”
“Not. The. Point.” Sophie chastised bonking Franny on the nose with the pad of her index finger to emphasize each word. “The point is. It was a scary time for me when I first came to this country. And then when I found out I was pregnant with you it was even scarier. I wondered if I should give you up so a family with more money could raise you. Mr. Tran isn’t wealthy himself, you know, it was a situation where the poor were helping the beggar. Sometimes I still think you would have been better off...but I couldn’t do it. Maybe it was selfish to keep you, but I was so alone. I knew I’d probably still be lonely after I had you. Babies don’t learn to talk for years and even then, you’re my child, not my friend. But I could raise you to love Cambodian culture. I could teach you my language. I could make sure you knew the beautiful parts about where you came from. After everyone I ever knew was either dead or scattered who knew where around the world, I decided that raising you to be a proud Cambodian would be worth all of that loneliness.”
Franny, had she been a couple years older, would have cried. At fourteen she might have had the emotional depth to fully comprehend what she meant to her mother. At twelve, she understood a great deal, but it did not quite move her to tears. Though, she instinctively reached for her mother’s hand, and gave it a squeeze.
For a moment, she thought she saw the ghost of fear in her mother’s eyes, or the closest thing to it she could place at that age when her biggest fear was wasps.
“Do you miss Cambodia, Mak?” Franny asked quietly.
“Every day. It is a beautiful country. But it is one I will never see again so there is no use dwelling on it.”
“Don’t say that, we can go someday.” Franny said, pouting.
Sophie clicked her tongue at her daughter, shaking her head. “It’s too expensive. No go to your room and finish your homework. I don’t want to hear a single guitar chord until you finish.”
Twenty years old...
The purging of intellectuals included doctors, students, artists, and musicians. The grandfather Franny never got to meet was a doctor and he died because of it. Her mother had been a university student, studying to be a doctor herself, and lied that she was a seamstress to survive. One of brothers she knew did not survive had been a musician. Sophea had more reasons than financial stability to worry about her daughter insisting on doing music.
Franny supposed she was lucky.
Unlike some of her first-generation friends, her mother didn’t put that much pressure on her to marry a Cambodian man. There was never any matchmaking, any suggestions of an arranged marriage meeting, nothing like that. However, the first question Sophie asked when Franny told her mother that she had joined NYU’s Southeast Asian Student Association was “are there any nice Cambodian boys, Darareaksmey?”
It was then that Franny understood that her mother hoped for a Cambodian son-in-law even if she would not pressure her to select one. It was also clear to her that while her mother accepted her bisexuality, she did tend to assume she’d end up married to a man, perhaps even wished she would. In the 90s and early 2000s though, Franny took that as a blessing.
Franny did intentionally go on dates with a few Cambodian guys. She’d even had a third date planned with one.
Enter Cornelius Robinson. Mega-genius. Absolute nerd. Hair you just wanna run your hands through. Mild-mannered. Kind. Actually interested in what she had to say. And very Not Cambodian.
It was frankly embarrassing how quickly she was all in for that man. She didn’t have to spend all that much time with him for her to understand how her mother must have felt when she began seeing her father.
Christmas break rolled around and she figured she should introduce her boyfriend to her family. Franny’s jaw fell right between her feet on the ground at how suspiciously well it went.
Hours later, she was positively mortified when, instead of telling Cornelius he could sleep in one of her brothers’ rooms, her mother followed up ‘just follow Darareaksmey to her room’ with ‘and keep it down if you get naked.’ Franny covered her face with her pillow, muttering, ‘Neil, just press down. Smother me now.’
“Do you like him?” Franny asked her mother while they folded the laundry one afternoon.
“Your boyfriend?”
“No, Mak. Daddy. Of course I mean my boyfriend. So, do you like Cornelius or n-- ow!”
Sophie withdrew the dish towel she’d just whipped Franny’s arm with and her warm laugh filled the room. “Don’t sass me, girl. I do. He’s a very rich man you’ve got wrapped around your finger, and he isn’t even old enough to be your father.”
“Mak!” Franny’s turn to wack an arm with a dish towel. “I’m not with him for his money...okay, it’s nice that he takes me grocery shopping sometimes so I can eat decent food. But other than that I don’t care about his money.”
Well...maybe she did a little. It wasn’t the or even a reason she began seeing him, but it was a perk she was now enjoying just like her cooking was a perk he got to enjoy. But money could only entertain her for so long. If Cornelius didn’t make her soul feel at home the way he did not even his bank account could have kept her.
“Cornelius makes me very happy. I actually - I actually miss him when I don’t get to see him for more than like a day. I never thought I was clingy with guys or girls I dated. Guess I am.’
“Oh, Dara. You’re just in love.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. Are you angry?”
Sophie stopped folding the pair of jeans in her hands and let them crumple into her lap. “Why would I be angry?”
“He’s not Cambodian? I don’t know. You wanted me to date the Cambodian boys in the Southeast Asian Student Association.”
“Honey,” Sophie cooed, reaching for Franny’s hand. “Only if you wanted to. I’ll admit a part of me hoped you would find a nice proud Cambodian boy. It would be wonderful if you had a husband who would help teach your children Khmer-”
Franny bit her tongue, holding back a reminder that they’d hadn’t been dating long enough to consider marriage and kids, and that she was only twenty. Nevermind that Franny had been thinking about those things privately. Oh, not in detail. She didn’t have their future children named or anything, though, she had come to the realization that if she tried to picture herself married one day then it was to Cornelius Robinson. The idea of being a mother kind of freaked her out...but if she added ‘mother to Cornelius Robinson’s children someday’ to it, she got all giggly thinking about it.
It was still a little early to say the M-word or the K-word to Cornelius but it wasn’t like it hadn’t crossed her mind. Franny was in love, after all.
“- because a part of me does worry about our culture going away with your childrens’ generation if you don’t. But this is America, where there’s all types of people, not just Khmer, Chinese, Cham, or Vietnamese people. You can marry anybody you want. I speak English now anyway.”
“Mak, I’d teach my kids Khmer.” Franny said.
“You will?”
“How else will we gossip about all the snobby rich families at the country club right in front of them?”
Sophie bursted into laughter, shoving Franny over onto her side on the floor. “Oh, don’t be a gossip! Now sit up, we'll finish the laundry later. Let me do your hair so I can tell you all about the Inthavongs’ divorce.”
Twenty-three years old…
Her mother’s life even after coming to America had been harder than Franny fully understood for most of her life up until around the time she was married. She thought she knew all about her mother’s struggle because it happened right in front of her, but there were so many parts Franny was missing.
“Look at my handsome son-in-law! Oh, come, come, let me take some pictures to email to my brothers and sisters.”
“Mak, they were at the wedding, they know what Cornelius looks like,” Franny whined, clinging onto his arm. “He flew them in, remember?”
“You’re supposed to be wiping down the tables, Darareaksmey.” Sophie reminded her, gesturing around the restaurant. “Here, I’ll get that server apron off you. Thank you for helping out with dinner Cornelius. So generous with your time when you’re visiting, such a good man.”
“He’s married, Mak.” Franny deadpanned. Sophie grabbed a mint from the bowl by the door and before she even threw it at Franny her daughter ducked for cover. “You’re getting her in the divorce!”
It might have been the couple’s first visit to Georgia since they married a few months ago, but Cornelius knew this routine by now. In about four minutes the play-fighting would be long since over and his wife would be hanging onto her mother telling her how much she loooooved her, or how much she wanted them to treat her to a nice meal out tomorrow, or mention how priceless the look on the blonde sales lady’s face would be if two women who looked like them bought a much too expensive dress with her husband’s black card.
After knowing Sophie, it was clear where Franny got her...well, a lot of things from. Of course a woman like that raised Franny. Of course.
The jangling of the bell attached to the front door interrupted Cornelius’ admiration of his wife and mother-in-law.
Franny lifted her head up from cleaning a table. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for the nigh--”
“YOU WHORE!” Screeched the woman who had walked in the door.
“Hey!” Cornelius exclaimed, the scary, unfamiliar feeling of anger bubbling in his chest. “That is my w-”
When Sophie was the one struck by the woman’s backhand, it was clear it was not Franny who was the target of that slur.
“Did you expect me to be in the dark forever? How dare you hang around this town! How dare you show your face here!” The woman, blonde hair greying and pale skin beginning to show age, berated Sophie as she continued her assault. “You and my husband’s bastard child, right under my nose!”
Cornelius blinked in surprise; he would have thought that his wife’s sperm donor of a biological father would have confessed to his wife about his infidelity much sooner than now, almost twenty-four years later. She must have just found out. Why else would she come to the restaurant that late at night breathing fire out her nose -- good god, he was starting to think in Franny’s folksy sayings.
He was frozen in shock and a tinge of fear (he never was one for physical fights, see) just long enough for Franny to be the first to act. Sophie seemed fully aware of what was happening and also fully able to defend herself, yet for some reason unwilling to.
Franny lunged forward and grabbed the oldest of the three women by the hair and tugged her away from Sophie. “Paws off my mother! She did nothing wrong!”
The woman (if Cornelius remembered correctly, Franny’s biological father was named Peter Boyd), Mrs. Boyd, shrieked and flailed her arms until one connected with Franny hard enough to stun her into losing her grip. Mrs. Boyd turned on Franny immediately.
“Ha! Nothing wrong? Nothing wrong? Your mother opened her legs to a married man, that’s why you’re even here! Lying like a Persian rug. I should lay you out like one.”
“Fucking try! I’ll lay your ass out and step all over it, you wanna talk about Persian rugs.” Franny challenged, stepping around Mrs. Boyd to block her from her mother.
Mrs. Boyd lunged at Franny, but Franny had been in more fights that the genteel politician’s wife could have ever been in. It took her an embarrassing number of tries to land a punch on Franny and when she did, she didn’t miss her shot. While Franny was stunned, Mrs. Boyd grabbed Franny by her hair and threw her against the wall.
It felt like hours to him that he was frozen in place, but it couldn’t have actually been more than a full minute between Sophie first being slapped and when Mrs. Boyd landed her punch on Franny. That one action finally connected Cornelius’ eyes to the rest of his body. Mrs. Boyd drew back her fist and in a display of speed and athleticism that he could never repeat again, Cornelius crossed the room and wedged himself between Mrs. Boyd and his wife.
Lucky for him, she wasn’t a very strong puncher.
Unlucky for him, she was wearing her ring and his cheek sliced right open.
“You just punched my husband.” Franny snarled, reaching for a chair. “You. Just punched. My husband.”
If Cornelius thought Franny looked scarily pissed off when a man put his hands on her at a bar, he ain’t seen nothin’ back then. If they were in a cartoon, smoke would have billowed from her nose and ears as she shoved him behind her.
“He got in the way, that’s his fault!”
“He has nothing to do with your cheating husband preying on and manipulating a refugee who barely spoke English into thinking he cared about her and would take care of her. Your shitty husband is the one you should be beating up right now!” Franny hissed, her grip on the chair tightening.
“Shut up, [slur I won’t type]!”
It was dead silent. Not one of the four of them moved. Cornelius could have sworn he heard a heartbeat that’s how quiet it was.
Franny was the first to break the silence.
“I’ll count to three. If you aren’t out of my mother’s restaurant when I get to three, what happens next is your fault.”
Mrs. Boyd scoffed. “Like I’m afraid of some gold-digging musical theatre major.”
“One.”
“You aren’t really going to hit me with a chair, are--”
“Two.”
“I’ll have you arrest--”
“Three. GAH!” Franny only had to fake her out for her to run out the door shrieking. The chair was already back on the ground before the door had even shut. “I’ll lock the door. Mak, can we put a dish towel on his face?”
---
“Franny ow,” Cornelius protested as, back at her parents’ house, Franny landed a light-but-strategically-painful punch on Cornelius' arm. “Why are you mad?”
“Because you got hurt!” She snapped, folding her arms across her chest, her eyes watering. “Why would you do that?”
“I didn’t want her to hurt you or Sophie…”
Franny whined. “Baby, you name your robots. You can’t take or throw punches. I’m the badass in this marriage, you’re the sweet, gentle one. I hate that you got hurt because my sperm donor’s wife would rather blame a poor lady and her daughter instead of her shitty husband.”
“Honey, she slammed your head into the wall.”
“And?” Franny knocked on her skull. “Sounds hollow to me. I don’t think there’s any brain cells left there to kill.”
Cornelius gave a huff of a laugh through his nose, reaching for Franny’s hand to play with her fingers. He didn’t say anything, just held her hand and waited for her.
“I’m sorry you had to see my family’s dirty laundry. Not like you didn’t already know, but.” Franny said, staring down at their hands. “I thought his wife knew. The worst part is, I can understand her. I’d hate my mom and I too if you-- not that you would -- I don’t think you’d-- I just mean--”
“I know.” Cornelius said, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
Sophie glided into the living room, her hair kit in hand, and gestured for Franny to sit up straight. Franny opened her mouth to protest that she didn’t feel like getting her hair messed with right now, but snapped her jaw shut as quick as she’d opened it. Just let Mak do her little ritual, it wouldn’t hurt no one.
“I’m sorry this happened, Mak. I should’ve been quicker to fight for you.” Franny said, looking down at her hand in Cornelius’.
Sophie tsk tsked and tugged the hairbrush a little hard, Franny swore it was on purpose. “It was overdue karma, my love. I slept with a married man whether I knew it or not at the time. Not knowing doesn’t make it any less wrong.”
“It does too! He was the one married and lying to you! And the one tried to force you into an abortion when that wasn’t the right choice for you. How are you near as responsible as him?” Franny argued.
“Humans see grey areas. Not everything in the universe does, dear. Besides, I won anyway. Even after today.”
“How? All three of us look like the school bully took our lunch money. I mean, look at him! He and Lucille have a press thing after we get back to New York, he’s gonna look like I shanked him during a domestic!” Franny looked over at Cornelius and pouted at his bandage.
“I’ll tell the press I fought valiantly, honey. You were a worthy opponent.” Cornelius teased. Franny hissed, exactly like her cat, then immediately kissed his temple.
“I win in the end because I get to have you as my daughter.” Sophie explained, starting on the actual braid. “I don’t regret any part about my path crossing with Peter Boyd’s because I had to go through it to get you.”
Franny was silent a long moment, her eyes watered in lieu of her finding her words. She only squeezed Cornelius’ hand tighter, and when she had words again only managed so squeak out, “Maaaaaak, you can’t say things that nice while you’re doing my hair. It’ll be all lopsided if I move to hug you.”
“That’s why I said it when I did.”
Thirty-five years old…
Franny was coming to understand that she would never truly be able to understand everything about her mother’s life in Cambodia. The more she knew, the more she didn’t know.
Franny sat behind her mother, brushing out her hair, as the recording device captured their conversation. At the moment, all it was capturing was Franny’s stunned silence as she sat there, mouth agape, hairbrush frozen mid-brush in her mother’s salt and pepper hair.
What do you say to your mother recounting in gruesome detail her father’s death?
She spoke like all she was recalling was the serial killer’s M.O. in the last Criminal Minds, her tone calm, detached, there was even a nervous laugh in there.
“Mak…” Franny whispered. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“The book was my idea, Darareaksmey. I want you to help me talk about what happened to my country and our family before I’m an old woman and can’t remember things. The world deserves to know what it let happen.”
“It can’t be easy for you. How do you just...live after that?”
“It isn’t easy. Keep brushing.” Sophie waited until Franny’s hands were once again busy with her hair to continue. “A lot of people don’t, I imagine. Surviving must eat some people alive. It got to me, at first.”
Franny set the brush down and started on the braiding. “Did it?”
“Why was my escape successful but the woman who suggested the method I used get caught when she tried it, why was I able to survive the student purge but my friends weren’t, why did the cut on my foot eventually heal but my sister’s infection kill her, and do I even deserve to be alive...things like that, I thought about those things every day in the refugee camp. Once I was able to actually think about anything but being hungry, anyway.” Sophie explained.
While Franny braided her mother’s hair it occurred to her that this was the most honest that her mother had been with her about her feelings (re: living through the Khmer Rouge) in all of her thirty-five years on the planet. Regarding the straight facts, Sophea Sor Framagucci was a straightforward woman. She would tell you in detail how any and every traumatic event went down but never once had she talked about how she felt or what it all did to her.
Though, she couldn’t imagine detailing every single trauma in her life and how it affected her for Wilbur either.
Perhaps it felt strange to Franny because her mother’s trauma was a major historical event that numerous books, movies, documentaries, and articles talked about. She knew so much about the event itself but the raw, human, emotional aspect of it was all new.
“It’s funny because deciding not to live was never an option for me. Even before I had you. I just kept thinking about how I didn’t want to let the people who did this to me win, and I can only do that by living. So I existed. For a long time, it was just existing. I learned to be alive again. Especially once you started talking and having a personality that wasn’t just ‘Being A Baby. That’s when being a mother goes from being just a responsibility to a responsibility that makes you smile and laugh.”
“Mm, it’s a good thing you told me that part at thirty-five and not fourteen. As a mother, I understand what you mean. As a teenager that would have killed my self-esteem.”
“Impossible, your ego was much too big at that age. It almost could’ve used a beating.”
“Don’t you know that was the classic pretend you’re better than God because you actually feel like trash act?” Franny said, tying the hair tie around the braid.
“Can’t say I’m familiar. It’s never been an act for me.”
“Mak!” Franny laughed, playfully nudging her mother. “No wonder I have a god complex on Tuesdays.” A beat. “We can stop. If you need to.”
“I’ll tell you when I need a break, my love. I’m okay.”
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Chapter 19: On the Line
Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn
A03 Story Link
Author: @wordywarriorwrites
Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other.
A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky.
For: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration with the prompt, “Why did you do it?” & @sherrybaby14 Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge with the prompt, “Show me. Prove that you can handle me.”
Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.
*Re-blogs are welcome. Plagiarism isn’t. *
Bucky had traveled 3,575 miles on nothing more than a combustive cocktail of desperation, adrenaline, and frayed nerves.
He hadn’t eaten, showered, or slept in almost two days, but that hadn’t mattered, and even with nothing but a city name to go by, he still managed to track Steve down. He’d waited anxiously and expectantly; practiced what he wanted to say; braced himself for what he anticipated would be, at most, a very soul-crushing, heart-breaking, go-on-a-bender-right-afterward rejection…
However, instead of a rebuff, Bucky received a bullet to the chest, and he didn’t even know the prick who capped him, let alone the reason for it.
A subsequent ride in a dilapidated mini-van with a rank interior, and a dipshit behind the wheel who drove like they were playing a fucking pinball machine instead of operating a motorized vehicle. The shocks – if they’d ever existed at all – had done nothing to absorb the impact of the chaotic ride, and Bucky tried not to howl like a wounded animal as everything quaked, rattled, and rolled around him.
The jacket used to help plug the leak was his own, but Steve was the one who kept continued pressure on the wound. Bucky was in the trunk, with all two-hundred-forty-pounds and six-feet-two-inches of Steve’s body straddled over him, and when Steve wiped the back of his hand across his sweat-drenched forehead, a streak of Bucky’s blood was left behind.
“Drive faster!” Steve yelled toward the front.
“I’m going as fast as this putain de boîte de conserve will allow!” came a harried reply.
As they careened around a sharp corner, Steve redoubled his efforts, and pushed down harder. The goal was to keep Bucky from being jostled, but all it did was exacerbate the pain. In a matter of minutes, he wasn’t able to take a full breath, or comply with Steve’s repeated commands for him to keep his eyes open.
“Hey, hey, look at me!” he bellowed. “God-fucking-damn-it, Buck, don’t you fuckin’ dare do this to me!”
Everything eventually came to a grinding halt, and then, things started to move way too fast again. Someone dragged him out of the van and he would’ve screamed if he’d had the oxygen to spare. He was transferred onto something soft, and then, prodded, poked, and asked questions he couldn’t answer because he was too busy wheezing and spitting up blood.
Another individual shined a light in his eyes and flatly remarked, “pupils responsive.” Another person said, “possible perforation of the right lung,” and he thought to himself, “Again?” Then, it was all barked orders and issued statements – remove the bullet; control the bleeding; repair the damage.
Bucky was going under – knew he was being dangled over the fucking grave – but he somehow managed to force his eyes open. When he blindly and wildly batted his hand around, someone grabbed it, and then, a pair of watery, baby-blues appeared in his line of sight. A voice insisted he needed to be taken into surgery immediately, and ordered Steve to let him go, but Bucky couldn’t allow that, because the darkness was closing in fast, and he needed to get it out before it was too late.
He tried to make his heavy tongue and blood-caked lips form the words. He tried to say it once – just one, fucking time – but his body was broken and uncooperative. The only thing Bucky could do was hold on, and he held on as tight as he could for as long as he was able, but all too soon he was forced under, and down into the darkness.
If Bucky had been asked to wager his chances of survival, he wouldn’t have bet on it. Given the deadly accuracy of the shooter and the massive blood loss, he figured the odds just weren’t in his favor, and when he woke up a few days later, he was both extremely shocked and very, very confused.
“M’alive?” he croaked to nobody in particular.
Natasha gasped and all but jumped out of her chair, “You’re awake?”
He tried to ask where he was and what happened, but she suddenly dashed for the door; a few seconds later, Natasha was back by his side, and accompanied by an attending physician who explained what had occurred while he’d been unconscious.
Apparently, Bucky was a lucky man; if the bullet had entered just an inch to the left, he would’ve been dead, but swift action and proximity to the best hospital in France had kept him out of the morgue. From there, he’d spent six hours with a surgeon; he’d flatlined a time or two, but the woman who’d been in charge of putting his sorry ass back together had stubbornly refused to let him die on her table.
Whatever else Bucky was told went in one ear and out the other; it wasn’t his first rodeo, and he knew he could anticipate at least two weeks of disgusting food and awkward bedside manner before he was released. The nurse who arrived a few minutes later gave him some water, went over the rules of the morphine pump, and showed him how to call for aid. After being told he would make a full recovery, Natasha shook hands with the medical staff, and thanked them for everything they’d done. Bucky was exhausted from just listening, but he also nodded in thanks, and as soon as they departed, he depressed the button to release the pain medication.
As soon as he woke and was somewhat coherent again, Natasha explained what happened. Apparently, Mason Dubois’s security detail had viewed Bucky’s unexpected presence in Paris as a threat, and since Steve was considered to be Mason’s boyfriend, that concern extended to him as well. The guard had just been doing his job, but nevertheless, Natasha assured him the matter had been dealt with, and that Dubois would see Bucky was well-compensated for the egregious mistake.
Bucky was in and out of it for about a week, not only because he was exhausted, but because the meds made him drowsy and unable to focus. He barely remembered when Tony, Thor, Wanda, Clint, and Bruce arrived, and save for consistently disappointing meals and lukewarm sponge baths, he really didn’t have the energy or patience for much else.
Over the next few days, they took turns visiting and keeping an eye on him, but the one person Bucky wanted to see had yet to make an appearance. He wasn’t sure of the time when he next opened his eyes, but he knew it was late because the lights had been dimmed, the door was shut, and his newest sentry was snoring and mumbling in his sleep.
Instead of using the cot one of the nurses had brought in, Steve was hunched forward in a chair at Bucky’s bedside. His torso was propped up on the edge of the mattress, and he had his face tucked in the crook of one arm, while the other rested heavily across Bucky’s waist. Though he was desperate for another hit of the mind-numbing, pain-relieving drugs, Bucky didn’t dose himself; instead, he reached out an unsteady hand, and gently stroked Steve’s hair.
The twitching and frantic murmurings stopped on a dime, and the contented sigh he let out made Bucky’s chest constrict even tighter. His vision was blurred and the room was dim, but he could still see Steve so clearly, and even after everything that had happened, he knew – Bucky knew Steve was the one.
Steve was the man he’d set everything aside for and put it all on the line for. It was Steve who he thought of and dreamed about; who he missed, desired, and needed every second of the fucking day; who he wanted to call when he was happy; who he wished to talk to when he was at the end of his rope; who he wanted to laugh with, take on the world with, and be with until he well and truly kicked the bucket.
Bucky stared down at Steve -- the man who’d literally saved his life twice -- and finally knew what he wanted to say.
The shaky hand he’d been carding through Steve’s hair became rock steady, but before he could act, the handle of the room’s door was turned, and the sound startled Steve out of his slumber. The speed at which he got to his feet and took a fighting stance meant he was being hypervigilant, but then, he seemed to come to his senses, muttered something about the nurse being right on time, and lowered his fists.
Every hour, on the hour – that was the schedule for rounds, and the staff was diligent. They checked his vital sheets, and if Bucky was awake, asked about his pain level, inquired after his comfort, and wondered if he needed assistance getting to the bathroom. The checkup was thorough and efficient, and Steve didn’t take his eyes off the nurse until the examination was complete and they were left alone again.
Steve rubbed his eyes and smothered a yawn, “Natasha will be here to take over and--”
“I was wrong,” Bucky interjected soberly. “And I should’ve never let you go five years ago.”
If Steve had just turned around and left, it wouldn’t have surprised him. If he’d told him to fuck off and never speak to him again, he would’ve deserved it. If Steve had threatened to re-open his chest wound; if he’d said it was too late; that what Bucky had put him through was unforgivable; that he’d already moved on -- that, too, would’ve been warranted.
When Steve didn’t say or do anything, Bucky knew he had his answer. He had to accept it, but that didn’t mean he had to face both the pain of his loss and his injury; he reached for the little baton connected to the morphine pump, but Steve was quick, and snatched it right out of his hand.
“You don’t get to say that to me and just check out afterward,” he snapped. “Tell me the real reason you’re in France – and don’t insult me by lying to me.”
Given the lengths Bucky had gone to in order to shore up power and neutralize threats in the past, it was more than fair for Steve to assume he’d flown all the way to Paris on business. The enraged look in his eyes suggested he believed Bucky had found out about Mason Dubois, and that the only reason he’d traveled cross-country was to put a stop to whatever was going on between them. It would’ve been easier had that been the case, but it wasn’t.
The real reason had nothing to do with business, but had everything to do with what Bucky knew to be true and what he felt deep down in his marrow: without Steve, he would never know peace, happiness, or rest, and Bucky’s love for him was more important than his so-called pride.
“You asked me what I wanted,” he choked out raggedly. “And what I want is you. That’s why I’m here.”
A myriad of expressions flitted across Steve’s face; at first, he appeared to be dumbfounded. Then, he bounced between frustration and sorrow, before he resolutely settled on incredulity and disbelief.
“You know, you had me for a minute there,” Steve asserted as he dropped the morphine switch back down on the bedspread. “But then, I remember who you are, and realize I can’t believe a single word that comes out of your deceitful fucking mouth.”
Bucky was trying to breathe through his torment and think of what to say when Steve suddenly turned, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and left without a backward glance. His abrupt departure prompted Bucky to toss back the blanket and yank the IV from his arm. He was in no condition to be up and about just yet, but he got to his feet anyway, and shuffled out to the hall.
As soon as his toes passed the threshold, it was all, “Monsieur Barnes,” this and, “Tu dois retourner au lit,” that, but Bucky ignored the fuss. A quick glance to the right showed nothing but a long hallway of rooms, but when he looked left, he spotted the exit, and watched as Steve headed brusquely for it.
Foregoing his meds wasn’t the wisest decision Bucky had ever made. Being upright, let alone walking around without assistance, was also rather stupid. Using the wall for balance instead of parking his ass safely in a wheelchair? Definitely not a good idea, either. And shouting Steve’s name at the top of his scarred lungs in the middle of an otherwise respectfully quiet hospital hallway – yeah, that was bad, too.
But on a scale of, “Meh, screw it,” to, “What the actual fuck am I doing?” yelling out a declaration of love to a man who clearly wanted nothing more to do with him was really off the charts.
Steve halted mid-stride and the moment he chose to turn around was the exact second Bucky’s legs decided to give out on him. He folded like a cheap-ass lawn chair, went down hard on his knees, and felt one of his many stitches pop in the process.
The automatic door hissed open and swooshed shut. A doctor was paged over the intercom and an ambulance wailed in the distance. Some teenage girl in the lobby gasped and the woman seated next to her sniffled. A muffled, drawn-out scream, and then, the cries of a newborn. The phone at the front desk rang, but nobody moved or picked it up. When one of the staff eventually tried to aid him, he refused the assistance, and hung his head.
Bucky remained kneeling on the linoleum like a wretched supplicant, but soon, he wasn’t alone in his prostration. Dark-washed denim against bare skin, followed by a pair of sturdy hands that lifted him up and off the cold floor. Bucky was torn open; all raw, vulnerable, and exposed; and nothing more than a complicated, dead weight that bled and wept in Steve’s strong arms.
As he was carried back to his room, he had to bite down on his own fist to stop himself from sobbing. As soon as Steve set him down on the bed, the nurses swarmed, and proceeded to admonish him in both English and French while they cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and doped him back up. Bucky was back beneath the sheets and on the fringes of passing out again when Steve abruptly shook him awake.
“Did you mean it?” he asked gruffly. “Did you really mean what you said?”
He opened his eyes, fixed Steve with a level stare, and allowed both the tears and irrevocable words to tumble and fall. This time, there was no chance of misunderstanding; no room for subterfuge; and no backing out. When he repeated it again for good measure, Steve sighed, leaned over the bed, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth.
Bucky knew Steve’s caress and murmured, “I love you, too,” didn’t mean all was forgiven.
But it was a pretty good fucking start.
Translations:
Putain de boîte de conserve – Fucking tin-can.
Tu dois retourner au lit – You must return to bed.
Chapter 20: Evermore
Everything:
@jennmurawski13
@nerdy-bookworm-1998
Steve Rogers:
@patzammit
@hearttoearth
The Boss of Brooklyn:
@star-spangled-man-with-a-plan
@jamesbarnesappreciationsociety
@captain-rogers-beard
@lilliannaansalla
#stucky fanfic#stucky drabble#stucky fanfiction#stucky oneshot#stucky imagine#stucky smut#mob boss au james barnes#mob boss au bucky barnes#steve rogers x bucky barnes fanfic#steve rogers x bucky barnes fanfiction#steve x bucky fanfic#steve x bucky fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fanfiction#steve rogers fanfic#steve rogers fanfiction#marvel fanfiction#marvel fanfic#the boss of brooklyn#wordywarriorwrites
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my (personal favourite) writings from 2019
I don’t have anything for January because I guess I didn’t write/didn’t post anything then? At any rate, here are my favourite writings from every month of 2019.
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February:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17764769/chapters/41916899 : “To Give Life Meaning”, a 5+1 things Hinanami fic I wrote over the course of several days, mostly at night. The honourific situation with this one is messy and there are the beginnings of a lot of good lines? Like I know what I was trying to say. But it’s not the kind of thing that I would be happy posting nowadays. (Ignore the fact that it says it was completed in September of this year; I went through nine months later and separated the different sections into chapters so that it would be easier to read. I wrote and published all of it back in February.) This was the second Danganronpa fic I ever wrote.
Content warnings: Contains talk of suicide, and mentions of being suicidal. Generally in the past tense. Nobody is proactive in this fic.
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March:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/18232343 : “Hold his hand”, the very first Amasai one-shot I ever wrote. I got the idea for this one late at night thinking about how Shuichi would react if his mom died. I was actually going to write this with Ryoma comforting him, or Kiyo maybe, but I ended up doing Rantaro because I watched all of his FTEs with Shuichi and was like… I do like this green man. Anyway, I’m glad I did, because if I hadn’t I don’t know if the Amasai series would… even exist. That’s really weird to think about.
Content warnings: Minor character death on the part of Shuichi’s mother. The focus of the piece isn’t her dying (as it is in fact from Rantaro’s perspective) so much as it is the conflicting emotions that it stirs up for Shuichi, but it’s still, y’know, someone’s mother dying. Anyway, read with caution.
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April:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468478 : “Does it matter?”, a late-night fic where Aoi is conflicted about her sexuality and calls Makoto to talk about it. I wrote a lot of one-shots in April (I actually surprised myself going through them haha) but this one is my favourite because it touches on things that I don’t see addressed a lot. Makoto and Aoi are good friends. 10/10.
Content warnings: Internalised homophobia. It hasn’t triggered anybody that I know of because it’s mostly just Makoto giving advice and Aoi coming to the conclusion that she really likes Sakura in a not-so-platonic way, but y’know.
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May:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/18776947 : “Shuichi thinks too much”, another installment in the Amasai drabbles series, and… wow. I literally only posted Amasai in the month of May. This one is my favourite (of the ones I posted in May, obviously) because it’s the one where Shuichi realises that Rantaro is claustrophobic and then they have a messy first kiss in the wake of Rantaro’s panic attack. I like fics where Character A kisses Character B and B has to be like… slow down partner… ur panicking. I also just like milking Rantaro angst so it’s a win-win. I go back and read this one periodically :)
Content warnings: Panic attacks, claustrophobia. Shuichi is exhausted in this fic haha but at least he has his shit together enough to know exactly what he’s feeling through the whole thing.
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June:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210423 : “Quiet Moments”, an introspective drabble/character study in which Peko thinks about how much she loves Ibuki. Damn, I love Pekobuki. I haven’t written nearly enough for them. I wrote a lot of things in June (including an Undertale one-shot which was a strong contender for this spot just because this list is dominated by Danganronpa stuff) but this one is my favourite because it was just me… rambling about how much I love Ibuki… and projecting onto Peko. Which I do every time I write this pairing, but I didn’t make this list to call myself out, so yeah I’m just going to move on.
Content warnings: Peko briefly mentions that Fuyuhiko had to get an appendectomy within the piece, but it’s nothing intense.
---
July:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974424 : “Take his soul with a kiss”, a Grim Reaper AU in which Maki is Death and Kaito is a guy with the audacity to tell her to wait a week before grabbing her soul. I’ve finally hit the part of this summer where I was eating one meal a day and spending the rest of my time on my laptop writing fic. 14k words a day, babey! I wrote all my favourite pieces in July (Shuichi’s love hotel, the one where Rantaro pierces Shuichi’s ears, the domestic Hinanami, the one where Shuichi has a breakdown and everyone comforts him, that one where Shuichi is mean to Kokichi and then apologises) but this one definitely deserves to be here because it’s my favourite. I like Momoharu/Kaimaki/Harukaito (idk what y’all call it man) so, uh. Yeah.
Content warnings: Death is talked about a lot but I don’t want to spoil anything about the ending by saying shit so I’ll just??? It’s a Grim Reaper AU, procede with caution. Oh, and Kaito has a lung disease.
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August:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442290/chapters/48499868 : “Causation and Correlation”, another 5+1 things fic (I have a good chunk of them) where Kyoko can hear death and so she goes around saving people. Also, in the end of the fic, someone saves her. It’s a cute fic and I love writing Kyoko so obviously this one is my favourite. (The one where Kokichi has parents and the Kaemugi fic I wrote that month are ones I really like too… this isn’t easy for me gamers ;w;) This is one of those fics where I was feeling extremely confident about my writing abilities the whole time I wrote it, and I’m still really proud of it.
Content warnings: Again, uh, death? Attempted murder, near-drowning, sickness, head injuries, and also attempted suicide. (Nobody dies in this fic, though.) Kyoko has her work cut out for her in this one.
---
September:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577251 : “Cigarette smoke”, a vaguely nonsensical Saimota piece I wrote where Kaito breaks down and Shuichi comforts him. I’ve only written Saimota twice and both times it’s been Kaito angst because you guys, you just, you don’t address his sadness at all unless it’s in Oumota (and we all know how I feel about Oumota). I should start referring to September as “the month of angst fics I wrote in the middle of the night” because that’s exactly what all of it was. This one wasn’t a vent fic, but there were a lot of them. September is also the month I started doing Amami week, so there’s a lot of that, too.
Content warnings: Kaito really… berates himself in this one. His internal dialogue is hard for me to read in this one because he’s super hard on himself. He also has a meltdown and starts hyperventilating at one point (and the way I write breakdowns is always super descriptive) so please make sure you’re happy and healthy before reading.
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October:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195527 : “In the forever sense of the term”, what is probably my favourite Amasai fic at this moment, where Shuichi and Rantaro are forced to address Shuichi’s abandonment issues, and also there’s crying. A lot of it. From Shuichi mainly but a little bit from Rantaro too. I was surprised at how many fics I wrote in October because I was mostly focusing on Inktober I should think? I wrote a lot of original works in Inktober (though I ended up falling off the wagon at the end due to burnout) and it was a really fun experience! I think it strengthened my skills as a writer. Anyway this one is cathartic as hell.
Content warnings: The self loathing is strong with this one. It’s one of many mental breakdown fics that I’ve written this year. And there’s obviously the abandonment issues thing. Yikes.
---
November:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399748 : “One hundred and twenty six tiles on the ceiling”, where Himiko ends up bailing on plans she made with everyone to hang out and instead stays at home, stewing in self deprecation, until Ryoma shows up, and then everyone else comes to take care of her. Another one of those ones where everyone is there for someone after a breakdown. I like this one because Himiko is my baby and most of the angst the fandom puts out for her is centered around Tenko and Angie, which sucks because I headcanon her as having depression. Like, depression that is entirely unrelated to the people she knows kind of depression. I didn’t write a lot in November because I had a relapse, but I like this one anyway.
Content warnings: Depressive episode, disassociating, suicidal ideation, all the ugly things that come with depression. This isn’t a pretty fic. I don’t write depression as something that’s pretty or poetic because it’s not. It fucking sucks and that’s just how things are going to be.
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December:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976864/chapters/52442179 : “An Ode to Yellow Carnations”, a 5+1 things fic where Tsumugi is a florist and Kaede takes different people to her shop until eventually she goes by herself. Is anyone surprised to see this one here? I wrote it for Tumblr’s Danganronpa Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2019 and went waaaay overboard with it. Which is probably why I like it so much. It took me ten days to actually complete, and I’ll frame it like I was diligently writing the whole time, but anyone who knows me knows that I never do things in that way. In truth I switched ideas for the fic four different times and then wrote half of it all in one night when I was hit with a surge of inspiration. I was really nervous that the person I wrote it for would hate it since it’s so long, lol. (Hi Alerane, I love you.) Anyway, I’m gonna think of December of this year as the month where I spent a really long time on a bunch of fics and then posted them all at once.
Content warnings: Very minor character death, mentions of alcohol use (nothing egregious, just recreational use on an outing with friends and all the characters are of age), also Kaede doesn’t go outside in this fic.
---
I’m going to try and get out one more fic before the year ends. To be honest I wasn’t expecting to have updated Search by now so I’ve been kind of sitting around wondering what I should write. Maybe I should just start on the Aki chapter, but I’m kind of putting that off because writing those chapters takes a lot of energy and Aki’s is probably going to double Tsubaki’s in length. (Which is great, since Tsubaki’s was already a monster of a chapter on its own.) I’ve had a really great year for writing, y’all. I’ve made lots of friends and learned a whole lot about myself, and my writing style, and the characters I’m trying to portray.
I didn’t include any long-term multi-chapters in this list, like The Best Lies or my Fanganronpa (rip… I swear I’ll pick it back up again soon, I love those characters) but if you want to track my progress as a writer without reading eleven different fics, I’d really recommend reading one of those, because you can see it happening as the chapters go on. There’s so much that I’d probably write differently from where I am now as a writer, because that’s just how things work. Life is like that. You do things a certain way in the moment, and then later, you wish you could’ve done them differently. It’s impossible to live your life without regrets, or things that you’d like to do over again.
But for what it’s worth, I’m really happy that I don’t have to. Thank you guys so much for sticking with me this year. It hasn’t been the best, but it’s been all that it’s been capable of being.
Here’s to a new decade.
#danganronpa#danganronpa: trigger happy havoc#super danganronpa 2#sdr2#danganronpa: goodbye despair#new danganronpa v3#danganronpa v3#danganronpa v3: killing harmony#hinanami#amasai#saimami#sakuraoi#pekobuki#momoharu#harukaito#kaimaki#saimota#tenmiko#kaemugi#fanfic#*claps twice* year in review#ok guys pls dont cancel me for the p*diepie reference i swear i didnt mean it#i can only be problematic on main#i dont have enough tags yet to tag every character but i'll tag the popular ones to get clicks >:)#shuichi saihara#rantaro amami#kyoko kirigiri#makoto naegi#hajime hinata#chiaki nanami
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Hypnovember prompt 2: Colors
Warning for lack of much editing- please feel free to leave a comment if there’s something egregious that I should fix.
Bri used to consider themselves a bad hypnotic subject. Their brain was always full of thoughts and analysis when they tried to be hypnotized. Instructions to relax had made them tense, instructions not to think had reminded them of all the thoughts they were actually having. Instructions to focus made them constantly check for unfocus and that would turn into self-criticism when they noticed it- why oh why couldn't they do this easy thing? They had watched hours of youtube videos of people going under with just a snap. Why were those people able to be hypnotized so easily while Bri struggled so much?
When they first met their (future) mistress Alison at a convention, they had almost given up. It was the way that she so patiently listened to them and asked questions that made Bri willing to give hypnosis another chance. Alison did a wonderful job of explaining her philosophy of hypnosis to Bri. She talked about how trance could feel different to different people. She encouraged Bri to be curious about their own reactions rather than trying to shut down thoughts altogether.
Alison invited Bri back to her hotel room for experimenting. They had started by playing with a few different styles of induction that Alison knew. After a few tries, Bri had learned that they really enjoyed listening to Alison’s voice (it was really nice) but they didn’t quite feel like they had experienced a “trance” yet. Alison pointed out some promising signs, but Bri felt like they were still struggling a bit. Maybe they just needed more practice with the things that had been partially successful?
While they were giving feedback, Alison noticed how Bri’s eyes kept going to the colorful light up sphere on the other side of her hotel room. The sphere slowly shifted colors- from yellow to orange to red- and changed so gradually that it was impossible to tell exactly when the shifts happened. When she has seen it in the store, she just knew she had to bring it to a hypnocon. It was fascinating. It was mesmerizing. It was perfect.
Alison grinned and asked if Bri wanted to use the sphere.
Bri was skeptical. They had tried eye fixation inductions before and they had never worked out well. But Bri had promised themselves and Alison that they would try and be open to experiments, so they consented to giving the sphere a go. Alison reset it so it would shine right in front of Bri’s face. She turned off the lights and started speaking.
Alison began pretty predictably- telling Bri to breathe in and out as they stared at the colors. She encouraged them to let themselves settle into a comfortable and relaxed position. Then, she told Bri to start softly repeating a mantra they had been experimenting with earlier- “I listen, I follow”. She assured Bri that they would be able to just let themselves easily repeat that mantra over and over- letting it go on autopilot- while they also kept listening to her.
Alison started talking about shifts- ones people were aware of and ones that were so gradual they weren’t observed until after they happened. She mentioned things like watching her baby cousin learn to walk and that feeling of falling asleep at night and not even knowing you had fallen until you woke up the next day and noticed the change. She encouraged Bri to notice the lights in front of them and how they, too, shifted so gradually between the colors that Alison could never quite keep track of when the shifts actually happened.
But that’s what she wanted Bri to do.
Repeat the mantra.
Listen to her voice.
And look at the lights to catch the exact moment they shifted.
For many people this might have been headache inducing, but as Bri continued to listen to Alison talk, they gradually noticed themselves becoming calmer. Their head was always full of activity, but this felt different. It was like they were on a boat above a wavy ocean, feeling the motion but also buoyant above it. They could still hear and understand what Alison was saying, but since they had multiple focuses it was easy to just listen and follow along without having to evaluate too much or, eventually, to even keep close track minute to minute. Alison had mentioned that it was ok to kind of drift in and out on her words and so they let themselves enjoy the way their focus would shift from catching the change in colors to what Allison was saying then back to the colors again- like a radio tuning in and out. They just settled in and absorbed the moment.
Until Alison brought them back up.
Bri blinked.
The change from a moment ago was so startling that Bri couldn't help but notice the contrast.
Bri didn’t quite know if what they had just experienced had been real hypnosis. But it had definitely been something.
And they were eager to try it again.
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