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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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the way we were / the way we are - chapter 2 - take this heart of gold and melt it down

summary: bucky has something important to tell you, and even more important to ask.

warnings: explicit sex (MUCH tamer than the other stuff I’ve written since lmfao but here we are), unprotected p-in-v (no glove no love okay)

a/n: I’m mostly just copying and pasting my notes from ao3 lmfao (more intro + story set-up; the next chapter will match up with The First Avenger and obviously feature more Steve)

(series masterlist) (main masterlist) (ao3)

December, 1942

Winter, it seems, always chooses to arrive before you have a chance to blink. New York lights up at the holidays draw closer, every store and lamppost covered in lights and tinsel. You help Bucky put up a display in the shop window; a little tree covered in ornaments, a stack of books containing collections of Christmas stories, and clouds of white fabric to make it look like snow. Becca supervises, and Mr. Barnes declares you to be officially in charge of all holiday decorations.

The snow starts to stick, and Bucky’s mood seems to change with it. Not towards you; it’s been more four months that you’ve been dating now, and every moment you’re together is nothing short of perfect. It’s something else, something you suspect has to do with the increasing amount of war propaganda filtering its way through the streets of New York. It seems to be all he can talk about, and every conversation he and Steve have while you’re present seems to revolve around enlisting. It doesn’t surprise you, but sends a thrill of fear through you that you can’t seem to shake.

That morning, you wake to find your father reading the newspaper at the table with an angry look on his face. Your mother stands in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, looking worried as anything. Jane sits at the table with Daddy, putting sugar on her cereal, and you look between the three of them, confused.

“Did I miss something?” you ask, reaching for a slice of toast. “What happened?”

Your father folds the newspaper shut and drops it to the table without a word. Jane says nothing, but lifts her hand, revealing a folded piece of paper, and slides it towards you.

It’s a military death notice, for one Isaac Reynolds. Killed in action. Your heart sinks. Jane had been seeing the boy for some time, and he’d only gotten his orders a month before.

You spend the whole day feeling like you’re walking on eggshells. Mama barely speaks, Daddy just looks angry, and Jane has a blank look on her face that makes worry pool in your gut.

You had made plans to go Christmas shopping with Bucky and Steve after dinner, but Bucky calls you early in the afternoon and cancels. It only adds to everything, and you can’t help the tears that creep up your throat as you coil the phone cord around your fingers.

“You’re going to enlist, aren’t you,” you whisper. It’s not a question. You already know the answer.

He’s silent for a beat, then answers. “Steve’s insisting, and someone’s gotta look out for this kid, Y/N.”

You swallow hard. “And who’s going to look out for you, Buck?”

“It’ll all be okay, doll,” he says, his voice a bit hoarse. “I gotta do something with this life of mine. Something good.”

What about our life? you want to ask, but instead, what comes out is: “Come see me later tonight?”

“Of course,” he replies. “I’ll borrow the old man’s car, we can drive up to Lover’s Peak.” There’s noise in the background, and you hear Steve’s voice through the receiver. “I gotta go, doll. I’ll pick you up at 8. I love you.”

“I love you too,” and then the line goes silent.

It’s not the first time he’s said it, or the first time you’ve returned it. The first time was not long after your fifth date, after a Dodgers game with Becca and Steve. You’d gone out for milkshakes and fries afterwards, celebrating the win. You’d all crammed into the booth, Bucky with his arm looped over your shoulders, and Steve had started a very heated conversation about poetry with Becca, keeping the two of them distracted.

“I got a secret, doll,” Bucky had whispered, his voice low in your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You’d waited a beat, then turned towards him. “Well, you gonna share it, or do I have to guess?”

He leaned in close, enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke. “I’m head over heels in love with you, Y/N,” he murmured, and every hair on the back of your neck stood at attention. “Never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You’d blushed deep red, but grinned. “That’s good, then,” you whispered back, slipping a hand beneath the table to squeeze his knee, “cause I’m pretty crazy about you, James.”

He’d kissed you then, soft and sweet, until Becca threw a straw wrapper at your head and made a gagging noise.

The memory seems far away from you now, out of reach, so distant it could have been another lifetime ago.

You spend the rest of the day re-reading The Hobbit, trailing Jane like a shadow around the house, and helping Mama bake cookies. It’s a touch of normalcy, but it does nothing to ease the anxiety that only builds with every second that’s passing.

Jane disappears upstairs before dinner, claiming she doesn’t feel well, and Mama follows up to tend to her. It leave you and Daddy in the living room, the radio playing the same news it’s been spewing all day. When the announcer reads out the death toll for what feels like the millionth time, your father lurches to his feet and shuts the thing off.

“Bucky’s enlisting,” you say after the silence becomes too much. “He’s gonna go fight in the war.”

“Good man,” is all your father has to say.

You return to the silence, still feeling it pressing in on all sides like a room that’s growing smaller and smaller. Saying it out loud makes you even more worried, but you also try and reason with yourself. Bucky’s smart, he’s a quick learner and he’s athletic as anything. He’ll make a good soldier, he’ll be a good fighter, and he’ll survive. He’ll come back to you.

Mama comes back down sometime later, disappears into the kitchen. You eat in silence, and when the doorbell rings, you run for it, throwing your coat on before you throw open the door.

Bucky stands on the other side in a grey wool coat, the collar lifted around his ears, hands stuffed in the pockets. His hair is slicked back, the cold making his cheeks red, and his eyes are glassy.

“Hey, doll,” he says, and his voice is still thick, like it had been on the phone, “you ready?”

You nod, step out into the cold with him, and pull the door shut behind you. You know Mama will have something to say about it when you get home, that you should have asked permission before running off into the night, but you can’t bring yourself to care. As soon as the door is shut, you grab the front of his coat and pull him close, kissing him hard until you’re both breathless.

You’re both quiet as he leads you to the car, turning the key and cranking the heat. You huddle close to him on the bench seat, your head on his shoulder as he pulls away from your house, heading out of the city and towards Lover’s Peak.

To your surprise, the small park is empty, not another car or couple in sight, the city lit up below. Bucky pulls the car into the clearing, shuts off the engine. It’s warm enough in the car, and you don’t move from your spot under his arm, one hand slid inside his jacket, fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.

You sit in silence for a while, the only sound in the car the steady in and out of your matched breathing. Bucky’s hand is in your hair, his fingers looping the strands over his knuckles, threading them between the pad of his thumb and index finger.

“You mad at me?” he asks, the question hushed, but seeming to echo in the small space. “For enlisting.”

You pull back a little, and his hand slips from your hair. “Mad? Why would I be mad at you?”

He shrugs a shoulder, his eyes still glassy. “I know how you feel about it.”

“And you know how I feel about you,” you reply, “don’t you?”

Bucky turns his head, his gaze moving to the windshield, which you notice is starting to fog a bit. “Of course, I do. I just thought…” He shakes his head, running a hand over his head. “I still can’t believe I did it, but it feels right. They said I’ll be a good fit. Steve, not so much. Crazy kid, said he’s gonna try again at a different enlistment office tomorrow. I’m glad, in a way. Better for him to be here, where it’s safe.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips, and you clasp his hand in his. “You’re a good man, Bucky Barnes,” you say, lifting your linked hands to press a kiss to his knuckles, “and you’ll be a good solider. On one condition.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, looking at you again, the corners of his mouth curving up.

“Come home to me,” you say, blinking up at him through your lashes, “in one piece. You promise me that.”

His arm goes around you again, and he pulls you impossibly close, your clasped hands wedged between you two, foreheads pressed again. “I promise you, Y/N. I’ll come back to you. Always. No matter what. But you gotta promise me something too.”

“What’s that?” you ask, echoing his words.

A tiny gasp slips from you as he reaches into the pocket of his coat and withdraws a little blue box shaped like a book. The name Barnes is printed on the front in swirling letters, little pages painted on the edges. He nimbly flips the box open, revealing a diamond ring inside. One large diamond glitters back at you on a golden band, the metal carved intricately with flowers and leaves all the way around.

“Promise that you’ll marry me,” he whispers, lifting his chin and kissing your forehead. “Promise me you’ll always be mine.”

You huff out a little shocked laugh, and whisper out, “yes.”

He kisses you once, then pulls the ring from the box and slides it onto your finger. It glitters back at you, even in the dim light of the car.

“The ring belonged to my grandmother,” he tells you. “When I asked Mom if I could give it to you, she burst into tears. Said it was a long time coming. She said she knew you were the one from the first time she met you.” He kisses you again, one hand coming up to cup your face. “So did I.”

“You asked my father, too, right?”

Bucky nods. “Of course, I did. Months ago. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, for the right time to ask you, but then today…I wish I could have written it in the sky for you, Y/N. Lit up the whole pier to spell it out, got down on my knees on the beach and poured my heart out. When I was signing those forms, God, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Shaking like a leaf. And then I thought about you, thought about you being my wife, thought about surviving through all this to come back to you, to start a family, start a life, and I knew.” He’s grinning like a fool, and you’ve never loved him more. “Still, I wish I could have given you a grander proposal.”

You shake your head, rubbing your thumb over the ring on your finger. “No, this is…this is perfect.”

March 9th, 1943

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky takes your face in his hands, thumbs swiping at the tears slipping down his cheeks, and kisses you, his mouth warm and solid against yours. Your hands settle on his waist, careful not to mess the fabric of his uniform. It’s been months since you’ve kissed him, and now you’re his wife.

The church erupts in applause as you and Bucky break apart. He takes your hand and pulls you close to him, and you can’t hold back your laugh. The pews are filled with your family and his, Steve a half step behind Bucky as his best man and Jane behind you as the maid of honour.

The reception is short but sweet, held in one of the only dance halls still open in the city. You dance and laugh and drink the night away, unable to take your hands off your new husband no matter how tipsy you get. Even Mama cracks a smile, stealing you away for a moment between dances, hugging you close and whispering how proud she is of you.

Bucky’s been away since Christmas, at the training camp outside of the city, taking the bus back on the weekends to visit. It seems like every visit he makes, he’s packed on more muscle, to the point where he can lift you easily into his arms when you meet him at the station to welcome him home.

Wedding planning was a tad harder than you’d imagined, what with the stress of the war straining every business you required. Mama altered her own wedding dress for you to wear, changing the floor-length gown into something shorter and decked in lace and beads. Bucky’s mother loaned you the veil she’d worn when she’d married Mr. Barnes, and have even made the wedding cake. It was easy enough to find a minister, and Daddy knew the owner of the dance hall, so that helped things along.

Bucky helped when he could, helping you pick flowers for the bouquets on one of his weekends home, practicing your first dance after dinner every night. Steve helped too, came with you to the dance hall to decorate the night before. Bucky hadn’t been able to get home the night before the wedding, but took the early bus in the morning of. Steve met him at the station that day, the pair of them unable to stop their grinning.

“You ready, pal?” Steve had asked him.

Bucky had just kept grinning, slinging his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Born ready.”

And now he was your husband. You were married.

You say as much as you stumble through the double doors of The Plaza, clutching Bucky’s arm, inspecting your ringed fingers through a champagne-coloured haze. Bucky’s parents had gifted you the hotel stay as a wedding present; you were far away from being able to afford your own place, and the two of you ‘needed to celebrate,’ as they had put it.

His jacket is draped around your shoulders, your shoes off and hanging from Bucky’s fingers. His tie is loose, the top button of his shirt undone, and his hat is on your head, the victory curls Jane had slaved over now crushed beneath the brim.

Bucky walks you to the elevator, slipping his arms around your waist after he hits the button and pulls your back against his chest. “Married,” he repeats, pressing a kiss to the space behind your ear. “Who woulda thought, huh?”

“I did,” you say instantly, turning your head to look at him, grinning like the devil. “I knew. I always knew, I think. Even before I knew you, I knew.”

He chuckles, his breath smelling like champagne and wedding cake. “Is that so?” The doors slide open and you step inside, Bucky instantly crowding you against one wall, leaning in and pressing a wet kiss to the side of your neck. Your arms twine around his neck, fingers playing with the back of his collar. “How could you have known before you even had the pleasure of knowing me?”

You lick your lips before answering, your lipstick long gone at this point, smeared across half a dozen champagne glasses at the dance hall, and still lingering on Bucky’s lips from the kisses you’d stolen in the cab ride over. “I just knew.” You poke a finger at his chest, your nail catching on his button. “When did you know? You’re the one that asked me.”

“That first night, at the pier,” he says, his breath fanning across your neck. His mouth is so close to your skin that his lips brush against your pulse with every word. “When I held you in my arms and showed you the stars. I knew right then, that I wanted to hold you forever.”

You hum contentedly, your hand moving from his collar to the back of his head, fingers tugging at his hair until he lifts his head from your throat and meets your eyes. You can almost see yourself reflected back in them, both of you slightly drunk on champagne and happiness. “Then hold me forever,” you whisper, nudging your nose against his. “Hold me forever and never let go.”

“I intend to,” he replies, pulling you even closer and catching your lips with his own. “Wife.”

You giggle at the word. “Husband.”

He kisses you until the elevator dings open again, leading you out and down the hall to your room. It takes you a minute to fiddle with the key, but when you step in and the door swings shut behind you, there’s a shift in the air that you sense almost immediately, and it sends a zap of nerves through your gut.

You’re a virgin. Not because of any grand promise you made to God or because Mama taught you to save yourself for your husband, but it had just never felt right. There had been a few other boys, before Bucky, ones you’d let slip a hand under your collar with their lips at your neck. You hadn’t let anyone up your skirt, though you’d had a few heated nights at Lover’s Peak with Bucky that had come close. You’d done…other things, things that still sent a blush to your cheeks, but things that you were more than impatient to experience again.

The room has two beds, and your bags are set atop one of them. There was no honeymoon planned, not with the way of the world and the fact that Bucky had yet to receive his orders. He could be shipped out any day; it was a miracle he’d made it to your wedding day without the military throwing a wrench in your plans. For the next 48 hours, Bucky was just yours. No sergeant to report to, no training drills to complete. He was just yours, and for now, it was enough.

Bucky tosses your shoes onto the bed, pulls his tie completely loose from his neck. When he turns to you, there’s concern on his face, and it takes you a moment to realize you’re shaking like a leaf. “Doll, what is it?” he asks, taking a step towards you and reaching a hand out.

“I’m…” you start, taking his hand and closing the distance between you. You lift his hat from your head and set it on the bed. “Nervous.”

“Makes two of us,” he says quietly, giving you a tiny smile. You return it, letting out a shaky breath when he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “We don’t have to, if you-”

“Oh no, I want to,” you say quickly, cutting him off. “I’m just…”

“Nervous?”

You nod, any liquid courage you’d accumulated at the dance hall vanishing in an instant. “Nervous.”

You know he’s not a virgin, and it doesn’t bother you. There’s something to be said for an…experienced man, and Bucky’s so gentle with you. You’re not nervous that it’ll hurt, it’s more… “What if I do it wrong?” you ask, your voice quiet.

Bucky takes you in his arms, linked fingers resting at the base of your spine. Your own hands come to land on his shoulders, and you can feel his muscles shifting beneath his shirt. He leans in close, tilting his head to the side and pressing his mouth to your temple, inhaling softly. “You can’t do it wrong, Y/N, I promise you.”

“But you’ll tell me?” you whisper. Your voice is dripping with innocence, and a small gasp is pulled from your throat when Bucky moves his mouth from your temple and down to your neck, lips finding your pulse immediately. “If I do something wrong?”

His hands unlink at your back, and one drops, finger skimming the back of your thigh beneath the skirts of your dress. His hand hooks behind your knee, bending your leg and lifting it over his hip. He takes a step forward, half-carrying you and pressing your back against the wall.

“Don’t worry about me,” he rasps out, kissing your neck again, teeth digging in just slightly. “If you want me to stop, tell me.”

You’re barely able to nod before he moves his lips to yours, other hand wrapping tighter around your waist. Your hands slide up to his face, one tangling in his hair as he kisses you, pulling sounds from you that you didn’t realize you were capable of making.

The way his kisses make you feel are nothing new. You’re a virgin, not a prude, and the heat that always blooms between you is nothing short of intoxicating. Your nerves had erased any of the champagne swirling through your mind, but the zap of pleasure that courses through you when Bucky’s grip tightens on you makes you gasp out, “Please.”

It’s like a switch it flipped, and then you’re both hurrying each other out of your clothes. Your fingers barely fumble on the buttons of Bucky’s shirt, pushing the fabric off his shoulders and pulling the hem out of his pants. It’s on the floor in an instant, and he’s yanking his undershirt off while you tug at his belt. It clangs to the floor and he grabs hold of your hips, twisting you between his hands and then reaching for the zipper that runs the back of your dress. He lowers it slowly, leaning in to press his mouth to the top of your spine when you gather your hair over one shoulder to give him better access. He pushes the dress from your shoulders and you pull your arms out, letting it settle at your hips for a moment before you hook your thumbs in and push it off completely, the dress pooling at your feet.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning forward and kissing your bare shoulder. “Absolutely beautiful.”

A few more clasps and shed articles, and you’re both naked. Your arms fold instinctively, covering your bare chest, but he catches your hands and stops you. He draws you close again, taking your face in his hands and kissing you breathless again. Your hands slide up his bare back, nails digging into his skin slightly.

He walks you back towards the bed, turning you so your legs hit the back of the empty bed. He kisses you harder, his tongue darting between your lips, tasting yours, and leans you backward. You drop onto the bed, shifting backwards until your head finds the pillow. Bucky follows suit, and for a moment you think he’s going to hover over you, one hand parting your legs wider. But instead, he ducks his head, and then you see stars.

His tongue is warm and wet, warmer than it had felt between your teeth, and the way he flicks the tip of it between your legs makes your back arch and you cry out, one hand reaching down and searching for purchase until you catch a handful of his hair. You moan as your legs lock around his head, and it only spurs him on, hands splayed on your hips, holding you down.

He licks and sucks like a man possessed, and the pleasure is almost too much. You cry out when he drags his tongue against you one final time, and it sends a white-hot shock of pleasure through your body, the hand not in his hair slamming onto the bed in a fist.

It’s almost a familiar feeling, one you’ve only felt a few times before, on nights when you couldn’t sleep and your own hands had slipped beneath your nightgown. It’s almost like that, the toe-curling, spine-tingling wave that crashes over you, warmth and satisfaction sweeping through you as it recedes. But there’s something else too, something that pushes it over the ledge further, something in Bucky’s eyes as he looks up at you.

Your chest is heaving when he lifts his head, a broad grin on his face, lips shining. He crawls up your body, planting a hand on either side of you and hovering his weight over your body. You can feel him, hot and hard against your thigh, and what remains of your nervousness disappears. You reach your hand down between your bodies and take him in your hand. He lets out a low groan as your fingers close around him, and his forehead leans against yours. You crane your neck slightly to catch his lips with your own, tasting yourself, and twist your wrist slightly.

Bucky curses under his breath, hand curling in the sheets as you keep moving your hand, swiping your thumb across his tip. He buries his face in your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin, moaning against your throat.

After a moment, he reaches for your wrist, pulling your hand up and pinning it to the bed beside your head. He twists his body slightly, other hand glancing down your chest and stopping between your legs. “You have no idea how good you feel,” he whispers into your neck. You can feel him grin when he strokes a finger in just the right way, and it pulls another gasp from you. His hips cant against yours, the friction between you delicious, and then he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. “Are you ready?”

You nod furiously. “Yes.”

He glances down between you, takes himself in hand, and then he’s inside you.

It’s slow; he moves carefully, one hand still planted beside your head, the other gripping your hip tightly. There’s a sharp sting for a moment, a different sort of ache blooming in your abdomen, but the pain is gone as quickly as it comes.

He bottoms out, and rests more of his weight on you, eyes searching your face, waiting for your go-ahead. You nod again as the pain subsides, then he starts to move, and the heat starts anew. You hook both arms under his shoulders, locking your hands together between his shoulder blades.

“I…” he gasps out, and then curses again, his eyes screwing shut, mouth hanging open. You lift your hips slightly, meeting his, and he groans loudly, moaning your name and pushing his face back into the crook of your neck. Your whole body feels warm and sated, a tingling sensation still spreading through your limbs.

He collapses against you after a moment, sliding down your body slightly but still remaining inside, your bodies tucked together on the bed. Bucky lays his head on your chest, breathing heavily, and your hands move to his now mussed hair, running your fingers through it over and over again.

“You keep doing that, and I’m gonna fall asleep,” he mumbles against your skin, barely moving.

You let out a quiet giggle, hands not stopping their movements. “It’s been quite a day,” you say, “for us.”

“Today was perfect,” he says, lifting his head. “I wouldn’t change a thing, doll.”

“Not a thing?”

He huffs a little laugh. “Well, maybe I’d change one thing: I’d stop the war, so that instead of a lousy hotel room, I could whisk you away to some private island where we could sunbathe all day and make love on the sand all night.”

You hum, imagining Bucky laid out on the beach. “That would be nice.” You let out a yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. “Really nice.”

“Someday,” Bucky says, dropping his head to kiss the centre of your chest, “I’ll take you on a real honeymoon. We’ll go to Europe, see all the best spots. I hear there’s nude beaches along the coast of France.”

“Nude, huh?” you reply, your eyes growing heavier with every word. “Could have some fun in the ocean.”

He grins and hefts himself up, removing most of his weight from you. His hips slide against yours and you let out a low moan, the ache that had settled in your abdomen groaning in response. It’s not a bad pain, it’s a welcomed one, and he stops after a moment, dropping his head to kiss you once before he pulls himself from you slowly, gingerly.

You both clean yourselves up, change into the silky nightgown you’d packed for the night. It’s slinkier than what you usually wear to bed, and Bucky lets out a low whistle when you emerge from the bathroom once more, now dressed only in his underwear.

He draws you close, slides his arms around your waist and kisses you deeply. “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

#the way we were / the way we are #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes smut #the winter soldier fic #the winter soldier smut #bucky barnes x y/n #my fics

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obeymeluv · 4 years

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Signs they Love You

Back for my 1 post a week to prove school hasn’t totally killed me! When I get a semester break, I’ll post more often. In the mean time, feel free to leave me chats or PMs for stuff you want to see! :) Something nice and sappy for an okay Saturday

These turned out really long so I only did Lucifer, Mammon, Levi, and Satan. I have to get back to studying :/. Maybe I’ll have part 2 next week?

Lucifer

You wouldn’t be able to notice it because his pride wouldn’t allow you to. One of the brothers (or, to Lucifer’s extreme mortification, Lord Diavolo) would have to tell you

He’s not sure if it’s just the appreciation of you not being as totally chaotic as his brothers or genuine human naivete that has somehow worn off on him, but he loves you

Will be outed by sappy, soft stares that last 2 seconds too long.

Asmo and Satan are the first to notice and he LOATHES that

If he’s tasked with waking you up that morning, his knock will be firm but his voice will be gentle. Almost persuasive or commiserating

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by school workload, he may have a private conference with the teacher and grant you a minor extension. Will you know it was him? No. Is he happy to see you brighten up and refill with hope just a bit? Definitely. Is it worth the teasing from Lord Diavolo? ...Sure.

If he responds to texts in the wee hours of the morning when he’s still pouring over paperwork, he likes you.

Anyone who knows him can see how his eyes soften when someone else talks about you. There’s a fond slowness to his actions, how he glides his hand imperceptibly over his chest as if to feel where that emotion is coming from. Boy is whipped.

Should Lord Diavolo invite him out for a meeting, he will bring you back something small. Something he thought you’d like. Beel is upset. Levi yells “SIMP!” from the second floor and prepares for Armageddon.

Actually reminds you about assignments if you’re not already up on it yourself. Your success is his joy.

Is very keen on if/when you burn the candle too long and has a sixth sense for bad sleeping habits. Will put you on a stricter schedule for your own health

It may take almost all of the brothers to do it (or just help from Diavolo) but if he gets drunk on Demonus you’re getting a whole BOOK about why he likes you. He almost charms your memory away but everyone practically dog-piles on him not to because he needs to deal with his feelings.

You’re the only one he won’t chase out of his study when he’s doing paperwork. He’ll even set up a little fire if you like the fireplace.

How he confesses: tries to take you on a fancy date to Ristorante Six. Does not know that Lord Diavolo and Barbatos know about this (damn time-travelling butler!) and basically crash the date just to encourage him. Just long enough to encourage him.

Kind of an, “So you chose this idea, Lucifer? Admirable! I’m sure your date will be amazing! Enjoy your evening!” as Diavolo walks back to his table.

Does Lucifer deny it? Look and see how red his face is. If you’re really not sure, ask Diavolo. He will gladly yell, “I cannot lie!” across the restaurant.

Mammon

For all his talk, when he really, really decides he likes you, he doesn’t know what to say.

He can console himself with how obvious it is and how you made the best choice, but he has to show it! What to do?

Mammon’s kind of confused about it because he doesn’t really change how he behaves. You didn’t catch on already?! C’mon, human!

What, does he have to spell it out for you? Do an interview with Majolish?

His first tactic is to just be around you. Be subtle, and maybe cuddle a bit more than usual. Things to show he’s kittenish and at your mercy. Comfortable with you.

You don’t seem to be getting the hint so he throws the net a little wider by trying to find things you like or that you’ve been talking about. They mysteriously show up at your door.

It sends the others on a gossip train about who your admire could be and when they list off everyone BUT him, he wants to slam his head on the table.

Feeling tired? Coffee! Backpack heavy? Silly human, the BEST man can help you with that, OBVIOUSLY! Mammon jumps at the chance to do any little thing for you because he cares. His actions always speak louder than words.

Feeling kind of defeated and embarrassed, Mammon will go talk to the flock of crows that meander around the House of Lamentation’s yard when he really needs them.

For the next few days you’re accosted in the nicest way, birds chirping at you and dropping off various shiny things

You collect them, finally showing them to Mammon and he’s embarrassed that his representative animal has taken to courting you on his behalf.

He calls them to him, embarrassed and ready to rant or fall into the ground never to be seen again, when they start talking. Repeating all the things he’s practiced saying.

“Hey baby,”, “Hey human,” “Love you!”, “Silly! Silly!”, “Dummy, no, dummy!”, “My human.”

It’s broken and confusing, six or seven bird children cawing in your face and bobbing, but you get it.

Levi

Levi’s not the best at expressing himself but it counts, right? As much as he hates to admit he’s some kind of shy tsundere, you know what that is, right? He doesn’t have to say it?

Yes. Yes he does. His brothers are getting too chummy with you and you don’t understand his signals. Time for Plan B.

If you get invited to stand in line for a midnight release, he hopes you take it. Then it’s just you two hanging out in line? What’s this? He brought snacks? Totally not for the two of you BUT you an have some if you’re hungry. It’s whatever

When he’s not doing boss raids and playing with online friends, he’ll ask if you want to play something with him. A Player 1 needs a Player 2, you know?

I headcanon that Levi knows how to play some unusual instruments like the kalimba or a real ocarina. I could see him making you a song on one of those. Or just playing it because you inspire him. He’s very good with a harp and will play it when he’s in the mood.

Boy also likes to draw and paint. Especially loves watercolors. Would it be weird if he gave you a painting of you as a mermaid? Just you and the ocean. Beautiful.

Was there a really cute plush or knickknack you liked? Levi has his ways, regardless of how rare or limited edition it is. It will be yours.

He has a hard time understanding a passing comment of interest versus a genuine want because he genuinely wants everything he’s interested in, so if you hear a whisper about him almost securing something, stop and look it up. Make sure it’s not super expensive!!

Probably outed by Belphegor, who feels like Levi’s broadcasting all of his stress, frustration, and hope through his dreams. (”His dreams are weird. Just different ways of asking them out, and if he messes up it restarts like a simulation. My brain hurts.” he says to Beel)

You’re allowed to come into his super-restricted bedroom haven when everything’s too much. It’s very exclusive since the Mammon incident. Be happy.

Might go swimming in his big tank and pick a seashell or rock to make a necklace out of. He hopes you like it.

If he’s not outed by Belphie, some of his online friends made a game demo they wanted him to try. They specified it was two player so he asked you to join in. While he’s in the middle of bragging about how he knows people, knows developers, he totally misses the dating-sim like dialogue and the big reveal.

Doesn’t really kick in until he realize the characters look like you two. You’re busy saying ‘Yes’ to “Do you like me?” as Levi absolutely threatens to rip them apart six ways to Sunday. Almost in full demon mode, too.

Everything falls out of his brain and quiets in his throat when he realizes the characters are kissing and ‘THEY SAID YES!’ flashes on the screen.

“Y-You like me?”

“Yep.”

It was that easy all along. Levi thinks he’s going to faint.

Satan

Becomes aware of it pretty quick but ignores it for a looong time

Is it rude or foolish of him to assume you would also like him back?

Run away into books. A solid plan. If you don’t think about it, it’s not an issue

Oh, but it is an issue when you fall asleep after a mutual day of reading, forced in by bad weather. He finds his heart fluttering in a painful squeeze as he quietly whispers all the things he dare not say when you’re awake

It’s nervous poetry, and it’s beautiful

Satan tries to get himself back on track, to focus on reading, and he gets frustrated when he’s stuck on the same page almost an hour later

When you’re on the brain he just can’t do anything else

How does one show their affection? He’s swimming in books for a new reason now, as voracious as ever

He brews you a pot of Melancholy Coffee and is a bit disappointed you don’t know the meaning behind the bitterness. Wants to break the pot when Lucifer jokes about how it tastes exceptionally bitter to him as well.

Okay, so coffee didn’t work. What else do people do when they show their affections?

Asmo suggests a ‘not a date’ date and Satan sighs inside. Sounds like a lot of work and effort. It’s not that you’re not worth it, but he has a feeling that everyone will know and look at him the whole time.

Tries anyways. You guys go to a beautiful nature conservatory and take a tour of the plants and some indigenous animals

You’re starting to realize it now, he can tell. Satan tries to answer your question without saying it while you’re at school. You walk together, he offers to carry some of your books, and always requests that he be your project partner

Nearly there. If there was a single defining moment for him, he’d want it to be classic. He shows up at your door with a rose and asks you to go on a moonlit walk.

Mammon’s poking fun about how cheesy and cliche it is, Asmo’s gearing up to shut Mammon’s stupid mouth, and Satan just whisks you out the door with an aggravated sigh.

No matter what side of the house you’re on, Asmo throws up the biggest, gaudiest handmade sign that’s like ‘CUTEST COUPLE! 10/10!’

#Obey me!#Obey me x reader #Lucifer x Reader #Mammon x Reader #Levi x Reader #Leviathan x Reader #Satan x Reader

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byulsgrease · 3 years

Text

duly noted

you've never been one to obsess about your soulmate, assuming you'll figure it out when the time is right. but seriously, what kind of nonsense has yours been writing about recently?

(eventual moonbyul / wheein x gender neutral reader, soulmate!au, trainee/idol!au, ~1.2k words)

a/n: wheein bias wrecker anon! I might've had too much fun with your req and so this is gonna be my first soulmate au 🤠 while byul and wheein don't actually appear in this part (does that make this a prologue? idk), I promise they'll make their appearance soon enough :)

cw: struggles of being a trainee (weight + food talk)

The claps from your dance instructor ring out in the mirrored studio, calling everyone to attention before they send you off for the day. Everyone stands around listening to whatever niceties they're talking about, asking the rhetorical questions of whether all of you want this, how everyone needs to work harder, etc. How many years has it been now, almost three? Evaluations went pretty well recently and you've certainly demonstrated signs of growth since you started, but debut? Who knows. Does anyone, really?

But right now it's late and you're hungry, hoping that your growling stomach isn't loud enough to pierce through the lecture. You're respectfully tuned out anyway, since it's all old news. Nothing you haven't heard before. They clap again once their spiel ends and everyone disperses. Your eyes catch Hyejin's on your way out of the studio, sharing a funny face and an eyeroll before disappearing into the herd of trainees shuffling to the lockers.

Your locker opens with a routine spin of the dial, taking care to slow down and line up the numbers properly so you're not stuck having to do it over again. The inside's pretty cute for a metallic rectangle— it's really the only space of your own besides your notebook. Pictures of your family, old school friends, and fellow trainee friends line the sides beneath a tiny string of battery-powered fairy lights. It's not much, but always a humbling reminder of why you're here.

Unzipping your bag, you take out a pair of slides and drop them on the floor while stepping out of your sneakers. There's not much else in your bag, just a change of clothes and your notebook, of course. Everyone has one. Anything inside could be drawn, written, scribbled, painted. It’s your personal creative space and no one else's, but with two conditions:

You can't write your name in it, not even your initials. Of course everyone tried to as kids against their parents commands, but letters simply sink into the page, disappearing as if they'd never been written at all.

You can only mark up one side. Pages on the right side are for you, and the left side pages fill themselves. Fill themselves with what? you asked your parents. They gave you a non-answer, saying you'd figure it out someday. Great. Only other thing they bothered to tell you was that your right-hand pages were someone's left-hand ones. So someone can see what I put here? Their confirmation sounded rather casual, which you found weird. Someone out there was watching what you put in? But you got used to it, especially since every person owns one. It's a novelty for children anyway. Mark up a page however you want, knowing that someone out in the would will see, and sit back to watch whatever randomness shows up on the left side.

Your left side pages were actually empty for quite a while, save for the occasional "UGGHHH" followed by a typical childish annoyance scrawled messily across the entirety of the page in marker. Not that notebook use was mandatory, but parents usually encouraged it because it kept their kids occupied. There wasn't much you could do about empty pages, nor did you care most of the time, but it did leave you a little jealous of other kids at school who'd sometimes open theirs and be greeted with cute watercolor paintings, mini murals, or skillfully written poetry.

For you, the notebook's served many uses. As a kid it was random doodles and poorly-drawn fantasy scenarios— escapism, perhaps. In middle school it was angsty poems and random journal entries about the random happenings of your life. For the first half of high school it became your to-do list, keeping track of school assignments. And on the rarest occasion, song lyrics. Visual art was never your medium of choice, music came more easily. But drawing staff lines for music notation in the notebook usually ended up being too tedious, so your original stuff was mostly relegated to voice memos on your phone. And now? Who knows. Trainee life may as well be a blur. Sing, dance, talk, eat if you can afford to, sleep, repeat. It's hard to find the energy to write anything most days. Whenever you feel like checking, the left side has random jottings, nearly illegible most of the time.

It wasn't until you got older that you realized that whoever read your entries on the was the same person generating content on the left. And supposedly the person you're supposed to be with for the rest of time? What kind of system is that? I'm just supposed to trust blindly? having asked your parents in exasperation after figuring it out. Again with more non-answers— it had worked for them, didn't it? There's also the obvious question of why people don't just write directly to each other, but whatever. You're still young, no need to obsess over "the one" unlike some of your classmates. If it's meant to be, it'll happen, you figure. And it obviously is, you've got a notebook with (semi-)filled left side pages. What more could you ask for?

The cacophony of clanging lockers opening and closing starts to die down as people leave. Hyejin's head pops out from behind the locker door, laughing in your face when you flinch.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah, one sec. Man, I'm starving,” you remark while slipping the bag straps on your back and closing the locker door. You don't even want to know how strapped for cash you are, probably in for another night of boiled eggs and canned kimchi.

“Wanna go out for food?” she immediately asks, eyes alight at the prospect of getting to eat something besides convenience store food.

"I wish. Actually, you wish," you smirk with longing in your eyes. The "no" doesn't even have to be said, weigh-ins are way too soon to risk it. She hangs her head, jokingly dejected as you swing an arm around her shoulder to walk out of the company building together.

~~~~

After scrounging up whatever food you call dinner, taking a shower, and flopping into bed, you open up your notebook and grab the random pen laying on your dresser, unsure of what you'll write about tonight. There's chicken scratch on the left page already, ballpoint pen. It's actually legible today, though: In my room every day I see your smile.

What the hell does that mean? Whose smile, yours? You haven't even met yet.

Call me everyday every night, hug me everywhere every time

Utter nonsense. Maybe meeting soulmates is just a huge game of catch-up once everything's finally revealed, surely yours will be. There’s just so many questions. Moving to the right side, you jot down a list of cheat meal ideas along with some assorted notes and pointers from practice that you want to work on tomorrow, drawing little characters next to each list item for fun. After accidentally drawing a random squiggle from jolting yourself awake and feeling the heaviness in your eyelids, you cap your pen and shut your notebook, placing it back in your bag. With the lights out, the last thought you have before sleep consumes you is why haven't you ever tried writing directly to each other after all this time?

[next]

#using their real predebut photos feels like a disservice lmaoo #girl crush is my fave cf tho :D #requested #💥 anon #mamamoo imagines #gg fic #mamamoo x reader #hwasa x reader #mamamoo fanfic #kpop fic #girl group fic #moonbyul imagines #hwasa imagines #wheein imagines #mamamoo scenarios #soulmate au

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soyforramen · 3 years

Text

Whoops, I slipped into a follow up of this prompt.

“How’s the wrist?”

Such an innocuous question. It rings flat in the sharp crags that line the chasm between them, echoing hollowly between them. But it’s still more than he’d said Saturday night. More than he thought he’d say.

Betty, never one to let any pain shine through, smiles at him. Her face morphs into that perfect Cooper mask, no crack or wrinkle to suggest anything was out of the ordinary. It pierces his soul to realize that he doesn’t know how to read her anymore.

To him, she looks just as happy and carefree as the first day they’d met in third grade.

“Still sore, but no lasting damage,” she says, rolling her wrist as proof. Even her voice is peppy and varnished to perfection. “How’s your head?”

His hand moves without thought to his forehead, his fingertips grazing the ugly red mess. Jughead jerks his head to the right, a move practiced in the mirror this morning to ensure his hair covered the welt.

“Nothing an aspirin can’t take care of,” he mutters.

He raises his coffee cup to his lips to keep from mentioning the whisky and rye he’d fallen headfirst into, a palliative cure after she’d disappeared up the stairs, leaving nothing but confusion and nadir in her wake. The lingering hangover was still a symphony of banging pots and pans along his temples, a never-ending reminder of his regret (relief?) of doing nothing.

They sip their coffee in silence, waiting for the meeting to begin. The artificial bridge he’d thrown across the chasm between them frays, its tethers loosening. In less than a minute, it’s fallen into the yawning black hole that now lies between them.

Betty's words… no. Not that. It was his inaction. His confusion. His uncertainty that created this false rift between them. The gravity of it tugging and pulling at every second between them, every atom, every conceivable future between them, each a warped, stretched snapshot of a future never to be.

It was enough to make him want to crawl back into the bottle and never come out again. His hand shakes, an aftereffect of the late night drinking, and he shoves it deep into his pocket. Betty’s eyebrows draw too close together, too close to concern for his tastes.

Toni claps her hands together, and Betty shoots him one last curious look. He refuses to look at her, turning to refill his mug. When he turns back around, Betty is in her usual seat next to Archie, a plastic smile on her face. Jughead slouches against the counter, too lost in his own morbid thoughts to pay much attention to the upcoming game to notice the increasingly concerned glances Betty sends his way.

Jughead watches as his students shuffle in, the twins he affectionately calls Bill and Ted the only two showing any trace of life. The bell rings, a clanging, offensive noise that makes everyone wince. It’s doubtful he’s the only one nursing a hangover.

“How many of you did the reading?” he asks when they settle in.

A collective groan ripples throughout the room. He can’t blame them; he’d never been able to finish The Odyssey in high school either.

“Pop quiz time,” he says.

Another groan, this time with a rousing argument against it, echoes through his already pounding head. Jughead holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

“I want you to write about betrayal.”

The class quiets, some exchanging glances. It’s a sharp turn, a quick 180 that throws all off them off balance. Jughead has been ruthless so far, both in his grading and in his push to get them to learn critical thinking skills. Even he’s surprised at this course of action.

“Any kind of betrayal you can think of. You can talk about personal betrayal, family betrayal. Maybe one of your friends kissed your girlfriend, or maybe your mother chose your sister’s side over yours. Or maybe you write about a fictional betrayal. Hamlet and Ophelia, Brutus and Julius Caesar, Edward Pensieve and the Turkish delight.”

Wynnie’s hand shoots up, and Jughead inwardly winces. She’s always been the one to push back against any assignment, the one who questions everything he expects from them and makes class ten times longer.

“Can we write about a made up betrayal? With characters on, like, TV or something?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, he nods. “Anything is fair game, as long as you write it in a way that someone not familiar with the show, or book, or whatever, can understand what’s going on.”

“What about poetry?” another student asks.

“So long as you put the effort in, poetry is fine. Text threads, short stories, poems, letters, anything written.”

“Can we work together?” one of the twins asks.

“Sure, as long as you don’t bother the other students,” Jughead says with a shrug.

Bill and Ted high five before dragging their desks together.

Jughead is surprised at how well they’re taking this assignment. Every last thing has been a fight with them, from getting their attention to taking a test. Betrayal, though, seems to be something everyone can relate to.

As the class begins to write, Jughead sits down at his own desk. For a moment, he watches his students, kids in the same position he was once in, and wonders why he’s even here. Riverdale offered him little more than characters he could mold into his own, a setting for the decline of small town America.

Today, though, his mind wanders along words and phrases, glimpses into a different sort of reality. One ravaged by decay and rot, left to perish alone. And yet, he can’t help but see the small, green shoots of the future poke out of the ashes, tiny hints of hope for what’s to come. Perhaps nothing is ever static and unchanging. Perhaps things can turn around.

Jughead reaches into his bag for his own blank notebook.

He’s sitting on the porch that afternoon, struggling with the illegibly written translation. It’s a shame the state requires them to teach only the recommended books; Jughead would love to see how the story unfolds when thrown onto a fire.

“Hey.”

Jughead starts. When he sees it’s only Betty (only?), he stands abruptly, his entire body on fire, his legs jittery and ready to run.

“Hey,” he repeats. “Archie’s not here, but –“

Betty shakes her head and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Can we talk?”

He swallows. Stupid of him to think he’d get away from this conversation. Jughead waves to the chair next to him. As Betty passes, her perfume tickles his nose. Long gone is the strawberry body spray she used in high school, a sweet, cloying smell. Now it’s a perfume, one that tickles his nose and clogs his sinuses.

They sit there quietly, neither willing to speak first. He’s lost for words, unable to start.

She sits patiently, calmly. Betty seems as if she hasn’t a care in the world, as if they were there to talk about the weather. Part of her training, he realizes. She’s no longer as impulsive as she once was, reaching and grasping and desperate for an immediate answer. This Betty Cooper is a reminder of the past, but only that.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, starting with the simplest of things.

Next to him, Betty shifts. He thinks he hears her sniffle (crying? allergies? derision at his lame start?), and he has to quash his immediately reaction. All he wants to do is reach out to her, to comfort her, to promise her the world to keep her from suffering.

But he’d done that before, long ago, in a completely different world. And he’d been trod upon, brushed aside in favor of her own cruel form of betrayal. Nothing he could have done after would have fixed the wound she’d carved in his soul. Even now, seven years distanced from the teenage woes, it lay between them, still raw and sore and bleeding from the continued betrayals of his life.

He wonders how he would have responded to her if he hadn’t known. If he hadn’t come home one night early to hear her and Archie upstairs. If he hadn’t turned to the Wyrm and listened to Sweet Peas acidic sniping just to get lost among the agave pinas and the juniper berries.

“It’s not,” he stutters, trying to find his footing, unsure of what he wants to say. “I couldn’t stop loving the Betty Cooper I knew. But I also never stopped hating what she did to me.”

The admission is the first emotionally honest thing he’s said in years. It’s painful to realize how deep it lay inside him, how long it took to finally cut out this festering, putrid thing that burrowed into him. Like a tumor, it could only grow, fed by hate and anger and depression. Hate and anger for both of them. It hadn’t turned out like it was supposed to.

Now that it lay out in the open between them, he felt different. Heavier, in some ways. But there was also a release. The pressure that had been building for so long was slowly lowering, as if he’d finally found the valve that would bring things back to normal.

“And I don’t know you,” he said, the words pouring out now. “Seven years, and only a handful of texts, a few voicemails. You’re not the person I remember. Hell, everyone is different from who they were, who I thought they were.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair. He can feel Betty’s bright eyes staring at him, pleading with him for something, anything, that will make this better.

“We’re both different now, and there’s no way you can still love me. You don’t know me, you know who I was. We can’t just pick up where we left off, even if we wanted to. There’s too much between… Even if we were stupid enough to try,” he trails off, his words meandering as they try to find footing in the rocky space between them.

“We didn’t leave things in a good place,” Betty murmurs in agreement.

She shifts, and he looks at her for the first time since they sat down. Her legs are tucked up against her body, arms wrapped around them. It’s a protective stance. Against him, perhaps, or against the bare truth that he’s put in the open. He can’t blame her, not since he’s protected himself against most of his own life in other, less healthy ways.

Jughead sighs, empty of anything else to say. He stares at the fading light glowing through the leaves. It’s the perfect, picturesque scene of two high school sweethearts reuniting. At least, it was supposed to be. He didn’t know if he ever could do that to himself again.

Archie’s old truck chugs up the street, and Jughead stands. He scrapes the palms of his free hand along his pants, the other hand gripping his book. Archie waves through the windshield with a bright grin, and Jughead gives a half-hearted wave back before going inside.

He’s exhausted; after being mad for so long, it’s strange to be so empty of feeling. He’d give the world to be able to retreat back to Alphabet City and it’s various loan sharks. There, at least, he’d know the pain was no one’s fault but his own.

Jughead closes the bedroom door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world. It wasn’t his business what Betty did despite her attempts to bring him back into her life. He didn’t know if he was ready for that, or if he’d ever be. Ever since he’d been back, her presence gnaws at him, chipping away at the walls he’d built up over the years against her presence, and it frightens him that she’s stepped back into his thoughts so quickly and easily.

Thoughts and ideas collide and churn violently in his head. He throws himself down on his bed, determined to fall asleep despite the chaos.

But this time, sleep doesn’t come as easily as it always has. Words and feelings and phrases splatter against the back of his eyelids, graffiti tattooing images of a world never known. He pushes back against the cacophony until he can stand it no longer. Desperate to empty his thoughts, Jughead turns on the bedside lamp, pulls his laptop out from under the bed, and begins to write more than he’s been able to for years.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale #i heard you like angst with your angst

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septembersung · 2 months

Note

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

Because

#I know 2 songs about rainbows #(obligatory two nickels joke)#poetry #april is national poetry month #ask game: send me a question and i will answer with a line of poetry

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anangelcalledinquisitor · 2 years

Note

💗💌💝🌹

(I reblogged that list, like 20 other things, and then went and played a game and pretended to plot in my head, I didn't actually expect to get one, so I hope you see this anon, especially if I think it is who I think it was but maybe not since I've been getting some interaction from more people now)

Okay let's seeeeeeeeeee... These emoticons look a little different on my phone (where I'm reading the questions) so if I answer the wrong ones, then oops.

💗--How do you show you care? What do people do that makes you feel loved?

oh god, where do I begin... I show that I care in a lot of ways, from sending/making very terrible jokes (some of them are in poor taste, but I honestly like to make people laugh) to asking about their day/life, to sending gifts (expecially when it's something they've been looking forward to or something they mentioned in passing, so I can show that I listen to them, that's like *chef's kiss*) to physical affection. Right now, I can't do much for the people I love, because of distance, and, ya know, global pandemic, but little things, like sending the next volume of the book that my wife's reading (which is funny cus she hasn't read the first one yet), or finding a card in line with the latest running joke, or writing a letter that is like the same as the last 20 letters I've written but is on different paper this time... I show my love in acts of service--I live to be helpful. What makes me feel loved? I mean, there's so much, it's actually probably borderline ridiculous? Like, silk flowers for a holiday that I know is like very over-commercialized and capitalism and blah blah blah, I didn't get flowers in high school. Besides from my wife, only one person in my life has given me flowers. Real flowers are nice, yes, but silk flowers, I don't have to worry about decay, I don't have to deal with the watering, I don't have to worry about "Ah shit what if my cats chew on this" (as much), I don't have to worry about "SHIT I'm allergic to this how do I not make someone feel bad about this"... The only thing better would probably be if I could spritz them with my wife's perfume, but then I'd probably burst into tears whenever I pass them because I love and miss her so much, ya know? Ah shit, what was the question? What makes me feel loved--when people listen to me, and remember me, and think of me. Like that's so silly, but I'm second oldest of five kids. Eldest daughter, needs pushed to the side because I didn't need much, so I was forgotten and overlooked a lot. Still am. But when someone sees something and things "AH, YES, PERFECT" and sends it to me? that's love to me.

💌--Love letters or poetry? Love songs or mixtapes? Make out sessions or snuggling?

What the hell kind of choices are these... Like okay, Love letters, but who wouldn't love poetry in their love letters? And mixtapes OR love songs? I want a mixtape of love songs, thank you. And who doesn't snuggle while making out? So in short, yes.

💝-(this one's a little hard to see clearly, but I need new glasses)--What gift would you like to receive? What type do you like to give?

What do I like to receive? Hmmmmm... I mean, like, postcards, I collect those, stickers, enamel pins, books, cute little figurines, doll items (I collect ball-jointed dolls and one can never have too many accessories), pokemon things, MDZS/TGCF/SVSSS things, bookmarks, dice and related D&D things... I'm pretty easy to please, I think. I love to give things that are perfect for the person, whether it's "Oh, I'm on volume 3 and need volume 4 of this series", or "it's cold here, I should get a blanket" or "ooooh pretty dice", I love to give things that people maybe don't think about. (I gave my niece two journals, three sets of dice, and a set of magnetic bookmarks, and I was hailed as the best gift giver ever, because they were all things that NO ONE ELSE got her that were zeroed in on her interests.)

🌹--What do you think are the most romantic flowers other than roses?

Tulips. Whenever I see them, I think about my wife, and my heart flutters and my stomach flipflops and I have to restrain myself from buying them every time, if only because I don't have anywhere for them to go, but they make me think of warm hands and soft kisses and I just melt.

#the inquisitor speaks #I love my wife so much

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thefossilwhale · 3 years

Text

“nick wiseman has collapsed!”

button & nick, with some button & glitch. 3.9k words. set late chapter 5, on a hypothetical extra day before returning to aeon.

Good morning! For you: a question and a clue.

‘How funny you are today [Chicago]…’

There’s your clue. Guess the question?

Glitch’s texts arrive six minutes after their recipient steps into the shower. Phone silenced and hair lathered, Sabrina lingers obliviously behind the curtain, amid the warm water and warm vanilla scent of her soap. She emerges eighteen minutes later and smiles at her flashing screen, but decides that Glitch’s mystery can wait until she gets dressed.

Thankfully, Nick waits too. But as soon as she is dried and clothed, avoiding full body mirrors until she can at least throw on a robe, the fraternal voice in her head pipes up.

More poetry games? She can’t see his face, obviously, but she can feel his psychic nose wrinkle. How did you get “coffee date” from that?

Nick had done such a good job pretending not to exist for half an hour that she almost forgot they shared every thought now, and she had unwittingly dragged him along on her half-unconscious poetry explication.

“She’s quoting Frank O’Hara,” Sabrina explains, unsure why she says this aloud. She’s alone, though, so she keeps going: “The end of that poem is something like, ‘getting out of bed and having coffee and cigarettes, and loving you so much.’ I don’t know. Point is: coffee.”

Ah, yes. The famous lines from one of O’Hara’s finer works, thinks Nick, faux snootily. Love poetry, though? How do you know she wants to get coffee and isn’t trying to woo you? Or maybe she wants to smoke too many cigarettes with you. You’ll have to let her down easy—about the smoking, I mean. I like Glitch; you’d be cute together! But don’t start smoking.

Sabrina is parting her hair now, with a wide tooth comb and surgical precision, and she rolls her eyes in the mirror. “I just know. Poet’s intuition.”

You’re not a poet.

“Critic’s intuition, then.”

Another flash of her phone screen halts any further defense of her close-reading skills: The question is actually time-sensitive, so I hope you’re not asleep. Then, another repurposed O’Hara quote: ‘Oh [Sabrina Wiseman] we love you get up.’

Sabrina Wiseman, already up, replies: Coffee sounds great! Primping as we speak.

As Glitch texts back with more details, the idle whirl of Nick’s thoughts becomes too vague and unvoiced to follow. Sabrina gets ready as slowly as punctuality will allow, basking in the late morning’s quasi-normalcy. Braiding her hair, picking out her favorite boots, making plans to meet… a friend?

Admittedly, the growing social circle and coffee plans are less familiar prospects than her morning routine, but it all feels normal. An utterly unremarkable day awaits her, it seems, and promises to leave her with that elusive sense of neutral contentment. Her psyche heaves a sigh, half-bemused and half-relieved, before she can suppress it, and it mingles with the soft hum of Nick’s presence in the back of her mind. She feels a guilt she doesn’t recognize, until she realizes that it’s his.

Sharing a mind with her brother is not as difficult as she thinks everyone imagines it is. Nick has always been here, stepping gingerly among her thoughts like a house guest through their host’s messy storage room. Steps light, smiling ruefully at his intrusion, arms braced to catch any fragile trinkets that his passage may send tumbling. The only difference, now, is that she can’t sit in the next room and pretend not to hear the crash behind the wall. Sabrina feels her own guilt, at making Nick listen to how convenient it is for her that he is without a body, and Nick’s guilt, at making her feel guilty for feeling her own emotions inside her own head, and their regrets mingle and multiply like so much shattered ceramic at their feet, making the tiny storage room even more treacherous than before.

Nick hesitates. She feels him like a slight pressure against the wall of her skull, straining to give her room to think.

“It’s fine, Nick.” Sabrina finds a mirror and holds her own gaze. “And I really don’t want to talk about it.”

We just did, Button. Don’t worry about it. Just have fun today.

A million other thoughts lurk behind the ones he voices, and they both ignore every single one.

As she leaves the house, Sabrina mentally recites the few snippets of O’Hara that she remembers verbatim. Nick tries, only once or twice seriously, to guess what the missing words might be. Her expression doesn’t shift as she walks down the street, but in the back of her mind where no one else can see, they share in every silent laugh and hidden smile.

...

The morning with Glitch is not—and Sabrina feels she should have anticipated this—the epitome of lazy normalcy.

She arrives to find that Glitch had already claimed seats and ordered for them both, which is nice. Two identical mugs are still warm on the table, next to the poetry anthology that Sabrina had plucked from the lending library on her last visit. (“Who do you think I should quote in my next selfie caption to start the most fights about pseudo-intellectualism in my comments?” She had asked, pondering O’Hara and Ashbery while taking advantage of the venue’s excellent lighting. Glitch nominated Ginsberg.) The book is open, but at the sound of the door opening, Glitch looks up from its pages, grins, and makes a show of closing it to give Sabrina her full attention.

You know, Button, Nick muses as they approach the table, I’m surprised you agreed to meet her again.

How are you surprised? You’re in my head. You know every decision as soon as I make it.

That’s true! Nick concedes. Another thing about being in your head, though? I can tell when you’re trying to avoid a conversation by pretending to miss the point.

I don’t have time for a conversation, Nick. I’m talking to Glitch instead, because I agreed to meet her a second time, which is perfectly in cha-

“I said, ‘Hi Sabrina!’”

She blinks at Glitch, then looks awkwardly around herself at the table, where she had sat without quite realizing. Glitch laughs at her. It reaches her eyes, which gleam with humor and something else, more like the glint of a knife. She holds Sabrina’s gaze as if she can see behind the curtain of her eyes and recognize the second mind within her skull.

On instinct, Sabrina stares back and thinks of frog guts, then remembers just as Nick tells her: She can’t read your mind, Button. Not even without me here.

I know.

And you told her about me, anyway.

I know.

“Left speechless by my thoughtfulness?” Glitch grins, sweeping a hand towards the mug on Sabrina’s side of the table. “I can’t blame you. Failing words, though, tears of gratitude are an excellent substitute. Maybe a hand over the heart?”

Matching Glitch’s grin, Sabrina comes back to herself. She reaches for her coffee, disguises a steadying breath as an appreciative sniff of its aroma, and takes a sip. Glitch raises an eyebrow when they lock gazes again over the rim of her cup, but neither speaks until Sabrina has replaced the drink and slouched back against her chair, eyes closed and arms dangling.

“I cannot yet speak, struck dumb as I am by your thoughtfulness, and now also the taste of coffee, which is always sweeter when you buy it for me.” She cracks one eyelid to look at Glitch again. “Good enough?”

“Good enough!” Glitch confirms, with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t have minded a quote, honestly. And you probably should have said that coffee is sweeter because of my company, not because I pay for it. Actually, maybe you should just leave the poetry to me.”

“With pleasure.” Sabrina mimes the burden of poetry falling from her shoulders as she sits up. “I mean it, though; it’s good coffee, and you’re very nice to me. I’m sorry for being distracted when I sat down.”

She takes another sip. Glitch reclaims the poetry book she’d been reading and, without opening it, drags a thumb along the fore edge. That curious glint returns to her eyes, but this time Sabrina is present enough to suppress her discomfort at being scrutinized.

“Not your fault.” Below Glitch’s voice, there is still the drumming of her thumb along the pages. “‘My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent and carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.’”

Sabrina blinks. “That’s… O’Hara?”

Glitch pretends to roll her eyes hard enough that her head is thrown back with the force of it. “Sabrina, I’m going to start a fight about pseudo-intellectualism in your Instagram comments.”

“There’s no room for intellectualism up here!” Sabrina taps her head—carefully, mindful of the pleats of her braid. “The man in my quietness is not very quiet.”

Hey!

“And it’s more like I’m carrying him.”

Well, it’s no gondola ride up here, Nick thinks wryly.

“Lucky you have me, then! Feel free to outsource all intellectualism right here,” Glitch advises, tapping her own head. “I’ll happily lend my brainpower to a worthy cause. My first act of charity: yes, that was O’Hara. I was reading it when you came in.”

Glitch opens the book—finding her page on the first try, and it hadn’t been bookmarked—then slides it across the table. The words “quietness” and “gondola” are nowhere to be seen upon inspection. Sabrina looks up, confused, but Glitch redirects her attention to the book with a shooing motion before she can question whether it was the right page, after all.

“‘Just Walking Around,’” she reads aloud. “‘John Ashbery.’ This isn’t O’Hara.”

Glitch downs the rest of her coffee and pushes out from the table, braced to stand up. “No, it’s another clue. Do you want to go on a walk with me or not?”

With a snort, Sabrina reaches for her own drink and takes a few gulps. That’s answer enough for Glitch, who smiles wide and turns away to replace the poetry volume on its shelf.

...

The stroll begins both silently and aimlessly. Glitch had explained as they walked out the door that, if Sabrina had bothered to read the Ashbery poem, she would have realized that the last three lines of the second stanza made the invitation especially clever. Something about repurposing “the secret smudge on the back of your soul” as a metaphor for the secret brother inside your brain, and something else about silence and preoccupation and wandering. Regardless, they both seemed content to live briefly in the spirit of those things and simply walk beside each other.

Sabrina amuses herself by trying to subtly attract the attention of passersby. Glances that cross each other, the blink-and-miss-it motion of a braid thrown over the shoulder, the scrape of a boot toe on concrete. Her eyes are normally straight ahead, expression blank, to ward off even fleeting interest. But now, when a stranger meets her eyes, she smiles blandly and looks away as if her attention has been caught by something in her periphery. Do they wonder what she is looking at, even for a moment? She lifts her head towards the late morning sun and openly basks, thinking all the while how much she hates the heat, hoping all the while that someone will see her pretending to love it and believe it. There is a stranger, who loves the sun.

Preoccupied as she is by building her own shroud of mystery, Nick’s presence fades once more to an indistinct hum, after a period of dutiful but conspicuous silence. But Glitch, still beside her, catches onto her game. The next time Sabrina meets someone’s eye, Glitch slings an arm around her shoulder. She leans towards her ear and whispers, “Take a left here, towards the station. I have to catch a train,” then pulls back and laughs. Sabrina laughs, too, pleased to have been placed at the center of some secret joke. But the fantasy ends when she realizes that Glitch has read her with a glance, tearing through her paper-thin secrets.

Sabrina stares straight ahead. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her denim skirt, but doesn’t shrug off Glitch’s arm.

“What are you going to do the next time you want to hang out, but you can’t find a line of poetry to make the invitation for you?” She asks.

The hand resting on Sabrina’s shoulder reaches awkwardly around to her face and swats at her forehead. “If I can’t find it, it doesn’t exist. If it doesn’t exist, I’ll write it! Don’t insult me, Sabrina.”

She laughs. Her shoulders relax as she removes her hands from her pockets, and Glitch lets her arm slide from its perch. Before it rests back at her own side, though, she loops it through Sabrina’s and swings their elbows back and forth.

“It wouldn’t kill you to brush up on your New York School, you know.” She disrupts the rhythm of their elbows to nudge hers lightly into Sabrina’s side. “I’ve been learning O’Hara and friends ever since you said you liked him, and you can’t even recognize the quotes? Thankless work.”

“You can’t convince me you needed to ‘learn’ them.”

“Right you are!” Glitch says, cheerfully squeezing Sabrina’s arm. “Casual quotation is an art, however, and requires not only a perfect memory, but excellent conversational skills and a sense of drama.”

“I don’t see how any of that relies on me being able to-”

“-And an appreciative audience. A poet cannot bloom in barren soil.”

“I’m very appreciative,” Sabrina assures her, grinning. “Just not genuinely intellectual enough for poetry, as you might remember.”

“Oh, I won’t forget,” Glitch laughs. “The comments section of your next selfie, starting fights, 7:00 PM sharp. You can’t miss me!”

They’re coming up on the station now. Glitch takes a step back but hasn’t dropped her hand yet. “Well, I hope you and your brother had a good time.” She walks backwards towards the stairs, not relinquishing Sabrina’s hand until both their arms are extended and they’re being a nuisance to fellow pedestrians. “See you!”

...

I like Glitch, says Nick, a ways down the block from the station. Sabrina nearly jumps, but keeps walking.

Instead of responding, she hopes he can feel her agreement. There is a warm sense of acknowledgement and a general contentment—if she can ignore a foreign, simmering anxiety. He’s working up to saying something, so Sabrina relinquishes as much of her own brain space as she can to give him time. A few more moments of steeling himself, and then-

I’m sorry for earlier.

She is surprised enough that she physically furrows her brow, as if he could see. Sorry for what?

What I said about you meeting Glitch. At the coffeeshop, before you sat down. I think I- He wants to say that he thinks he knows why she was upset, but hesitates, knowing that voicing how well he knows her often just upsets her more. Her treacherous mind confirms it, fear and frustration prickling in some dark corner, but she does her best to dampen it. She thinks, without voicing it, that she’s sorry. Please keep talking.

I didn’t mean to imply that it was weird, or anything, that you were seeing her again. You’re allowed to spend time with friends who aren’t me, Gray, and Salomé.

It’s very generous of him to count Gray as her friend, but—

It’s not. We all care about you. Glitch does, too, and I’m glad you had a good time. I was just… pleasantly surprised. To see you encourage a new friendship. Maybe that’s patronizing. Sorry if it is, but it’s true.

She does feel a little patronized, but it’s a feeling she is so used to that it barely registers. Before she can take offense, she’s thinking of frog guts again, then wincing at the drastic measures against her brother (again), then grasping for half-remembered shreds of poetry to fill her spinning mind.

My quietness has a man in it, and I carry him through the streets like a gondola. What is all this vessel shit anyway. Nobody saw me through the gates. Now I am alone and hate it. I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly—

I would leave if I could, Button, comes Nick’s voice, both gentle and frustrated.

She knows that. Her mind falls eerily silent, as both of them try not to think anything that would upset the other. She breathes deeply, tries to get three different songs stuck in her head, and wishes she had memorized as much poetry as Glitch. By the time Sabrina has carried them both to the front door of Nick’s home, neither has thought another word. The silence is fraught, but the tension eases as she crosses the threshold.

It’s barely noon, and Sabrina is exhausted. She leaves her boots at the door and sinks into the couch, stretching horizontally across its cushions.

Glitch isn’t my friend. It’s her first coherent thought since they retreated to their own respective corners of her brain.

Button, that’s-

I don’t mean what you think. She hugs a pillow across her stomach. I wouldn’t hang out with her if she was my friend. That’s what I think every time we meet. Not because I don’t like her, I just- You and Gray and Sally know me, you know? Especially you, and I hate it sometimes, and I know you know that, too. And I like Glitch, because she’s smart and fun to be around, and because we just met this week, so she doesn’t know me. Except she’s too smart, because it feels like she already does. Like she can see into my mind, in a way that I can’t even blame my zero for. Just once, I want to make inane small talk with a vague acquaintance who doesn’t really know anything about me.

She places the pillow over her face and contemplates screaming, but doesn’t. I wouldn’t be telling you this if you weren’t trapped in my head, you know. So don’t… I don’t know. I don’t even know what you could do with it. Never mind.

What happens if Glitch knows you? Nick asks. He feels more than he thinks—love and guilt and sadness, a thousand unvoiced thoughts behind the one question he asks.

I don’t know.

You cut off the friendship because she cares about you too much?

Knowing and caring aren’t the same thing, Sabrina tells him, fingers worrying the edges of the pillow. Maybe she does both, but they’re still different.

Okay. He’s not trying as hard to hide his frustration anymore, but it softens in the mingling with his other emotions. So they are. But what then? You just stop?

Why not? She thinks. I always had you, so I never cared who I left.

A warm, deep affection crawls out from beneath his sadness and leaves her so full that she holds back tears. If she cried, would they be hers or Nick’s?

It’s not a choice between me and other people, Button. Glitch and I can both know you and love you a whole lot.

I don’t want to talk about Gliiiiitch. She draws out the single syllable of Glitch’s name as petulantly as she can psychically communicate, then tosses the pillow away. It’s complicated, and I’m trying to tell you you’re a good brother.

I know. I love you, and I hope you’re appreciating the restraint it takes to not start bawling like a baby and leaving tears all over your brain.

“Don’t you dare,” she laughs, finally breaking the silence of the living room. “I will go through the cabinets and cry in your vanilla extract.”

Aww, and then my next batch of cookies will be filled with extra love!

Sabrina rolls her eyes and, eventually, makes her way upstairs to her bedroom. She contemplates another shower, to fully reset from the morning she’s had, but lacks the energy. Instead, she lets her hair down and changes into pajamas, in spite of the early afternoon. Nick’s constant mental presence even feels normal—as if he’s just downstairs, popping into her brain to chat rather than brave the climb to her room.

Nestled comfortably as she is beneath her sheets, she doesn’t have the heart to walk over to her bookshelf. Glitch will have to be content with a review of the first three poems produced by googling Frank O’Hara’s name.

‘Poem?’ Nick reads the first search result. Come on, no title? I hate when they do that.

From what I remember, he does it a lot. Sabrina taps the offending text, trying to guess which untitled poem it might be, and nearly drops her phone.

“God,” she mutters, rolling onto her stomach. “Of course it’s this one.”

Which one? Nick pipes up.

“Just look.” She focuses on the portion of her screen occupied by the capitalized text, ‘LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!’ “That’s a headline. It’s about… I’m not a poetry professor, okay? But it’s about a celebrity collapsing in some freak emergency and people gossiping about it. Sound familiar?”

You can read it if you want, he is quick to assure her. It won’t bother me.

“That’s not the point. The point is… it’s just stupid! ‘Oh Lana Turner we love you get up?’”

Hey, Glitch quoted that this morning!

“Yeah, to get up out of bed. Not up from the hospital.” She’s too incensed to keep lying down, and she’s pacing around her room, ranting before she can stop herself. “Do you know what that nurse said to me? ‘Chicago won’t lose our Justice.’ Just imagine, ‘oh Justice we love you get up.’ Isn’t that stupid? Who’s ‘we,’ anyway?”

Sabrina. Please, it’s-

“And it’s not even mine to be mad about. I know. And people love you, and that’s great. But I- Lana Turner was fine, you know? And she got up. But they didn’t love her.”

I really don’t care what some random nurse said about me, Nick says. I’m sorry that people are talking to you like they know me; that pisses me off. But the rest is fine.

“Could you let me be selfishly angry for a minute before talking me down, please?”

You’re not being selfish. You’re working yourself into a rage on my behalf, and you should stop. Sabrina flops back onto the bed, phone on her stomach, but kicks the air a few times in protest. Pick up the phone. I want to read the poem.

“I really don’t.”

Okay, is all he says, until moments pass and Sabrina’s anger is replaced by embarrassment. She wants to use her phone again, to find another poem, but she doesn’t want to face the capitalized text that nearly launched her into a grief-induced tantrum.

Well, if Frank O’Hara won’t, Nick says, and she can feel the overwhelming mental energy of his smirk, I need you to tell me how my people love me.

His tone is intensely dramatic, and clearly satirizing all the pomp and ceremony Chicago has devoted to mourning the concept of a comic book superhero. A validation of her bitterness without fueling it, another ploy (like so many others) to make her feel better. She pretends not to notice as unlocks her phone.

I can’t speak for Chicago, she thinks, closing the “Poem” tab. I love you, though. Get up soon.

#mind blind #i Know nick knows some poetry ok i Know!!! but im banking on the fact that someone who learns shakespeare n neruda for seduction purposes #would not be into whatever the new york school was up to #anyway. i havent posted fic on tumblr in years and this is a deeply embarrassing ordeal for me!!! thank you everyone for witnessing #i am pretty happy w this minus the last scene. but i felt the need to include it bc... otherwise why am i talking so damn much abt ohara #goodbye. it's 1 AM here but i wanted to post something for sabby before the patreon update! :D #oc: sabrina wiseman #my writing

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phati-sari · 3 years

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Hello Phati Sari. I asked the question about the suicide attempt. And I just saw the answers about Arnav’s abuse. That is what I am getting at. I feel like he reflected on his feelings for Khushi and realized her innocent or not didn’t matter because he loved her. But I’m not sure he ever reflected on how his actions drove her to the state of mind where she would carefully plan a suicide based on the reasons she gave. And jumping from a one story building could have caused multiple broken bones.

This continues my earlier ask. Couldn’t type anymore. Besides broken bones, head injuries and lacerations could occur. I am at a disadvantage because I don’t speak Hindi so depend on blogs for translation and analysis sometimes. He does say sorry on the way to remarriage but in the light of the real abuse he did I am not sure it showed effectively enough his understanding of that. I just discovered the rewinds where he reflects and I understand he does show it there sometimes but I can find no

To continue. Sorry so long. I can find no English translations for his dialogs in the rewinds. Is there a place you know where some might be available or can you throw some light on pieces of his dialog that shows some deeper understanding of how his actions were abusive and he takes ownership for that abuse aside from Khushi letting him off the hook because she knows he loves her and her tears hurt him too. Sorry that isn’t enough for understanding even in fiction. Please edit ask if need. Than

Hello!

Firstly, I have to say that I think I’ve answered your question already. I realise it was not to your satisfaction, but in my mind I’ve already given my answer. I’m going to answer using specific quotes from your ask to make this a little easier because I think you’re actually asking a different question entirely.

But I’m not sure he ever reflected on how his actions drove her to the state of mind where she would carefully plan a suicide based on the reasons she gave.

But explicitly on-screen, no.

And jumping from a one story building could have caused multiple broken bones. Besides broken bones, head injuries and lacerations could occur.

Well yeah, I wasn’t minimising what could’ve happened. Your earlier question, however, explicitly asked whether Arnav could chalk it up to drama, and I said he could.

That you didn’t like the answer doesn’t change my outlook -- yes the outcome could’ve been serious but a man who thinks he was duped by this woman’s faux innocence, that she was always trying to entrap or confuse him, could absolutely have come to the conclusion that she was faking her attempt at suicide because she wanted something from him.

To clarify, I’ve never thought her attempt was anything but serious, and have written essays about how much I disagreed with the track being given a comedic treatment.

I just discovered the rewinds where he reflects and I understand he does show it there sometimes

Does he though? I mean, Arnav spends most of his time spouting poetry in the Rewind, not genuinely reflecting on his behaviour. I’ll admit to my bias -- both EJ and Rewind strike me as out-of-character bullshit that I enjoy if the mood strikes me, but they’re not canon in my eyes.

Is there a place you know where some might be available or can you throw some light on pieces of his dialog that shows some deeper understanding of how his actions were abusive and he takes ownership for that abuse aside from Khushi letting him off the hook because she knows he loves her and her tears hurt him too

You’re not going to find this in the canon. I’m sorry, I understand why you’re looking for it, really I do. The closest we get are vague statements in EJ and in the Rewind.

(This turned into a bit of a live-blog on the Rewind.)

In Episode 1 of the Rewind, Arnav reflects on their first meeting. He says that he was angry at Khushi because his show was ruined. He says that he rained upon her like lava. (Lava?? That’s taken straight from fanfiction my God.)

Arnav: “Aaj yaad karta hoon toh lagta hai ki kitna bura bartaav kiya maine uske saath uss din.” -- When I think about it now, I think of how badly I behaved with her that day.

He admits to wrongdoing but as it immediately follows a justification, I’m not convinced it’s particularly reflective or deep. He always knew he was wrong -- the countless flashbacks to this meeting showed this in the canon.

In Episode 2, when he talks about the release of the video footage, Arnav smilingly tells the camera that he didn’t realise it would ~complicate~ Khushi’s life so much. This one action invited Shyam into her life and he smiles while he recalls it???

Ugh, this is the episode with the naaaaaavvvvvvv. Naaaaaaaavvvv. Fuck me dead I hate the Rewind so much, anon you’d better send me loads of virtual potatoes for this!

Episode 3, in which Arnav reduces his abuse of the employer-employee relationship with Khushi to a video game in which one has to defeat their opponent.

At least she apparently took the raksha bandhan seriously.

OH MY GOD THE MUG I’D FORGOTTEN THE MUG, BLISSFULLY WIPED IT FROM MY MEMORY. MY EYES. MY EEYYYEEESSS.

In Episode 6, Arnav admits he feels guilty when he thinks of the things he said and made Khushi do on the night of the photoshoot. His punishment is taking his wife to eat parathas -- a punishment Arnav admits is inadequate because he made so many mistakes.

In Episode 7, Arnav admits that regrets many of his decisions in his and Khushi’s story. But he hedges, saying that his mind wasn’t listening to his heart at the time. And then tries to justify his anger by bringing up that she told everyone about Lavanya.

In Episode 8, Arnav says that he gets goosebumps when he thinks about something happening to Khushi at the guesthouse. He says he still gets tears in his eyes when he thinks about how her arm was hurt. And yet, no examination of physical abuse.

In Episode 9, he admits that he’d crossed too many lines and Khushi’s anger was justified when she resigned. He admits that he made her life miserable, that he was “torturing” her. He says that he’d never send her where her life was in danger, though, and that she was wrong in saying that.

Ahh I’d totally spaced on him saying that he’d heard his dhak-dhak for the first time on Teej.

In Episode 14, Arnav reiterates that he regrets how he treated Khushi, and he wishes they knew what they know now: that they were falling in love.

And then Arnav disappears from the Rewind. His behaviour in the contract marriage and beyond is not reflected on.

I’m not seeing anything in the Rewind that constitutes Arnav showing a deeper understanding of his abusive behaviour and taking ownership of it and its influence on Khushi. I mean, it’s there in the edges of what he says, but it’s not actually what he says. And what he says was always in the serial -- in his monologues, in his flashbacks, in his moments of introspection. It should not be news to anyone.

When I say IPKKND is set in a fantasy world where Arnav’s behaviour is not coded as abusive, I don’t mean and so we shouldn’t examine it through that lense. I mean that the characters will not admit to it being abuse any more than Aragorn is going to comment on the lack of women in LOTR or Aslan is going to say “I’m actually Jesus.” The conclusion that his behaviour is abusive is external to the serial, internally he’s driven by the trauma of the Tragedy and has the blessing of Devi Maiyya.

And so, there is no examination -- internally -- of this behaviour. Even in Lavanya’s case, Arnav never mentions the gross power imbalance and her ready acceptance of his abuse as reasons for the breakup. The show is silent on the topic (though my recaps aren’t) and the audience is left with the genuinely absurd idea that it was about how he didn’t love her. It wasn’t -- he knew he didn’t love her when they first broke up lol. It was about their interaction at the poolside where she admitted he’d never been nice to her. Ever. And that she just accepted as it as a given in their dynamic. Even in the Rewind, Arnav emphasizes that he didn’t love Lavanya, that he only saw her as a friend, instead of admitting he was emotionally abusive.

Coming back to Arnav’s reflection -- Arnav always, always, will be able to justify his point of view. Everyone is the Hero in their own story -- the entire thrust of this blog is to show that.

Now, I don’t need Arnav to say he was abusive -- I know he was, but I also think the redemption he was offered in the serial was fine (I’m qhsahil in that exchange, but I reckon you will agree with the others). I think it was in keeping with the characters shown in the serial and I have absolutely no desire to see any come-upperance or vengeance on Khushi’s behalf.

In conclusion, I get where you’re coming from, and I even understand why you want to see him say and admit these things, but I disagree that we see (or ever will see) them in the canon, or that we even need them in general.

Thanks for asking!

#ipkknd #iss pyaar ko kya naam doon #arshi #arnav singh raizada #khushi kumari gupta #analysis #anon ask #answered

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george-mackay-macfine · 4 years

Text

Yes, Professor.

Requested

Synopsis: Y/N gets a new Professor, and she really wants to fuck him.

Word Count: 3, 043

“Have you seen the new English Professor?” I looked up from my course book as Julian my best friend flounced up to my desk in the library. “I just saw him getting a tour of the school from the Dean, and boy,” He fanned his hand against his face dramatically. “The man could bend me over a table any day,”

“Julian,” I gawked, “You can’t just say things like that, he’s a Professor, and last time I checked, sleeping with your Professor was still frowned upon,”

“You didn’t see this man, Y/N.” He waved his hands about dramatically. “I would give up my degree and still pay the student loans for the chance to see that man naked, even once.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I scoffed, “He can’t be that hot,”

“You know how all the Romans of old had the hots for the chick who came out of the clamshell? Ya know, the one with the long hair?”

“Yes, Julian,”

“He’s the male version of her,” I began to collect my things, as he continued to ramble. “He looked too good to be straight, but then again a lot of straight men these days have begun to dress better…”

“I’m going to go to class now… enjoy your fantasies.”

“I’ll come,”

“You don’t even take the class,”

“No better time to learn about English and books.”

“We’re studying Shakespeare, reading texts, today’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Oh fuck me,” Julian bit his bottom lip, following me away from the table and towards the door. “Do you think he’ll be reading Romeo because, I swear to everything in Heaven, I swear on my mothers grave -.”

“Your mother isn’t dead,”

“I would die to hear that man utter sweet, sweet poetic moronic dribbling into my ears as he pounds into me,”

“You really have an issue, have you considered you know going on a date, maybe seeing if there’s someone out there who can cure the issues?”

“They’re not issues,”

“No? Wanting your professor to lay you over his desk, pound into you while muttering Shakespeare into your ear isn’t an issue.” I chuckled as we reached the entrance to the lecture hall.

“Ahem,” Julian and I froze, turning slowly to face the source of the intrusion. “Quiet… bold imagery there.” The man in front of me would have only been thirty tops, his hair was a dark brown, and his eyes the brightest blue I’d ever seen. He was dressed smartly, but not like the stuffy old Professors we were used too, he wore a white button-down, probably leaving one too many buttons undone to be deemed as more professional than a casual dress. He extended his hand towards me, “I’m Professor MacKay,”

“I’m so sorry,” I began to mutter shuffling items to shake his hand, “That conversation, what you heard it was out of context, and I can promise you that you will never hear anything of the sort slip from my mouth again,”

“Shame,” He muttered dropping his hand to his side, “I quite liked the bold imagery.” He looked down to his wristwatch, flashing Julian and I a toothy grin. “Best hurry, class starts in a minute,” Julian and I watched in two different emotions as Professor MacKay waltzed into the lecture hall. Julian was in a state of awe, his mind probably running over all the ways he could have Professor MacKay in his dirties dreams, whereas I was in a state of utter humiliation. Professor MacKay looked over at us once more sending me another smile as he dropped his satchel on the desk.

“You heard the man,” Julian pushed in front of me, “Best get a seat before they fill up.” I followed Julian into the lecture hall, my hair hanging in front of my eyes as I felt those of my new Professor on my body, wishing death upon Julian when he picked the seat right in front of Professor MacKay’s desk.

“Really this one?” I hissed sliding in beside him, careful to keep my voice low in case a prying Professor was listening.

“Wanted to be close to the front,” Julian’s eyes dragged over Professor MacKay’s frame, “Didn’t want to miss any learning,”

“Oh, Fuck me,” I groaned head dropping back.

“Really miss…” My head snapped up, eyes popping open as Professor MacKay knelt before me, his hands clasped together, a cheeky smile on his lips.

“Her name is Y/F/N Y/L/N,” Julian pounced, “And I’m Julian,” He smirked lips pursing at the end.

“Nice to meet you both,” He turned back to me, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, you seem to be having an issue with your filthy language today,”

“I promise, I'm not always like this…” I sat up straighter, “Normally I don’t even cuss, let alone speak how I did earlier,”

“Relax, I’m teasing.” He stood up stopping when he was in front of my eyes, “But I want you to be careful, someone might take you up on the offer,” He bit his lip as he looked over me before walking back to his desk,

“Oh he wants the pussy,” Julian whispered in my ear, “Really bad,”

“Shut up Julian,” I hissed, cheeks on fire.

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” Professor MacKay burst out, “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.” He picked up a book sitting on the desk, “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief,” I watched as he immersed himself in the poetry of the scene, “That thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green,” He looked at me as he continued, his eyes never straying from mine. “And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.”

“Fuck yes,” Julian cried beginning to lead the class into loud applause for the new Professor, who had so quickly won over his audiences.

“Thank you,” Professor MacKay raised his hand to hush the crowd, “My name is George MacKay, but the board doesn't take lightly to students calling their Professors by their ‘human’ names, so let’s stick with Professor,” He shuffled himself on the desk, “Now, who can tell me what Shakespeare meant when he wrote that passage?”

“He wanted Romeo to fuck Juliet,” Someone called from the back of the room which caused half the rooms occupants, including George, Professor MacKay to snort out a couple seconds of laughter.

“You’re not wrong,” George Professor MacKay confessed. “In this passage, Romeo uses an intricate conceit to express a simple desire, does anyone know what that desire is?”

“To take Juliet’s virginity,” I voiced,

“And how do you conclude that?”

“Romeo begins by saying that the envious moon, Diana the Goddess of the moon, and patron of virgins, is jealous of her servant, Juliet’s radiance. He then goes on to beg Juliet to be Diana’s maid no longer, for the virginal uniform, vestal livery, she wears as a follower of Diana is sickly green in colour, and not to remove it.”

“In lamens terms,” Julian questioned.

“Romeo basically says to Juliet it would be foolish to remain a virgin,” I huffed, “Romeo, the frat boy of ye olden times,” I muttered much to the amusement of my Professor.

“Correct, everything Ms Y/L/N said, was correct,” George. Professor MacKay clapped his hands together standing from the desk he began to bounce on his heels. “The phrase sick and green was hotly debated among early scholars, because of a discrepancy among the printed versions of the play.” He paused, “Can anyone tell me why?” He looked around the class, waiting for someone when no one answered he begun again. “In the first quarto of Romeo and Juliet in 1597, the line reads pale and green, which invites a new explanation of the lines,” He cleared his throat, “Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it.” He picked up two of his books holding one in the air. “Some editors charge the compositors of the subsequent quartos and the First Folio where it appears as sick and green with carelessness, convinced that Shakespeare intended pale and green not to mean the green sickness of anaemia as is described three lines above, but to mean the colours of the uniform worn by Henry VIII's court jester – white and green. Thus, her vestal livery is the garb of a fool.” He held the second book up. “Others, not so much,”

______________________________________________________________________

“I might need to consider taking this class,” Julian smirked as he waited for me to pack up my books. “Professor MacKay is not only delicious to look at, but he’s also extremely entertaining to watch,”

“Julian,” I groaned, but I couldn’t deny it, George MacKay was delicious to look at, and I enjoyed the way his eyes looked at me, my face, body, lingering on my chest through the lecture.

“I think you should try and seduce him,”

“Julian…”

“I dare you,”

Those three little words were how it started, a game between Professor MacKay and I, except I, couldn’t be sure he knew he was participating.

As the ‘game’ continued I upped the ante each lecture, it started off easy, low cut shirts, with lacy bra’s sticking out.

Then it became low cut shirts with no bra, and with the lecture hall always being cold enough to harden my nipples I was sure Professor MacKay had gotten a good look at the pierced flesh,

My next step was dressed, short ones that really shouldn’t be worn on campus, but I had a dare to win.

I next resorted to wearing short skirts, tartan preferably but really anything that would allow me to teasingly spread my legs and give George a glimpse at my barley there underwear before I crossed my legs back over each other, pretending to be none the wiser to my Professor catching a glimpse of my hairless pussy,

“Ms Y/L/N, can you stay a moment,” George called as the class began to pack up, it was Friday afternoon, and I was horny a week of teasing and I was in need of a good come down.

“Can I help you, sir?” I asked once the last of my classmates had left the hall crossing my legs once again. George sat back on his desk, not even trying to hide that he was eyeing up my bare legs,

“I thought you weren’t a fan of brave imagery,” A smirk came to my lips, I couldn’t help it. “You think it’s funny?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,”

“Fucking christ,” He groaned. “Sounds like Heaven when you say that,” I uncrossed my legs slowly, spreading them as I leant forward against the small wooden desk, breasts nearly spilling out of my shirt.

“Sir?”

“You’re enjoying the game aren’t you?” George pushed away from his desk, striding over to me, he lent down so he was looking in my eyes. “Teasing me,” His squatted down, his hand starting at my ankle, running up my leg, unconsciously they opened wider, welcoming his hand against me. “Cunt’s dripping isn’t it?” I nodded, tongue dipping out to wet my lips. George’s hand hit home, his thumb against my clit teasing it.

“F-F-fuck, George,”

“Ah, ah…” He chided his finger leaving my clit, playing with the string of my underwear, “That’s not my name, is it?”

“What do you want me to call you?” I whispered leaning forward, “Are you more of a sir, or should I call you Daddy?”

“Fuck, you are a dirty girl,” George groaned, his hand leaving my clit, pushing my skirt up as he ran it up my body to my neck, “Call me sir,” He gave my neck a light squeeze, “You can call me Daddy next time,”

“Yes, sir,”

“Stand up,” He demanded standing himself upright, “You’ve been a brat lately haven’t you?” I nodded my head, standing upright myself, “And good girls are the ones who get fucked, what do the brats get?”

“Punished,”

“Punished, what?”

“Sir,” I corrected, feeling a pool of wetness drip down my legs, “Sorry, sir.”

“Good girl, now we’re learning.” He moved back to his desk, “Lose the shirt, and your skirt,” I quickly pulled the shirt over my head, throwing it to the ground. I took a little more time with the skirt twisting and twirling my hips as it dropped to the ground. “Turn around, over your desk,” I turned, bending over the desk I’d spent so much time teasing George from. “Going to take you here, so every time you have to sit here, you remember,” His hand came down on my ass, “How I spanked you,” Another “And how I fucked you,” Another spank “Okay,”

“Yes sir,” His hand went from my ass to my slit, fingers pushing inside of me, pumping once, twice, a third time before he withdrew them.

“How does my little girl taste?” He pushed the fingers into my mouth, grabbing my hair with his free hand. Desperate to impress him I deep-throated them, imagining they were his cock, George pulled his hand out, pulling me to a stand, spinning me so my sensitive ass sat on the desk, He leaned down his lips meeting mine in a filthy kiss, his tongue shoving it’s way into my mouth, meeting mine dancing and twirling against one and other. He pulled away teeth gripping my bottom lip dragging it out before letting it go. “Taste good, Angel.” He kissed me again. “I could eat that little cunt out all day until your cried and begged me to stop…” I nodded, ready to beg him to. “But, you’re still in trouble for all your teasing, and I’m not sure if trouble makers deserve to have their cunts eaten out…” He pursed his lips “What do you think?”

“No, sir.”

“See, you can be a good girl.” His fingers went back to my pussy pushing inside, my back arched towards him, his lips latching onto my nipples.

“Fuck,” I moaned as he bit down, teeth teasing the bar pushed through the flesh. “I can be good,” I whined needing more of him. “Promise, I can be good.” His fingers continued to move inside me, unwavering.

“Minute I saw those tits through your shirt, I knew I wanted to suck on them.” My thighs began to tremble from the pleasure he was giving me, “I’m going to fuck you, until you cry,” He murmured looking down at me with devilish eyes, “Maybe once you cry I’ll think about stopping.” His free hand went between us undoing his belt and zip before pulling my legs to his hips. “Keep them here,”

“Yes sir,” I wrapped my legs around his waist, holding tightly as he reached between us again, grabbing at his cock. I felt it against me as he withdrew his fingers, pushing inside of me. He pressed in slowly at first, then all at once. I gasped out in shock, clenching down around him like a vice, fuck he was big. He looked down, at where he spread me open, tutting.

“You haven’t even taken me in all the way, love.”

“Big, sir.”

“Too big?” I shook my head,

“No sir,” His hips pulled back and snapped forward, burying his length inside of me completely.

He was huge, wait until I told Julian about this, how good our Professor can fuck.

“No one will hear you,” George growled into my ear as I let out a soft moan, “Louder,”

“Fuck, Sir,” I groaned as he thrust harder. “You want everyone to find our your currently bottomed out in your student?” My question was accompanied by a moan.

“Like I give a fuck,” He said lowly before he slowly pushed himself in, making me grip his shoulders tightly. He watched me through half-lidded eyes as I bit my lip, heavy breathing until he was fully settled deep inside of me once more. “And you're not just my student,” He groaned as I opened my eyes to look at him.

“No?” I asked sighing as he slowly began to move faster again.

“No.” He groaned, “You’re my little whore,”

“Charming,”

“I try,” He groaned picking me up off the table, he laid me on the cold tile floor, his body quickly coming down onto of me. He took both of my arms and pinned them above me with his one hand.

“Fuck…” I moaned as I felt him fucking into me harder, chest to chest, his chest hair brushing over my hardened nipples. George let go of my wrists instead grabbing onto thighs sitting back on his as he thrust even deeper.

“This is what you wanted all along wasn’t it?” He growled, his hand leaving my thigh coming down to circle on my clit.

“Yes... Just like that...” I moaned, eyes rolling back as his fingers rubbed constantly over my clit. I could already feel the familiar warmth in my belly spreading. “You going to cum sir?”

“Waiting for you...” He smirked. He pushed harder, making me cry out as my orgasm washed over my body, sending tingles throughout. “Come again,” George groaned his grip lighting on my thigh, fingers continuing to work my clit, as he kept fucking me through my first orgasm straight into my second. My body exploded in pleasure as I felt George still deep inside of me, the warmth of his own orgasm making mine even more epic.

“Holy fuck,” I groaned as George collapsed on top of me. I ran my hand through the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck.

“You know how you’ll remember me spanking you on your desk?” I groaned in response, too fucked out to make any other words. “Well, I’m going to look at this spot and get hard every time because this is the place I made you squirt.”

“Maybe next time I can do it on your face,”

“How does later tonight sound?”

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