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summercourtship · 3 years

Note

Hi, could you write a nsfw oneshot or something for the Cenobite with a shy and modest fem survivor reader? Possibly include some fingering and using his hands. Thanks if you do!

I'm sorry this took so long, I obviously got a bit carried away. I have such a bad habit of needing SO MUCH exposition even for tiny one shots (or at least what are supposed to be tiny) but I’m not going to stop. I’m also not sure how well I fulfilled the idea of a “shy, modest” reader, but I think I managed to have elements of it without it becoming a stereotypical mess of stuttering and blushing.

summons [nsfw, 18+]

Pinhead (The Cenobite) x Reader | warnings: NSFW, reader could be interpreted as being a virgin but it’s not explicitly stated, I somehow made the Lament Configuration solving erotic (it’s what Clive Barker would want) | 3121 words

It was always unnerving to realize that a killer remembered you. To notice that shift in their expression as they placed your face to a memory, to an action that had made you stick out in their mind. Some killers seemed to remember everyone while others only recognized a select few. Some didn’t seem cognizant of doing either.

Luckily, you had always managed to fly under their radar. Even the killers that had memorized every survivor regarded you with an air of disinterest, preferring to go after the overtly obnoxious survivors (which was probably part of those survivors’ plans- Nea really hated fixing gens). Some could say that it was because you were boring, at least in the way of prey. You didn’t necessarily agree, but if killers thinking you were boring kept you alive you wouldn’t argue about it.

However.

There was one killer who seemed… overly interested in you because of this. Somehow your reserved nature was more intriguing to him than that of the unafraid or blatantly uncaring survivors. You didn’t understand it, but you also didn’t want to.

You didn’t want anything to do with it.

The Cenobite was an oddity among oddities- barely even touching the survivors and treating your suffering with a cold grace. In the few moments you’d been able to observe him, he seemed unaffected by anything, continuing his hunt seemingly without a care in the world.

When you were one of his designated playthings for a trial, you avoided the Box, even if it meant your continued survival. You couldn’t handle the thought of possibly summoning him, bringing the being you knew was somehow fascinated with you directly to your location.

You just did your damnedest to finish repairing gens and move on to the next trial with the usual indifferent killers, taking extra care to stealth when you knew he was coming. Because if he caught sight of you, he wouldn’t stop pursuing you throughout the trial, preferring to torment you than spread the pressure amongst your teammates.

But, despite your efforts, not every trial with him could work out this way, as was the case for the trial you found yourself in now. You had been just barely surviving through your stealth tactics when it seemed that the survivors were rapidly downed, one quickly falling after the other.

You rushed to pull them off hooks or patch them up enough to stand, only briefly hesitating when you felt your own safety was in danger. You pushed it aside, putting your team’s survival over your own sense of sanity. They would eventually pay you back in kind, and the cycle would continue.

But it seemed that luck was not on your side.

One, two, three survivors were all hooked for the last time, their cut off screams piercing the night air.

And suddenly, you were the only one left.

Somewhere, both too close and impossibly far away, a bell tolls.

You’re frozen in place, too on edge to even contemplate searching for the Hatch. You’d been in similar situations before, but this time felt different- it was as if the air was electrified from your nervous anticipation.

And never before had you been left alone with him.

Before long, the consequence of your hesitation becomes clear- the chains that he summons from nothing have started seeking you out, the few that reach you embedding their hooks in your skin. You hiss, jerking back into life and unhooking yourself, trying to be as careful as possible to not rip your skin off.

It would not be the worst pain you have felt in this place.

You set off, struggling through the terrain of the Macmillan Estate until you reach one of the smattering of brick walls that litter the Entity’s realms. Here, at least you would have some protection from the chains, giving you time to figure out what you were going to do next.

Find Hatch or wait by the Exit Gate, hoping he closes the Hatch with enough time for you to slip out? You’re debating the two options in your head, knowing full well it’s not the best use of your time but feeling unable to make a decision and get your feet moving.

You’d just mentally circled back around to the option of booking it for Hatch that you realize you were being observed. And he wasn’t even hiding like some of the others would, no crouching behind the brick or staying by the tree line. He’s simply standing there, as if waiting for you to realize he was there.

You look up at him, wondering how you hadn’t noticed his presence before. He blocks the only other exit from your shelter that isn’t a window, something you note with a growing sense of dread. No prey likes feeling cornered.

But he hasn’t moved to attack, just standing and staring at you. You take a moment to observe him back, noting the impassive expression on his face. He doesn’t move, even once you’d been made aware of him. You narrow your eyes and glare at him, ignoring the thwacking of the chains hitting the ground and walls behind you, already tired of whatever game he is playing, not in the mood to be toyed with.

“What do you want?” You ask, willing your voice to stop wavering. For once, you wanted to seem like the brave, outgoing survivor, willing to stand up to the killer for nothing more than the satisfaction of having done so.

A beat of silence, and you almost think he won’t answer. But he does, and his response is more confusing than clarifying.

“You.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

More silence.

Then, a crackling draws your attention downwards, to the small, unassuming box that lay on the ground in the space between you. The very box you had done your best to avoid touching, even looking at. You wonder, briefly, if it had been there the entire time.

“Solve it.” His voice is commanding yet gentle, coaxing yet sinister. There’s power behind it, a power that isn’t being utilized at the moment.

“No.” It’s an easy answer for you. There are few things you are sure of in the Fog, but not touching anything that belongs to a killer is one of them.

“Aren’t you curious?”

That was not what you had been expecting him to say. Suddenly, you were no longer sure about the subject of your conversation. The Box still lay between you, ready for your willing hands to run along its smooth surface, finding the small grooves that would lead you to further unlocking its mystery. But while you had been focusing on the Box, his eyes had never left you.

Because he knew that ultimately, yes. You were curious, and always had been. About everything, but you’d always been too shy, too afraid of other’s thoughts about you to try anything even mildly risky. Better to stay on the safe side and hear about other’s exploits instead of experiencing your own.

“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper.

“Then…” With a long fingered hand, he gestures to the Box.

Your hands shook as you reached down to pick it up, finding its smooth surface both warm and cool at the same time, its weight heavier than you had anticipated.

You looked back up at the Cenobite, ignoring the faint tinkling of a music box’s tune that you could now hear coming from the Box.

“What do I do?”

You were sure it couldn’t be but so difficult- less intelligent survivors had completed its puzzle under significantly more stressing circumstances than you. But you couldn’t bring your mind to command your hands to begin, some invisible wire holding your muscles back from taking action.

Maybe it was because he was standing in front of you, watching you intently.

He moved closer and you barely resisted the urge to move backwards, your grip on the Box tightening as if afraid he would take it from you. He stopped just before you and reached out, not to take the Box but to guide your hands. But instead of placing his hands over yours as you had anticipated, they hovered barely a centimeter above your skin.

“There is a force in this realm that makes solving the Lament Configuration child’s play.”

You look up at him, wondering if he had just delivered a thinly veiled insult. If he, in saying that solving it should be easy, was implying that you were too unintelligent to figure it out. You open your mouth to begin defending yourself.

“I-“

“You’ve refused it,” He continues as if you’d never started speaking, “even when it is to your detriment. But the Configuration is meant for those who seek to heighten their senses, for sensations that the earthly world cannot provide. Opening it is not supposed to be easy.”

You look down at your hands, at his.

“For those who summon us must be sure that it is what they want, for once we are summoned we cannot leave without a charge. It cannot be helped.”

He places his hands over yours now, guiding them along the edges of the Box (the Configuration, you correct yourself). Your hands are seemingly electrified from where his skin meets yours, though a sizable portion of his hand is covered in leather.

“Here it seems that, although alone, I work under different rules. The Box was made simpler and perverted into a means to assist in feeding this Entity.”

With his guidance, you are able to find the minuscule lines in the surface of the box, pushing and shifting the pieces until they form a completely new shape. But before you are able to push the final piece into place, thus completing the puzzle, he releases his hands and steps back.

“There is no need to finish it.”

You blink, feeling like you’d just woken from a hazy waking dream.

“But why did I do it in the first place?”

“I won’t have to hunt you down the next time we find ourselves facing each other. It is very tiresome when you hide from me constantly.”

He turns around like he’s about to go, either to finally kill you or let you scamper off to find the Hatch, but you aren’t ready for him to leave yet.

“Is that it?” You blurt out and almost take it back when he turns his head, indicating that you have his attention once more. But you swallow your fear and continue on, holding your chin higher. “You just wanted me to solve this box? To what? Prove to myself that I can, so that you don’t have to do as much work the next time you’re going to kill me?”

He whirls around, but there is barely any change in his expression from before. He was near impossible to read, you were quickly learning.

“I don’t get it- if you’re summoned for those who want pleasure or pain or whatever, why are you so interested in me? I don’t want any of that.”

“You don’t want pleasure?”

Your face heats up, any bravery you had felt in delivering your speech gone. You look down at your hands, still holding the almost solved Lament Configuration.

“The rules of this place may be different, but I am still obliged to answer the summons.” His words, at first, make no sense.

And then you realize what he is implying, and your face must be on fire for how hot it feels. If he was summoned for those who want whatever version of pleasure or pain he provided, then you solving the Configuration meant that he could…

Ohhhkay.

You turn from him, fully intending to put the box down and sprint for the Hatch and think about this encounter later at the campfire, but the quiet, nagging voice in the back of your head stops you.

Aren’t you curious?

Before you can rationalize and deny the urge, you act on impulse for once and press the final piece into place on the Box, the tinkling music stopping abruptly.

While you’ve had your back turned, he must’ve crept up closer on you, because you suddenly feel his hand on your shoulder.

You gasp, both from surprise and the sensation of his touch once again on you. He slowly ran his hand down your body, from your shoulder down your arm, before making its way to your front. Your breathing was picking up, hitching in the back of your throat when his other hand snuck around and plucked the box from your grasp. It’s gone when you turn your head to look at it, and you’re too focused on his touch to really ponder what happened to it.

You reach out and press your own hand against the brick wall in front of you, using the rough texture to ground yourself in reality, as much as you could in the hellish purgatory that you were trapped in. But the reality of this moment was that he was touching you in such a simple way, barely vulgar at all, but you felt as if you were being lit on fire with the way his touch seared your skin, even over the layers of your clothes.

His fingers dance over the hem of your pants, toying with the button. You’d always liked that the Entity put you in pants most of the time, their practicality better for your environment than the potential fashion statements you could’ve been making in something else. But now you wish that the Entity had decided to put you in one of the nonsensical outfits the others occasionally donned, if just for the easy access a skirt provides.

Nonetheless, he deftly undid the button and continued his journey down your body, not bothering to even pull your pants down. He completely ignored your underwear, apparently not in the mood to tease you over the fabric. You weren’t complaining, wanting whatever he was going to give you as quickly as possible.

It was now that you fully realized how cold his hands were, which only made you more aware of every centimeter of your skin that he ran his fingers along. Down over your stomach, a feather light touch that was approaching where you needed it the most.

The Cenobite found his way in between your legs with little fanfare, finally exploring the part of your body that, unbeknownst to you, he had thought of whenever he saw you in a trial. He toyed briefly with just running his touch up and down your slit, causing you to shudder and drop your head. But before long, he ended up at that sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking it just to hear you moan. His finger circled around your clit, applying just enough pressure for it to register in your mind but not enough to really scratch the itch that had been building since he’d placed his hands over yours to solve the box.

He was silent behind you, but you didn’t think he wasn’t actively enjoying what he was doing to you, if the way his teasing touches would briefly speed up when you let the little sounds building up behind your lips escape was any indication. Or the way his breathing, though quiet and low, would hitch when you would whimper, groan, hiss.

He finally moved lower, teasing at your entrance. You whimper again, closing your eyes. But he didn’t do anything aside from dipping his fingers in, for barely a second, giving you just a taste of the pleasure you needed. He teased more than you would have expected, but you also wouldn’t have expected him to want to fuck you.

“Please,” your whisper is broken, your mind hazy and unable to compose a more elegant plea. You curse under your breath when he does it again, moving back up to your clit to circle it a couple more times.

“You can do better than that,” He says, and you, in your fuzzy mind, think you detect a hint of humor in his voice.

“Fuck- please.” You roll your hips, as if to entice him to finally get to it. But he holds fast, your (pathetic) attempt to seduce him into giving in to your whims failing. He pauses in his movements.

“Fine! Please, please, please, please fuck me, put your fingers in me, I don’t care just please make me cum!”

You wonder, briefly, in the back of your mind, if the Entity is watching.

Two of his fingers finally slip into you, and you barely hold back a curse, forgetting whatever inane thought you had before. All you could focus on was the fact that he was finally giving you what you wanted, that he was finally done teasing.

He thrusts his fingers in and out of your pussy, dragging them along your walls and hitting every sensitive spot that you didn’t even realize existed within you.

“For such a shy woman, you make delightful sounds,” He mutters, almost too quiet for you to hear over the heartbeat pounding in your ears. Whether it’s yours or his, you cannot tell.

Quickly, much too quickly, you feel your climax approaching, and any sense of the amount of time you’ve spent at his mercy is lost to you. All you know is that he is touching you in a way that makes you feel like no one has ever made you feel and that you want to reach your peak now.

As it builds, you release a litany of pleas, begging with broken words and fragmented sentences.

You finally finish with a sharp, drawn out and shuddering gasp, his fingers curling into the spot that makes your toes curl, sharply punctuating every ripple of pleasure that your body rides.

And then, just as quickly as it started, it is over.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you turn to face the Cenobite, who looks as unaffected as he had before. He examines his glistening fingers not even looking at you when he tells you to find the Hatch. If you’re stung by his sudden disinterest in you, you don’t show it, opting to add it to the growing mental list of things to think about later.

On shaky legs, you comply with his demand, stealing one last glance back at him as you leave him. You had no idea if this would be a one off occurrence, or if he would regularly find his own way to answer your summons, if he would make good on his statement that he is summoned for those who wish for pleasure and pain.

The only way to find out would be to summon him.

___

ao3 link

#pinhead x reader #pinhead #the cenobite #dead by daylight #hellraiser #lemon tag #request #ask #anon #oneshot #my writing #slasher x reader #I don't consider PH a slasher but eh it's a general label for some #thank you :3 #tumblr keeps trying to correct my spelling to the british spelling and that's Not Correct

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

There was a Girl...

Pairing | Jace Wayland x reader

Summary | When Clary becomes a shadowhunter, she notices how cold and ruthless Jace is. Every one seems to relate to his pain, not resonating at quite the same level. They’re all mourning nevertheless.

Warnings | Mentions of death, brief smut (handjob), angst, heartbreak, unrequited feelings (for Clary)

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Opening your eyes, you awoke to Jace's chest, his blonde hair falling over his face. You preferred how it looked when it was a little bit scruffy instead of slicked back, and you reached for one of the hanging strands. They were like seams of gold, reflecting from the light that hid within him.

Most people had the wrong perspective on the young man, they only saw a well skilled shadow hunter. But they ignored the smart and witty, yet simultaneously charming person that he was underneath all of his runes. His parabatai Alec was familiar with the set of abilities that his brother figure had, and all that he would accomplish. People thought, because of Jace’s distorted, and confusing past, that he was just another warrior to serve whatever institute that he was sent to.

But in fact, he was not. His duty would always be, to put his family and friends first. He liked to put you on the top of the list, but you always felt the need to scrap that idea, claiming that you could not be his priority from start to finish. It was as though you knew what you future held for you, and how indeed, he could not manage to protect every person that he cared about. The prospect was a great responsibility, far too much for one shadow hunter, even if they be among the best of their kind.

To put such a weight on your own shoulders was defiantly cruel, it would always end in failure, no matter what was done to prevent said downfall. There was never a possibility of saving everyone, that was insanity. The monsters had to kill, in order for you all to remain outside of Idris, and continue on with your heaven sent duty.

“Jace?” You could tell he was awake from how he smiled at the sound of your voice. “Come on.” It was an attempt to encourage him, but you were quick to realise that it wasn’t working. He didn’t like mornings all that much, for good reason too, after all you were shadowhunters.

“Jace.” Your voice became louder and clearer, up to the point where it no longer sounded like your own. He looked away from the screen, to see the new girl watching him. She had an expectant glaze to her green eyes, which were much different from the shield that was covering his own. His pools were surrounded by a shadow of grief, pulling down the entirety of his face to the point where it looked as though he no longer wanted to live.

And that wasn’t entirely incorrect, he struggled at life, often never finding a moment of happiness, and if he did, then he would paint a smile upon his face and wear it to satisfy everyone else around. He had tried to cope with the loss that burdened his heart so gravely, yet nothing made it feel okay. You’d want him to move on, whether it be to lose his vengeful esteem concerning your passing, or find someone else to confide in late at night, to stay up with talking as his head rested upon the pillow, that he needed to wash, so it didn’t smell like you.

Or even, if not to share a bed with this new person, your overall plan as you sat with the angels above would be to find some kind of peace. But that appeared to be the last thing that he wanted as he digitally scoured the city of New York for monsters to uncover, and kill. If he couldn’t protect you, the love of his life, then he would settle for doing so with humans, after all, that had been the way that you had gone. The job had been your passion, yet simultaneously your downfall, and he’d be fine if one of these days he failed to tackle a beast, and it got to him first.

“Clary.” He greeted her, wanting to remove a dangerous monster from the streets by decapitating it. In memory, he would use your favourite blade, spilling blood upon its glowing stake to keep your legacy continuing, although, it did not do much but serve to release Jace’s frustrations. It was a day in which he wanted to speak to nobody, have nobody following him, nor asking him mundane questions about what it meant to be a shadowhunter. Hell, he didn’t even know! To him, the lifestyle was nothing more than accommodated anguish, though, he had been told not to promote it using those words, otherwise, there wouldn’t exactly be many people lining up to join the adverse fight.

And one of the people that he had in mind concerning excitement over a dire and ‘exciting’ lifestyle was Clary. She was naive, and whilst she didn’t know everything, today wasn’t particularly the day in which he wished to explain it to her. It, being predominantly anything. Whilst he had managed to be nice to her during the first few days, it was out of courtesy, considering Alec had an instant distaste towards the wide eyed redhead; he wasn’t sure why, but he supposed that Clary could see a detail of himself that was hidden from the others.

However, even through Jace’s welcoming exterior, was in pain. The feeling tormented him, denying him a break from the patronising pressure, leaving him to hold blame to nobody but himself. The hurt was cemented into his eyes, reflecting as he watched all other tragedies with a stone cold expressions, them hardly affecting him, because he had and was experiencing the worst routine of torture that was possible to him. He had watched you die, and nothing could take those horrific memories from him, no matter how much he wanted them gone.

That was the last time that he saw you. When you passed in his arms, a large wound in your abdomen pouring out with blood, drowning his desperate hands as he tried his utmost to put pressure on the life threatening injury. He wanted to save you but he didn’t know how, his training had always claimed that killing the monsters was more important than saving the life of a shadowhunter from an unknown bloodline. There had been nothing to prepare him for that day in the field, he was a fighter, and taught to be so, not a healer; he wasn’t a medic, he was just a warrior. “What do you want?” Blatantly fell from his round lips as he cast an eye towards the newbie, unimpressed by her timing, or her presence at all.

Clearly, she hadn’t received the memo to leave him be, especially today out of all the rest. Alec, having the personalised intel as to why Jace was emitting a solitary rut understood why he wished to be alone, and respected the space, granting him as much time to himself as he wanted. And whilst Alec was your friend also, he could feel the deep longing that was stabbing his parabatai in the chest, and it killed him too. Your death had been so unexpected, and now without you, there was a void within the institute. And the archer felt as though Clary was trying to fill it, and he saw that as nothing more than disrespect, though she was probably ignorant to the history that wandered the halls.

Her face revelled back at his tone, but nevertheless she continued on with her prying. “I was wondering if I could join you on the hunt, I’m getting better, Izzy even said so.” Jace refrained from rolling his eyes, and contained the feeling that was trying to burst out of his chest. It was anger, directed at everyone that was still alive, including himself. There was no fairness in it, to say that he was sad was an understatement, he was eternally devastated, the death of you had broken him, crumbled him into a figure that he no longer recognised.

“No, you can’t Clary.” He dismissed her, walking away, and going to grab his seraph so that he could hunt this sucker down, and bring upon the same kind of pain to its family as its kind had down to him. God, did you look badass as you swung it, and the thought alone had tears resonating in his unmatched eyes, thinking of how it was the last relic that remained of you.

Walking casually into the armoury, Jace had his hands prized in the depths of his pockets, as his expert and quick fleeting eyes focalised on you, and the weapon within your hold. Your body leant in harmony with the blade, the sound of it woosh-img in the air satisfying to all that could hear; that being only you and the Wayland boy.

“Can i not train in peace?” You groaned, lowering the blade whence you realised that you were being watched. The eyes trailed up your side where your shirt had ridden up, raking over the rune that you had drew upon your skin only this morning. A light laugh fell from Jace’s lips as he stalked forward, taking your seraph out of your hand, and going to lob it upon the ground, but the stern look in your eyes stopped him. Instead, against his nature, he placed it down as though it were made of glass, and rose to stand before you once more.

“Not when you look that good.” The blonde retorted with a sly smirk, sliding his hands up the sides of your hips, finding absolute solace in the feel of your skin. He could be against you forever, and he would not complain, so long as it did last for such a time. “Makes me want to do things to you y/n y/l/n. Terrible things. What would the heads think?” He asked, in reference to those that were in charge of the institute.

Stifling down remarked laughter at his sensually intended words, you raised your forefinger to the space above his brows, and poked him with enough pressure, so that he would pay attention to the notion. “That you’re not thinking with your own.” You went to cross your arms, but instead, Jace grabbed them, moving down to cast his hand over your own.

“Oh, I’m not.” The shadowhunter confirmed, placing your hand upon the crotch of his sweats, applying enough force behind his grip so that you could feel him twitching. “I am indeed having thoughts from elsewhere, would you like to see my sweet?” Licking your lips, you nodded, watching as he peeled the layer away, wrapping your hand around his base, and giving him a few jerks, feeling his pulse race through his cock.

“Tell me more about what you’re thinking my love.” You bit your bottom lip, fluttering your eyelashes up at him, only to reverberate a groan from the blonde male. He panted as your pace quickened, and he was almost certain that he was going to spray his jizz all over the floor if you did not uphold your sexual administrations. His head leant back, as pleasured sounds broke through the clenching of his teeth.

And then, it all stopped as a voice, dressed in absolute disgust, written over with unmotivated shock, interrupted your little exchange. “Really guys, this is a gym, not your damned bedroom. The two of you really are disgusting!” It was Alec, and he cringed at the fact that he had seen his best friend’s cock being stroked in your grasp. Yeah, he wasn’t going to be training today, or at least, not in the asserted place for it.

“Clary.” Izzy called her name, wearing a short lived smile. Whence she studied the expression of the redhead, she was quick to pay attention to the disappointment upon her face. There was confusion laddered in her skin, masking it with creased that made her look worried all at the same time. “What happened?” The Lightwood woman asked concerned, bracing a hand upon said girl’s shoulder.

“Jace snapped at me.” The newcomer informed her, frowning at the prospect, and then after all that, he had stormed off, as though she didn’t even matter. She felt well and truly rejected, like a newspaper that had been tossed in the street, and ending up in a horrible puddle. “I thought he might have liked me, but his attitude says otherwise.”

Izzy twitched her nose; she knew what day it was. There was no way to break it to Clary easy that Jace had no amorous emotions towards her, and so instead of being blunt with the new resident at the institute, she decided to tell the woman a story. “There was a girl...” she began, knowing that after all was explained, that Clary would understand.

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jettingtothemoon · 3 years

Note

can we get a part 2 of no looking?

a/n: ask and you shall receive ^-^ (although it admittedly took a little longer than expected)

➳ pairing: tamaki amajiki x f!reader ➳ genre: fluff, smut ➳ warnings: smut, pwp, softness, shy tamaki (duh), cockwarming, a tiny bit of soft biting, boob appreciation/fondling, riding ➳ word count: 1720 ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ summary: In which Tamaki wants to try something out after finally letting you see all of him. ➳ part one

After your first time with Tamaki, the two of you soon fell into a routine of having casual sex. He was still so shy, of course, but after the second time, he had decided that letting you look at him wasn't so bad. He mostly agreed to it because, although he was too shy to admit it, he wanted to look at you too. He wanted to be able to see each and every inch of you but he knew that if he were to do that, he would also need to allow your eyes to wander over him too.

He was so timid when you pulled his shirt up over his head, more so when your hands began to roam over his exposed chest and back. Your fingertips lingered over the dips in his toned muscles, your eyes following your hand as if you had to remember every piece of him because you weren't sure when you would next see it again.

However, it was when he was sat before you, completely naked and exposed, that his eyes truly struggled to meet yours. He was so insecure but his body was amazing and the more you told him that, the easier it became for him to look at you without constantly trying to avoid your eyes.

He didn't like being naked alone, you'd noticed that and made a habit of making sure that your clothes were always off before his. You could see it in his eyes, feel it from the way he relaxed the tension in his limbs, that he felt more comfortable when you were just as exposed as he was.

Tamaki had made a habit of hiding his head in your shoulder to avoid looking you in the eye, although you only found it all the more adorable.

When it came to the actual sex, he also preferred to do it under the cover of your blankets. It was almost as if he was afraid someone would come in, which, when you thought about it, was a real possibility. I mean, you had a lock on your door and so did he, but that wasn't an issue for Mirio, who was not only Tamaki's best friend but also a very close friend of yours too. It wasn't strange for him to come into your room to talk or hang out and it wasn't like a lock would stop him from coming in.

Then again, you were almost certain that he knew when the two of you were together and, even if he didn't quite know to what extent you were together, he seemed to be good at knowing when to leave you alone.

Tonight was just another one of those nights where you were alone together, although it seemed as though you were only going to sleep today. Well, or so you thought.

"Can we try it?" Tamaki asked whilst snuggling into you a little more.

"Try what? Cock warming?" You spoke blatantly, knowing it would only fluster him.

Of course, you knew what it was that he wanted to try. He hadn't stopped asking about it since the first time you ever had sex. Although it was more just him subtly bringing it up than actually being persistent about it.

He didn't want to pull out the first time and hadn't wanted to pull out right away any of the times since either. You had told him you were too tired when he asked, although to be honest it wasn't like it would take all that much energy out of you to let him stay inside. Only, after sex, it was uncomfortable and somewhat sticky so you just wanted to clean up and then go to bed. Now, however, was the perfect time to give it a go.

He nodded ever so slightly, hiding his blushing face in your neck as he cuddled you from behind. You could already feel him having a reaction down there simply from hearing you say the words aloud.

"P-Please?"

His voice was full of doubt and hesitation as you had never really voiced your thoughts on it so he didn't know if you had been purposely avoiding it or not. Not to mention, he was still very, very shy when it came to asking you for anything.

You smiled and reached a hand up to ruffle his hair. "Okay, we can try it."

His head shot up from where it was against your shoulder and he stuttered again, "R- Really?"

Turning over onto your other side so that you could see him better even in the surrounding darkness of the room, you nodded and cupped his cheek.

"Really."

Offering an extra layer of reassurance, you softly pressed your lips to his before turning back over so that he was behind you again. Tamaki rolled over to get a condom whilst you wiggled out of your pyjama bottoms, kicking them out from under the blankets and onto the floor.

You heard him tear open the packaging and roll on the condom carefully before he was back by your side again. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you close as he pushed his nose into your hair, smelling the sweet scent of your shampoo. His other hand reached down between the two of you so that he could angle himself before slowly pushing into you.

He groaned as he entered you and had to close his eyes to focus, ignoring his urge to rut into you. Likewise, you blessed his ears with a quiet moan before adjusting to the feeling. He was warm and rock solid.

You were worried that he wouldn't be able to calm down but, after a moment, he began to relax a little.

"So... is it... nice?" You asked, unsure of what exactly he was expecting from this kind of thing but, when he hummed and pressed a tender kiss to your neck, you knew he was happy.

You smiled to yourself and laced your hand with his, pulling them to your chest. The both of you were half-dressed, only your lower regions exposed as you lied quietly in each other's embrace. However, only a few moments passed by before his mind started to wander to other things.

It was obvious from the way his lips lingered, brushing against your neck as he gently tugged at your pyjamas to expose your shoulder, that he was already wanting something more.

"y/n..." His voice was drawn out, dripping like honey from his lips as he spoke your name.

You hummed and he pressed another kiss to your shoulder, pulling out of you slightly only to softly push back in.

"Tama." With a voice laced in silk, you pulled his arm away from you and moved away. The emptiness you felt the moment he was no longer inside you almost had you settling back into his arms again. However, you had other plans.

Noting his timid expression, you sweetly pushed him onto his back and climbed into his lap, lining yourself up with him again before sinking back down.

When he sat up, arms wrapping around your back to hold you close, you leaned forwards and tugged his bottom lip between your teeth.

"So much for that," you chuckled.

Tamaki simply hummed and captured your lips with his own again, allowing you to set the pace as you began to move your hips against him. Your hands began to roam under his shirt, but you dared not pull it off until you had rid yourself of your own. He helped you, bashfully burying his head into your chest when you were bare before him.

You ran your hands down his arms to his hands, which had settled against your waist, and pulled them away. It was his turn now and, although shy, he obediently tugged off the remainder of his clothes.

As soon as his shirt was gone, the red that painted the corners of his cheeks and tips of his ears darkened. He was so cute that you couldn't help but press a gentle kiss against his nose. He leaned into your lips as you pulled away, kissing you tenderly before focusing his attention on your collarbone.

He liked to have his lips on you, muffling his own quiet sounds but also allowing yours to grace his ears.

His mouth moved lower as you arched your back, feeling him reaching deep within you, and his teeth were soon teasing your nipple. He tugged at it slightly, bringing the sweetest pleasure as his tongue occasionally tapped against it while it was trapped between his teeth. He smiled against you when your moans grew ever so slightly in pitch and let go only to press long, sweet kisses along your breasts.

One hand remained wrapped around you as you rode him while the other began to grope and fondle at your other breast.

It was something you had noticed recently. He was still shy about it, but even when you weren't having sex he liked to touch and hold your breasts. You would be cuddling in bed and his hand would slowly move closer and closer until he had one of your breasts in hand. When you asked him about it, his cheeks flushed and he moved his hand away immediately as if he hadn't realised it was there in the first place.

Of course, you were not expecting that sort of reaction and were quick to grab his hand and put it back where it had been, saying that you weren't telling him not to do it. With a shy smile, he explained that they were just so soft and warm, comforting to him. It was adorable, of course, and he had certainly made a habit of holding your breasts whenever he had the chance.

"I'm close, so close."

With those words, he kissed you again, deeper than before, and began to rut his hips up into you along with your rhythm. the pace increased as his hand went down to where you were connected, rubbing patient circles into your most sensitive area to push you closer to your climax.

As your walls tightened around him, he pushed up into you a final few times before coming right along with you. The pair of you rode out your orgasm before stilling, foreheads pressed together as you regained your breath.

#tamaki x reader #tamaki smut #tamaki bnha #tamaki fluff #bnha tamaki #bnha #bnha fanfiction #my hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #request #smut #fluff

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rainingpouringetc · 3 years

Text

but god i want to feel again

written for alastair pain day 2021 (even though it’s two days late) title from ‘touch’ by sleeping at last, which i listened to on repeat while writing

tw for brief implied period-typical racism, abuse, alcoholism, bullying, toxic relationships

read on ao3

all i want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed.

invisible machinery, these moving parts inside of me well, they’ve been shutting down for quite some time, leaving only rust behind.

well i know, i know- the sirens sound just before the walls come down. pain is a well-intentioned weatherman predicting God as best he can, but God i want to feel again, oh God i want to feel again.

~‘touch’ sleeping at last

---

Alastair rolled his shoulders back. He’d done this a hundred times before. It never got easier.

“Come on, now, Baba,” he groaned, lifting his father’s arm across his shoulder. Elias mumbled something incoherent and drooped further, stumbling over his own feet as he was dragged over the cobblestones. “Time to go home,” Alastair murmured, silently tallying how many times he had taken this exact route from this exact tavern in just the past month.

Twelve years old and he knew the location of every pub in every city he’d ever lived.

Their house was visible just up ahead—the third they’d lived in this year. Alastair noted that all the lights were out and thanked whatever god was listening. He couldn’t deal with redirecting Cordelia’s questions on top of getting his father cleaned up. Tonight was already draining enough.

He managed to get Elias up the steps and into the washroom with less trouble than usual, a sign that his father was perhaps more lucid than he’d originally believed. The clock on the mantle had read just past midnight—perhaps he was just tired as well.

“‘M fine, ‘m fine,” Elias slurred as Alastair attempted to wipe his damp forehead with a wet cloth, pushing his son’s hand away.

Alastair huffed and set the cloth aside before turning to rummage through the cabinet for a glass. They always kept a glass in the washroom for times like this. He filled it halfway and offered it to his father. When Elias only glared at it, slumping down on the seat and leaning heavily on the wall, Alastair held the glass to his lips and tipped it back, forcing him to drink.

When he pulled the glass back—his father having blessedly drunk it all without much of a fight—Elias stood abruptly. He was still quite drunk and thus swayed on his feet for several long moments. Alastair leaped forward to steady him, but was immediately pushed away with all the force of a heroic—however disgraced—Shadowhunter.

Alastair hit the wall hard and gasped as the breath whooshed out of him. His head spun—had he hit it? He must have—and his vision blackened at the edges. Elias was still struggling to keep himself upright. Alastair watched as he took a step and immediately crumpled to the ground. He stumbled forward yet again, trying to help, wanting to help, but his father cried out and Alastair froze in place. The last thing he needed was his mother—or, worse, his sister—hearing the noise and coming to investigate.

Alastair looked down and realized that at some point he’d dropped the glass. It had shattered on the floor. Head still spinning, he bent down to try to gather it together, instantly cutting his hands. He inhaled sharply, ignoring the pain and sweeping the remains into a small pile in the corner. He could ask Risa for helping taking it out in the morning.

His hand was bleeding rather substantially, blood running over the Voyance rune on the back. The only Mark he had.

“Are you alright, Baba?” he asked quietly, careful not to speak loud enough to agitate his father’s headache.

“‘M fine,” Elias repeated. “Go to bed, Alastair. I’ll be just fine on my own.”

Alastair didn’t believe it for a second. He stood and carefully maneuvered his father’s arm around his shoulders again. He couldn’t risk taking him up the stairs—Elias might fall, or someone might hear. There was a small room just down the hallway that Alastair had left his father in on numerous occasions to sleep off a hangover. It seemed tonight would be another one.

He shouldered the door open and deposited his father on the couch, making sure to leave him on his side and support his head with a few pillows. He knew he shouldn’t leave his father alone. Something could happen, and if Elias died because he suffocated on his own vomit there would be no one to blame but Alastair and his selfishness. But his hands were throbbing now, and his stele was upstairs in his room. He took the stairs two at time, skipping the ones that creaked the most, and shut the door gently behind him.

As soon as it was closed, Alastair slumped down against it, trying to steady his breathing. In, hold. Out, hold. In, hold. Out, hold. Over and over until the spinning stopped, until he could think again.

His stele was on his desk. His mother had given it to him last year, claiming it was a birthday present. Alastair knew it was because she’d spotted the bruises on his arms.

For a moment, Alastair considered leaving the cuts be. They would scar if he did, and it would hurt until then. But Alastair would revel in the pain, in the ability to feel something—anything—besides dull fear and numbness. It was the direction he knew he was heading towards. If he allowed it to consume him—

No. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t let it change him.

Carefully, Alastair picked up the stele. It stung where it pressed against his cuts. He traced an iratze flawlessly and held his hand away to survey his work.

Practice makes perfect, he thought wryly.

---

Alastair sat almost fully turned around in his seat on the carriage, watching as Cirenworth disappeared into the distance. Cordelia, who had run behind them down the lane, struggling to keep up, had long since faded into nothingness.

“Turn front or you’ll fall off the moment we hit a bump,” Elias snapped from beside him. Alastair did as he was told, stubbornly looking anywhere but at his father.

Alastair did not understand why his father had insisted on seeing him to the Academy. Alone. There would be no one to make sure he returned in one piece, no one to steer him away from welcoming taverns or haul him out of a pub before he drank himself to death.

But for once, Alastair found he didn’t particularly care. He was going to the Academy, and his father’s health would no longer be his primary concern—his primary burden. He would be around children his own age. He would have a chance to finally—finally—make friends.

It was much more exciting and nerve wracking than he’d expected.

Cordelia had Lucie, a fact that Alastair was endlessly grateful for. But he was all alone. Cordelia could hardly count as a friend. She was his sister, after all, and therefore obligated to tolerate him, yes, but also to tease him at every available opportunity.

This was something he couldn’t risk messing up. He needed this. He was more desperate than he wished to admit.

Alastair spent the remainder of the journey in silence, shutting down all of his father’s attempts at conversation with a stoic nod or by blatantly ignoring him. It wasn’t his favorite method, but he truly could not deal with his father making him more nervous than he already was.

When they finally arrived at the Academy, Alastair’s stomach was a jumbled mess of nerves and whatever he’d eaten for breakfast—he couldn’t even remember at this point. He was too busy praying his father would leave before he could embarrass Alastair.

The universe wouldn’t give him a break, though.

Elias clapped his son on the shoulder and insisted on helping carry his bags up to the dorms. He nearly slipped on the stairs four times. He dropped the bags twice. Alastair wanted to crawl into a hole by the time they arrived. His roommate was nowhere to be seen—likely they hadn’t arrived yet—so Alastair went to stand beside the bed nearest the window. His father dropped the bags to the floor beside the other bed.

“No, Father, this one,” he said, pointing.

Elias blinked at him. “This bed is closer to the door,” he told Alastair, speaking slowly as if the implications should be obvious.

“I know. I just—I want the one closer to the window is all,” Alastair stammered, face hot. What did it matter? In a minute his father would leave and he could take whichever bed he liked most.

“Closer to the door is safer,” Elias insisted, sitting down on the bed and folding his hands together.

Alastair simply nodded, trying to play along. He might’ve gotten away with it, too, if the door hadn’t burst open at just that moment, revealing a slightly disheveled looking boy. Alastair assumed this was to be his roommate then.

“You’ve chosen your bed already then?” the boy said without preamble, nodding to where Alastair’s bags were sitting next to his father.

“He has,” Elias answered.

The boy nodded and swung his bags up to rest on the bed next to the window. Alastair swallowed thickly and said, “Thank you for your help, Father, but I think I’m alright now.”

Elias grinned. “Of course you are. I’ll be on my way then.” He stood and strode to the door, turning to say, “Goodbye, Alastair joon.” He disappeared into the stairwell.

Alastair turned to his roommate to find the boy was staring at him. “What was that he called you?” the boy questioned a bit rudely.

“Joon?” The boy nodded. “It’s Persian,” Alastair said hesitantly. “It’s just—something you call people you care about.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “That’s weird.” Alastair flushed. Before he could defend himself, the boy stuck out a hand. “Piers Wentworth.”

Alastair took his hand. “Alastair Carstairs.”

Piers’ eyes widened. “Carstairs? As in—was that Elias Carstairs?”

Alastair nodded, confused at his tone. “He’s my father.”

“Your father?” Alastair nodded again. Piers dropped his hand. “I heard he spends most of his time at the bottom of a bottle.”

Before Alastair could process the words fully, Piers pushed past him and was gone from their room. When the words hit him, Alastair picked up the first thing he could find—a volume of poetry from his bag—and threw it as hard as he could at the wall.

---

Alastair wasn’t sure when he started to become numb. He thought it might’ve been sometime during winter, when Augustus Pounceby kicked him down the stairs and he broke two ribs. Or perhaps it was after that, when Piers locked him out of their room overnight and he slept curled up in an alcove, waking to find Augustus and his friends crowded around him, laughing.

All he knew was that it was a slap in the face the first time he heard his sister’s name come out of one of their mouths. It was Augustus who had said it—said something so awful Alastair’s mind had blocked it out immediately. All he registered was Cordelia and danger.

That was the last straw.

He’d grown used to their abuse, to their snide comments and kicks and punches, but if there was one thing that could snap him out of this it was his determination to protect his sister. She was too young, too kind, for this. He wasn’t too numb not to protect her a bit longer.

The next day when Augustus and his gang cornered Alastair again, he made sure there was a clear sight of some of the dregs—the mundane students. Alastair had tried to befriend them as well. They had turned him away, exclaiming that they didn’t realize they allowed people like him in the school. What should he care if a few of them were hurt to save himself and his sister?

The moment Augustus looked like he was going to make his move, Alastair made his, raining down insult after witty insult on the small group of dregs watching on. Augustus stared at him in surprise, then burst into laughter, even joining in once he regained his balance. Piers was there too, and Clive—soon enough the whole lot of them had turned their attention from Alastair and were focused solely on those poor mundanes.

It happened again, and again. Soon enough, Augustus and his friends weren’t seeking Alastair out to kick him around—they were seeking him out for help in their own schemes.

Is this who I’ve become? Alastair wondered faintly as Clive pulled him along down a corridor, speaking rapidly about a prank they were going to play on a few of the girls.

The numbness began to creep back in, diluting the anger and pain of which he’d long been so afraid.

---

Things were different, certainly, when Alastair returned from the Academy. Cordelia managed to pry some of it out of him, but he couldn’t allow her to see the full picture. That would mean telling her about their father’s drinking, and even he wasn’t so selfish as to tell her that yet.

The years passed, and Alastair allowed that numb shell to solidify and thicken, dampening the swirling mass of indignation and heartbreak that lay beneath.

And then he met Charles Fairchild.

Or, really, he met Charles again. They had seen each other—talked, even—at various Shadowhunter functions whenever the Carstairs were near London or whenever the Fairchilds were traveling to an Institute near them. Alastair had always picked Charles out effortlessly at such events, with his slicked back red hair and piercing green eyes.

Alastair knew better than to pretend he did not find Charles attractive. It had been no secret to himself that he preferred men—he’d known it since before the Academy, really. But it also wasn’t as if he’d had any opportunity to act on it.

So, when he was sixteen and in Paris for a few months, when he saw Charles again and the man dropped one too many thinly veiled hints, Alastair allowed himself to be swept away by the romance of it all—the mystery and charm and utter newness that came with Charles and all he represented.

It was wonderful those first months. Perhaps not what Alastair had expected. He supposed he hadn’t thought there would be quite so many rules, but Charles was very insistent. No one could suspect a thing. It was exhilarating.

Until it wasn’t.

He didn’t know when, exactly, it shifted from exciting and new to tedious and tense. Perhaps it was when Charles became engaged to Ariadne. Perhaps it was after the first dozen or so broken promises. Perhaps it was when Alastair realized a life with Charles was a life with doors shut and curtains drawn.

But who was he to complain? That was life, wasn’t it? Few people in the world were lucky enough to have a perfect whirlwind romance, and those who did often left others in the dust.

And Charles liked Alastair, had told him he loved him. He smiled at Alastair and didn’t act like he was a waste of space.

So while that numb shell stayed firmly in place to keep everyone else away, Alastair propped open a back door for Charles to come and go in his life as he pleased.

They didn’t see each other as often as Alastair would have liked, and when they were apart they didn’t risk sending letters—“Letters can be intercepted! Opened and read without your consent,” Charles had explained—but that didn’t stop Alastair from dreaming of a time when they could be together without the strings of society attached.

He dreamed of a time when he could feel again.

So he let the little things slide. When Charles and Ariadne didn’t split up when Charles had said they would, Alastair just said, “Next time.” When Charles chose Clave meeting after Clave meeting over Alastair, Alastair simply attended the meetings himself for a chance to see Charles.

And when Charles pushed him away at every oncoming footstep, every creak of the floorboard, Alastair pretended not to see the fear and shame in his eyes.

---

Alastair decided that Thomas Lightwood was the single most lovely person to have ever existed on the planet.

He also decided that he must be loopy from the exhaustion of the day because he’d never been prone to such sickeningly sweet thoughts before.

But he couldn’t deny it either. There was something in the way he wore his heart on his sleeve that made Thomas so approachable, so loveable.

Alastair found himself wishing he could bottle up this whole day and carry it around with him wherever he went. This whole murder trial business was far more bearable with Thomas there with him.

And yet—all good things must come to an end. Alastair knew it, perhaps better than anyone. And this… this was too good a thing to last very long.

Alastair did not wish to hurt Thomas. Thomas was good and kind and all the things Alastair never had been. Beyond all possible expectations, Thomas had entered the small group of people for which Alastair would do anything.

Even if it meant pushing him away.

Thomas was grieving. Alastair knew that. He knew that it was messing with Thomas’ head, making him act more recklessly and crave things that were bad for him. Alastair didn’t want to be bad for Tom—he wanted desperately to be good for him. But that couldn’t happen until things changed.

If they ever did.

If anyone would ever be willing to step forward and claim their feelings for him without fearing embarrassment or shame. If anyone would ever be willing to open the door for him and let him step out into the light.

At this point it was almost second nature to pull away from his touch, turn his eyes down and let the lies roll off his tongue. If he closed his eyes, he could almost ignore the sound of his own heart cracking.

As he strode away from him—from that single loveliest person to have ever existed—Alastair wondered if this would do it, if this would be the thing to push him over the edge and break something in him that couldn’t be fixed.

He could feel it—feel the gears inside him grinding to a halt and shutting down. Soon there would be nothing but rust left behind, and he would be blown away by the wind.

[tags - @littlx-songbxrd @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @barbra-lightwood @lifewouldbebetteronmars @imherongraystairstrash @itsdaughterofthemoon @stxr-thxif @knifescythe @axoloteca ; i just used my standard taglist, sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged <3]

#tumblr doesn't copy italics so i prob missed some lol #if u read it on ao3 it'll be better tho #alastair pain day 2021 #alastair carstairs #charles (derogatory)#i love that tag #elias (derogatory)#ooh that one too #the last hours #coi spoilers #tlh fanfic #artie tries to write #tlh

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wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Real Life Tasks With Ransom Drysdale

An Advent Calendar of 24 Normal Human Tasks As Performed By A Huge Man Baby. Day 24: That’s A Wrap

Warnings: Bad Language words

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: And here we are, the final instalment of our Ransom advent. I have had an absolute ball writing these, although this one was a struggle as I’m a little down at the moment about my other blog and losing all my previous works. However, it’s Christmas Eve so I’ve got some prosecco, gingerbread and I’m ready for Santa.

Huge thank you to @sweater-daddiesdumbdork and @ohthankevans13 for their amazing chapters to, and thank you all for reading.

Merry Christmas everyone.

The credits to National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation started, signalling the end to the film and you stretched and looked at Ransom, grinning.

“That was nothing like what happened to me with the lights.” He drawled as he turned his head to look at you, blue eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re lying to yourself, Ran.” You shrugged with a giggle. “You know, I think Hugh Griswold has a ring to it.”

“Eat shit, Y/N”

At that you laughed and swung your legs down to the floor from where they has been resting over his as you lay on the couch. “Think I’m gonna take a bath and get in my new jammies.”

“What’s the point?” Ransom turned to you. “I’m only going to strip you out of them later.”

You completely ignored his suggestive comment, because really, who were you trying to kid? It was as much a forgone conclusion he’d have you naked and crying his name later that evening, as it was that he was going to end up arguing with his parents over dinner tomorrow. Yeah, that wasn’t exactly something you were looking forward to but thankfully your parents were going to be there to help you play peacemaker.

“The point, dearest hubs of mine, is that it’s Christmas Eve and it’s a tradition as you well know that we get new jammies.”

“Mine better be tasteful.” Ransom looked at you and at that you simply shrugged and stood up. “I’ll call you if I get stuck in the tub.”

“How long you gonna be?” Ransom asked

“Does it matter?”

“In a word, yes. I need to wrap your presents.”

You blinked and then snorted “I thought after last year you were going to use a gift wrapping service at the Mall?”

“I did for some.” He shrugged. “But there’s a something that only arrived yesterday and-“

“I knew it!” You shook your head. “That package was for me!”

“No, it was for me. To give to you. Now go, piss off for your bath.” *****

Once you were out of the way Ransom, knowing you would be at least an hour, grabbed himself a scotch and sat down in the living room, flicking through some news from the Country Club about the New Year’s Eve gala, and a few other emails on his phone. Once he had finished, he refilled his glass and headed to the spare room where he had hidden your gifts in a locked suitcase. You were a pain in the ass for finding them and then trying to pick at the corners to see what they were and after last year, when you’d totally ruined the surprise of the new pair of Louboutins he had spent ages agonising over, not to mention the fact you’d blatantly been expecting the La Perle bra and panties, nor were you overly surprised at the three piece Louis Vuitton luggage set.

Nope, he was taking no chances. He was excited this year, too. He’d bought you a gorgeous Tiffany necklace and bangle set, one you’d been eyeing up in the Mall a few months back, along with some high end make up only available in two stores in the entire of Boston, a huge bottle of Chanel perfume and a stupidly expensive espresso machine which had caught his eye. It matched the colour scheme in your kitchen and eliminated the need for stupid filter papers as it operated off pods and he’d even had a demonstration from the spotty assed teenager in the shop so he was perfectly geared up and fully aware of how to use it. But all that was wrapped already, it was what had arrived yesterday that he was most excited about. It was an order all the way from a little tea shop in Covent Garden you had dragged him to earlier in the year, on the trip to London during which you had fallen pregnant. It was a custom made wooden box full of specialists teas which, try as you might, you had failed to find anywhere back home once you had run out of the ones you had bought back with you. Yup, He’d come a long way from the days of buying you crotch-less underwear, sex toys and lube. Making his way back into the living room he placed the gift wrapped items under the tree and then grabbed the sheets of paper, tape and scissors and dropped onto the floor by the fire. Some other shitty movie was playing on the TV now so he changed the channel over to a replay of the Christmas Special for the Great British Baking Show that you’d gotten him hooked on, before tossing the remote aside. Placing the box on the paper he began to wrap. It should have been easy. It was a fucking box but after four attempts the only think he’d managed to wrap were his fingers together with tape about sixty times and the box was no closer to being wrapped than before. In a huge bout of frustration he grabbed the paper, scrunched it round the box and taped round it about twenty times. It looked like it had been wrapped by Edward Scissorhands during an epileptic fit, but whatever. With a final groan of frustration he tossed the box under the tree, and then frowned as the TV turned off. Ransom glanced round for the remote but it was nowhere to be found. Cursing he stood up, checked behind all the cushions and even retraced his steps through the house but nothing. “For fucks sake!” He growled, hands on his hips as he stared round the living room. He had definitely had it before as he changed that shitty movie off before he wrapped... Oh, hell no! “Fuck my mother fucking life!” He spat out as he stalked towards the package he had just tossed under the tree and grabbed it. ***** By the time you came back downstairs Ransom was lounging back on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table, drink in hand. He looked up at you and snorted, taking in your fluffy Christmas themed Mini-Mouse pyjamas as they stretched over your now rather huge bump. “Do you want a drink or something, Princess?” “Erm, you know, I think I’ll grab a chamomile tea.” You nodded after a while and Ransom smiled and stood up. “I got something for you.” You snorted. “I’m not falling for that again.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean my dick, Y/N.” He took your hand and led you to the kitchen where you spotted a shiny, deep brown box. Frowning you looked at your husband before you walked over to it and gave a gasp when you saw the Nelson and Norfolk Tea Company logo carved into the wood. “How did you get these?” You managed to stutter as you opened the clasp and pulled up the lid to reveal four rows which were then split further into three, each square of different flavoured, individually packed tea bags, lined with a deep purple velvet. “You know how. I had them shipped over.” “Ransom, these...” You struggled for words as you turned to face him, blinking back the tears that had sprung forth from his thoughtfulness. “I love them, thank you.” “You’re welcome, baby.” He smiled genuinely as you moved and wrapped your arms around him and stood on your toes to give him a soft kiss. “Wait.” You cocked your head as you pulled away. “Were you wrapping these?”

“Yup.” He nodded “But I had an incident involving the remote and no spare paper so you get them tonight instead.” You gave a chuckle. “Just another in a long list of real life tasks you have taken on and spectacularly failed at, huh?” “Hey, some of them I’ve managed.” He huffed and you smiled, running your hand up through his hair. “I know, and I never said this before but I’m so touched you actually tried, even when you failed, it shows you care.” “Of course I care.” His face grew serious as he looked at you. “You’re my wife and you’re carrying my kid. I’ll always care about you both, Y/N, even if I’m not the best at showing it.” “You show it in your own way.” You smiled gently, leaning up to kiss him again. “Merry Christmas, Ransom.” “Merry Christmas, baby girl.” He smiled, his lips capturing yours in a deep kiss, both of you stood in the kitchen as the snow fell outside. He might be a huge man baby, but he’s your huge man baby. And you wouldn’t change him for the world

#real life tasks with ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale fic #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader

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y0itsbri · 3 years

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it's just a fuckin' dresser, man

To ease the pain of a Shameless-less Sunday, I wrote my first one-shot about Ian and Mickey building furniture together for their new apartment <3

word count: 1282

Mickey and Ian were finally settling into their new apartment. They had the space, sure, but no one told Mickey that picking out furniture was a lot more fucking work than he thought it would be. Wherever Mickey lived, things were already just there. Whether it be his childhood bedroom, which was practically all hand me downs from Iggy and Colin after they escaped the house, the standard juvie set, or any of the rooms in the Gallagher house, previously inhabited by god knows how many fucking Gallaghers before him. Mickey wasn’t used to owning things. But lately, Mickey was experiencing a lot of new things he never thought he would have.

After a quick trip to IKEA with only minimal arguments, “Really, Gallagher, that shit looks like it belongs at a free clinic – and that ain’t a compliment.” “Mickey, what the fuck, we’re supposed to be picking out a lamp, not scarfing down an entire plate of meatballs.” Mickey had absolutely zero regrets about the meatballs and would absolutely be going back solely for those bad boys.

Now assembling the dresser looked like a goddamn nightmare. After a few moments of bickering over who was doing what, Ian took a step back and let Mickey try his hand at putting together the fucking thing while Ian was just hovering only a couple feet away.

Ian’s face scrunched up as he rifled through a thick stack of papers next to their massive stack of empty boxes next to the door to take outside whenever they got around to it.

Mickey glanced up from the small metal tools in his hands and noticed Ian’s confused furrowed expression. He allowed himself to admire how cute his husband was for a brief moment before schooling his own creeping smirk. “What’s up, man?” He asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

There was a too-long pause as Ian continued to study the piece of paper in his hands, flipping it over and upside down. Mickey wasn’t even expecting a response when Ian finally said, “I think we got a defective manual. None of these instructions are in fucking English.” He mumbled a bit in broken French and German before it got too much to bear.

Mickey snickered at his husband’s lame attempts to translate. “Who the fuck cares? I got this shit anyways.”

Ian twitched his head to the side and didn’t even try to stop his eyes from rolling up to the ceiling as if to say, Yeah, okay Mick.

Whatever, maybe it has been a half hour of seemingly little to no progress, but Milkoviches don’t need to read instruction to get shit done, goddamn-it. Hell, Mickey wasn’t even sure half his family knew how to fucking read.

Ian continued murmuring anyways as he scanned the page. His voice perked up with realization, “Ah hold up, introducir dos bloqueos cam en el panel central. Asegúrese de que la flecha de la leva esté apuntando al borde corto.”

Although Mickey was damned to listen to the instructions against his will, he couldn’t help but find Ian endearing. The guy was slow, but his pronunciation wasn’t the worst. Maybe he’d taken that shit in high school or something. Mickey recalled his own struggles learning Spanish in Mexico, and he wondered how well Ian would have been able to keep up if he didn’t disappear once they had finally reached the border. Whatever. Mickey pushed that thought aside. That part of his life was long over, even if he still carried the ink in his skin in the form of Lado sur siempre.

Despite his best efforts to blatantly ignore the instructions and figure it out his damn self, it’s just a dresser for Christ’s sake, Mickey found himself understanding most of the directions in Spanish, even if it was some corporate Swedish based bullshit from people who’ve never actually had to build one of their own goddamn dressers a day in their life. Mickey only sort of understood what a couple of the tools were for and tried to use those for everything, feigning confidence of some secret building skills.

Ian paused his readings to take a sip from his vanilla Coke sitting on the floor next to them, and Mickey paused unconsciously as well, too in synch with Ian than he would care to admit. He quickly continued, hoping that Ian wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he did, in fact, need the instructions. Of course, nothing got past the sly bastard and Ian smirked at him.

“Oh, so you got this all by yourself, right Mick?” Mickey could have sworn he saw Ian’s eyes fucking twinkle as he teased him.

Mickey promptly flipped him off without looking up, feeling the blush creep up on his cheeks at the idea of being caught, “You can just shut the fuck up man.”

Miraculously, for once, Ian didn’t continue, studying Mickey’s moves with a growing intensity as Mickey’s attempts at connecting the drawers were becoming more and more apparently clueless. Ian was waiting for him to crack and finally admit he needed help. Ian was prepared to wait for however long his stubborn husband decided to take.

“’ey,” Mickey mumbled, working himself up as his progress was stunted.

“Yeah?” Ian asked, pretending to have no idea what Mickey could possibly be ‘ey-ing him about.

“If you wanted to, uh, keep reading and practice your stupid Spanish, I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Yeah, okay sure Mick,” Ian triumphed. Their communication skills have definitely improved over the past few months, and even when they weren’t direct, they just got each other.

Mickey wouldn’t accept his defeat this easy and made another feeble attempt to play off his true motives. He cleared his throat and rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip, “You just sound like a fucking gringo, man.”

Ian shook his head, obviously not accepting Mickey’s excuses. But hell, his Spanish did need some practice. He plopped onto the bed beside Mickey and held up the instruction manual dramatically, the pages making a thwumping sound as it bent with the air. He continued, “Coloque y fije el lado inferior izquierdo del cajón y el lado inferior derecho del cajón utilizando tornillos de cuatro de una pulgada.”

Despite understanding most of the instructions, Mickey bullshitted his way through it and ended up with a handful of leftover parts on the floor in front of him.

Ian leaned over and glanced at the small pile, “Huh, they must not be that important.”

Mickey lightly punched him in the arm but settled next to Ian on the bed, “Oh whatever I told you I got this.”

Ian frowned and rubbed over the sore spot on his arm before throwing his heavy arm around Mickey’s shoulder, admiring the finished product, “This is perfect.”

As much as Mickey wanted to grumble about all this fucking work, he couldn’t help but feel proud of himself. It looked like a damn dresser that’s for sure. Their dresser in their room in their apartment, as husbands. He never imagined he would have all of this. He decided that he would read a thousand fucking instruction manuals if it meant he could spend the rest of his life with the dumbass ginger hanging off of him. He shifted his weight so that he was leaning into Ian’s side a bit more.

“It’s just a fuckin' dresser, man,” Mickey practically breathed the words against Ian’s tee shirt, his tone completely reflecting how he was feeling underneath the harsh words.

Mickey felt Ian press a gentle kiss onto the top of his head. But yeah, it wasn’t just a fucking dresser. They were building their life together.

#this is the first thing ive written #if it sucks look away #my posts #fic #shameless #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #gallavich fanfic #shameless fanfic

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wordsfromthesol · 4 years

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Just A Facade (1/2)

Author: @wordsfromthesol Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: Dick is very confused that his brothers seem to all be getting along with you, and worse…wanting to help you. And wait…were you dating his brother?! Warnings: Violence, getting shot, cursing Word Count: 2.2k Taglist: @zphilophobiaz @anousiemay @malfoys-demigod @pricetagofficial

“What do you mean we are working with Y/N?” Dick questioned his brother.

“It’s her case, she needs back-up.” Jason simply stated.

“She tried to kill me last week!”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I have no problem with her, what’s the case?” Tim chimed in.

“I’m glad you asked, replacement.” Tim rolled his eyes at Jason’s nickname. “But I’m going to let her explain it. Be here tomorrow, 10am.”

“She has not entrusted you with the information, has she?” Damian grunted out.

Jason swiftly punched him in the arm, “Shut up demon.”

“Did no one hear me?! She tried to kill me last week! Why are we helping her?” Dick attempted to plead his case once again.

“Can you really blame her though…” Jason reasoned as he turned to walk away, Tim and Damian following closely behind. Dick was left dumbfounded at the table.

10 am rolled around quickly for boys that spent all night patrolling, but they all sat at the table holding back yawns when you sauntered through the door.

“Hello boys, good to see you all.” You sent a knowing smirk Dick’s way. Before any of them could reply you continued, “So here’s the deal. Kids have been going missing.” You slid a file over towards Tim. “I need you to find the pattern.” Your voice wavered on the last syllable. In one second your demeanor completely changed as you accidentally let the façade drip away. “They’re just kids and someone is taking them, but no one seems to care.” You closed your eyes, as you caught your mistake. Taking a breath, your persona slowly morphed back into that which you had carefully constructed. “They don’t have the same birthdays, none of them seem to be from the same socioeconomic class…I could list the differences for days. I found two things connecting them: one, they’re all 12 years old, two, their guardians don’t notice or simply don’t care.”

“Well, they all have different zodiac signs. Someone could be trying to collect them all.” Tim blurted out as he continued to scan the pages.

“I didn’t notice that…” your voice went somber. Maybe if I had, one less kid would be missing…You shook yourself back into character. “Guess that’s why I came here. Anyways, four kids have been taken so far. I circled the most likely locations where they went missing. I count four little birdies, so I was thinking you could each hit a scene. Find something I missed.”

“And that leaves you where?” Dick questioned your intentions.

“I’m going to stay here and review the file, that computer there has more resources than mine.” You stated blatantly while pointing at the large monitor across the room.

“You, stay in the cave, alone…I don’t think so.”

“Ask Alfred to come babysit then. I’ve been to those scenes a dozen times.” You sucked in a breath, attempting to hide your sorrow and frustration. “I’m more useful here.”

“Lighten up Dickie, she’s been alone here dozens of times.” Jason taunted his older brother as he gave him a quick jab to the side.

“SHE’S WHAT?!” This caused an eruption of laughter in everyone…except Dick.

“Come on Dick, we’ll have more luck while it’s light out. Let’s go.” Tim composed himself and tried to ease the situation. “We’ll let you know if we find anything.” Tim directed the words towards you as he turned to leave.

“Tt, when we find something.” Damian mumbled before following his brother.

Dick sighed as he realized he was outnumbered, “Fine, but I’m getting Alfred before I leave.”

“Whatever makes you feel better sunshine.”

The boys didn’t get back until nearly dark, and none of them had very good news.

“Look, Y/N/N, we all took pictures.” Tim sighed, not wanting to admit defeat just yet. “I’ll compare the scenes and hopefully something will pop up. We’ll get this…” Tim consoled you as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah.” You took in a deep sigh, mentally reminding yourself to stay composed. “Do you still need this file?”

“No, take it. Remember to sleep though.”

You nodded walking over to table, where both the file, Damian, and Jason were sitting.

“I would be honored to pose as bait.”

A faint smile graced your lips, “Thanks Dami, but I’m afraid you don’t fit the bill. They’ve all been 12 years old, remember?”

“I can pass for 12!”

“I’m sure they go on more information than looks…but thanks.” You turned to leave but stopped as you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N, leave that here and take a break. When we do find these people, you need to be sharp.” Jason leaned in closer and whispered, “I can’t let you get hurt.”

“I’ll be fine, Jay. I’ve survived worse…”

“Heh, yeah. Guess so. Want me to walk you home?” Jason tried to mask the obvious concern in his voice.

“So you can just take the file as you leave?” You followed his cue and leaned in, whispering, “I think not my little Jaybird.”

Jason threw his hands up in defense, knowing you weren’t going to let this go. Dick waited for you to leave before he erupted.

“Are you all friends with her?! SHE TRIED TO KILL ME!”

“Did she really though?” Tim questioned his eldest brother, who just looked at him perplexed. “I mean…you’ve seen her fight, was she pulling her punches? Did she seem to move in slow motion? Did she stop as soon as whatever league members with her were gone?”

Dick’s mouth opened wide, as if to begin to answer, but he quickly shut it as his brows furrowed.

“She’s tried to kill me too…” Jason said with air quotes around the words.

“Same here” Tim chimed. Dick looked to Damian.

“Do not turn your gaze upon me, my mother would never allow the league to come after me.”

“I think there are other things at play that you don’t know about Dickie.” Jason tried to reason with his older brother as he turned to leave.

Dick still didn’t trust you, so a few hours later he made his way to your apartment. Crouching on a nearby ledge, he watched as you poured over documents scattered about the table before you. Suddenly you thrust your hands across the desk and collapsed to the floor. Is she crying? Now Dick was thoroughly confused, but his gazed was still fixed on you. After nearly a minute, you stood up and carefully began picking up the papers and photographs and placing them back on the desk. He watched as your head jerked towards the door, and as you stalked into the kitchen and reached for your gun. Seconds later the front door flew across the living room. As Dick swung towards you, he saw you place a bullet directly between the man’s eyes.

The crash of the window caused your focus to falter, however, you were relieved as you noticed the familiar black and blue costumed character glide across the floor and land at your side. Nodding at him you leapt over the kitchen counter and threw your body weight at the next assailant entering your apartment. His head rammed into the wall, knocking him out cold. You looked up and saw a gun pointed your direction. You quickly positioned the unconscious body between yourself and the gun. Unfortunately, this gun-for-hire didn’t care much for his coworker and shot directly through him. The bullet lodged itself in your stomach.

“Nightwing, give me some cover!” You screamed out and ran for the table, throwing as much as you could into a nearby backpack. Grabbing your phone, you took pictures of all the information that was plastered on your walls. You looked back to see Dick landing the final punch and called out again. “Window!” Before you had time to check that he heard you, or was behind you, you jumped.

Immediately you spread your arms and legs out in order to slow you down as much as possible. Part of you almost wished that you didn’t feel that arm wrap around your waist. You held back a pained scream as the hand fell directly over the fresh bullet wound. Dick turned to you as your feet hit the ground.

“Are you fucking crazy?!”

You only shrugged, “How many are left? Where’s your car?”

Even with the domino mask, you could tell Dick was glaring at you. “Three more were in the hallway. I noticed two vans, and an armed man at each exit. Motorcycle is three blocks down.”

“Alright, lead the way.”

As you walked through streets, you pulled one of the backpack straps loose and tied it tightly around your stomach. You could only hope the adrenaline was enough to get you to the cave. Just as you passed the first alley, an arm grabbed you and slammed you against the brick. Your arm reached up and wrapped around his neck as you kicked off from the wall. His body collided with the adjacent wall, as he struggled to free himself from your grasp. Soon you felt his body go heavy in your arms and you laid him to the ground just as two more assailants rounded the corner. You lunged at the closest one, while Nightwing came up behind and kicked the other’s legs from under him. Suddenly you began hearing gunfire ring through the air. Before you could get to the ground another bullet pierced your side, a mere inch away from the first. Thankfully, Nightwing quickly disarmed the man shooting blindly around the corner.

As the two of you rounded the corner you tossed your backpack to Dick. “Make sure Tim gets this. It could be helpful.” You could feel the pain burning through your whole body, the initial shock worn off. Dick looked at you, confused, but took the backpack anyways. The two of you made it to the motorcycle without any more fighting, but you looked at it wondering how you were going to hold on. You still don’t even know how you made it.

Walking into the cave you ignored the boys who quickly began to pour over the new information that Dick scattered across the table. You headed straight to the medical station, which thankfully Alfred had neatly organized. You quickly found what you needed and set up a table near the hospital bed.

You began cutting through your shirt but stopped short of the backpack strap as you noticed black spots creeping up in your vision. “Fuck.” Blinking rapidly to push them back, you threw your hand out, searching for the tweezers on the table. Your hand hit the tray instead, you winced at the sound of the metal clashing with the floor. Soon, all eyes were on you.

“Y/N? What the fuck? Are you hit?” Jason words rung through your head as he raced to your side.

“I got it…” You swung your legs over the side of the bed, in a sad attempt to recollect the tools on the ground. Jason steadfastly pushed you back into place.

“No you don’t. Stay. Please.” His head whipped around towards his brother, “I know you don’t like her…but really?” The disdain rose up in Jason’s voice before his attention turned back to you.

Dick’s head fell, “I didn’t know.” He whimpered before heading back near the computer to help Tim.

Jason made quick work of the wound, “Alright doll…I know it’s not the prettiest, but you’re all set.”

“Uhm…Jay…” Your eyes blinking heavily, you reached for the scissors in his hand. Reluctantly, he let you have them. You cut away the strap revealing another wound.

“Dammit Y/N!” Jason screamed a little too loudly, his eyes filled with worry. Dick rushed to his side.

“What happened?!” He was already thinking the worst.

“Nothing pretty boy. I just need more supplies.” Jason pushed passed his brother. “She was hit twice, apparently.”

“Twice? How did I not…” Dick mouthed under his breath. “Is that the backpack strap?” He began to question you. “When were you hit?!”

“Uhm…first at the apartment.” You winced as Jason dug into your skin with the tweezers. “The damn bullet went right through him.” A faint smile graced your lips. “Not fair…” you mumbled. “Second one got lucky.” Your voice grew more brittle. “Shooting blind…”

“I gave her some morphine. She’s probably going to be out of it for awhile.” Jason said without looking up from his work.

“I didn’t know, Jay.”

“Somehow, I don’t know if that’s better.” Jason chided as he pulled the final stitch through the wound.

“Awe, come on Jaybird. You can’t be mad at that cute face.” Your head moved upwards motioning in Dick’s direction, the morphine taking hold.

“Looks pretty punchable to me.”

“Don’t worry,” you brought your hands up to cradle his face, “yours is still so much cuter.”

Dick’s face dropped, “Wait…are you two –”

His words were cut off as Jason quickly shut down the conversation. “Doll, I think it’s time for you to get some rest.”

You pursed your lips, “But I’m not tired.”

“I think you are.” Jason quickly scooped you into his arms and practically ran up the stairs, headed towards his old room.

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peralta-guaranteed · 3 years

Note

hc of amy having a bad day and struggling with mac? say he’s very clingy or also upset

Guess what, this accidentally turned into a fic too. And it kinda shifted into 'Jake and Amy having a bad day and struggling with Mac for very different reasons'... I hope you still like it!

(read it on AO3)

It had become evident pretty early on that when Mac got sick, he gravitated towards Amy much more. Sure, Jake was also sometimes good for snotty cuddles and cough-soothing baths, but at some point he would call for his mom, or whine and spread his arms towards her with his legs kicking in frustration, and it said a lot about how much Jake has grown that he didn't even hesitate to hand him over without acting hurt. Maybe the blissful calm washing over Mac's face as soon as Amy was hugging him helped with that, too. It was such a wonderful thing to see after hours of crying, coughing, sneezing, whining and general sad pouting that only a Peralta-baby is capable of, Jake barely had the energy to worry about how it felt to be so blatantly rejected by his little boy.

It'd also become evident that Mac’s clingy phase had started a bit earlier than most of their parenting books prophesied. If Amy was home, he wanted to be on her lap, or in her arms, or wrapping his little arms around her leg as she tried to work in the kitchen. Jake got “NO!”ed and waved away far more often than he was asked for a hug himself, and again, it took a lot of newfound maturity not to let that get to him - and maybe he did not have enough of that yet, because it absolutely got to him in quieter moments.

(He knew it’d pass, like any phase in a toddler’s life passes at some point. Like the phase of Mac refusing anything but that one specific carrot puree passed, or the phase of him being unable to sleep anywhere except cuddled in between them, waking up as soon as they tried to carry him back to his own bed.)

The real trouble starts when both these situations collide.

-*-

Mac woke them up at 4:30 sharp, two hours before Amy’s first alarm, crying so hard it almost sounded like screaming. When Jake tiptoed into the nursery, he had to ignore the frustrated shouts of Nonono and Mamam that he was almost used to by now, to actually check what was wrong. Probably another ear infection, he realised after seeing the symptoms they’d become very familiar with during the last time they’d battled through one of those. They had to bring him to the doctor to be sure, but he already knew they were looking forward to at least two days of unsoothable crying and fussing.

He also knew that things would be hell for Amy.

In theory, it would make far more sense for him to call in sick to take care of Mac. As much as he loved his detective work, the simple fact that his wife outranked him (and thus outdid him in both salary and responsibilities, obviously) meant that if one of them had to take a few days off, it should be him first and foremost. In practice, however, Mac was going to be even more insufferable than just from his sickness if left alone with him at the moment. He was still crying for Amy as Jake lifted him out of the cot - he would be screaming bloody murder if she closed the door of the apartment behind her.

“Earache?” Amy asked already as Jake stepped back into the bedroom, Mac’s wailing lessening only slightly as he stretched his arms out toward her. She pulled him to her as Jake sighed and nodded.

“I think so. I’ll take him to the doc when they open.” He tried to offer, but he knew Amy would refuse it anyway.

“No, I can do it. I’ll call in sick - you get back to sleep for work.”

“I’ll try.” He sighed again as he dropped onto his back while Amy was sitting up to sway Mac, who’d actually quieted down into little sobs and sniffles in her arms. “I’m sorry, Ames.”

“It’s nobody’s fault he’s sick, especially not yours.”

“Yeah, but I wish I could help more. If he wasn’t- you know.”

“I know.” Amy let her free hand not holding Mac drift through Jake’s sleep-messy curls. She knew that, as much as he tried to pretend it wasn’t bothering him, he secretly hated the thought of his son rejecting him in any way, even if it was as nonsensical as a clingy toddler phase.

Luckily it didn’t take long for him to actually fall back asleep with her hand in his hair, and she carefully wiggled out of bed to let him rest while settling down with a still crying Mac in his nursery rocking chair.

-*-

They got to get ready together as they usually did in the morning, at least - even if Amy was only getting dressed to drive to the pediatrician and straight back again. She’d already called Holt and explained the situation before Jake handed her a mug of coffee, and Mac had been, at the least, not crying for the last ten minutes while sitting in his playpen in the living room. Maybe things wouldn’t be as bad as last time.

“I can pick up whatever the doc prescribes on my lunch break.” Jake smiled at her, ruefully, and she considered telling him again that it was okay, that she could do it - but something told her to keep her options of at least a few minutes not alone with a sick toddler open.

She desperately needed that option when lunchtime came around.

Doctor Maurice had quickly confirmed their suspicions and told her that there wasn’t much more they could do than wait it out, keep an eye on his fever and medicate with ibuprofen and warm compresses. Not that any of that had helped. When Mac wasn’t crying, he was screaming, and when he wasn’t screaming, he wanted to be close to her, but he couldn’t lie down without the pain getting worse, so simply plonking down on the couch with him was out of the question. She’d let him breastfeed far more than had been their norm now that he was slowly getting weaned, because it seemed to give him some relief at least, as well as quieting him for a blissful moment. But then the infection had travelled to his stomach as well, the same way it had last time, and he staunchly refused any and all food or milk. She’d seriously started considering foregoing the diapers completely and just letting him play in the empty bathtub so she could rinse him off from time to time, because five dirty diapers in under twenty minutes had to be some sort of new record.

So when Jake texted her he was on his way, with a picture of another box of ibuprofen and that herbal steam-bath mix that had helped last time, she sent a silent thank you prayer to anyone who wanted to listen. And she mumbled a not quite as silent thank you against Jake’s lips before he could even get his shoes off at the door.

“I got you one of the good bagel sandwiches for lunch, too.” He said as he hugged her and combed through her messy hair.

“I love you so much.” She hadn’t even realised that the only thing in her stomach so far was still the cup of coffee he’d made her this morning.

He grinned as he put the deli paper bag on the kitchen counter and went over to Mac’s playpen, to say hello to a currently only softly whining toddler smacking an innocent teddy against a pile of soft fabric blocks. Amy followed to wrap her arms around his waist from behind and rest her head against his back, taking in a few deep breaths of Jake, of something that didn’t smell of diarrhea, moist compresses, milk-hiccups and spit up.

“Also Holt gave me an hour for lunch, so if you want to take a nap or something-”

“God.” Amy groaned with pure happiness as Jake turned around in her embrace. “Marry me, Mr. Perfect.”

“Any place, any time, babe.” He kissed the crown of her head while returning her hug, sniffing her hair with a chuckle. “But maybe a shower first before the big day.”

“Rude.” Amy mumbled with her face pressed against his chest. “I rescind the proposal.”

His chuckle turned into a laugh at that, and he slowly unraveled her arms around him. “Nap first, then shower, how’s that sound? Then a bagel. I’ll give Mac his lunch.”

“Good luck with that.” She sighed before giving him another quick kiss and making a beeline for the bedroom.

-*-

She’d hopped straight from bed into the bathroom later, relishing in the feeling of the hot water washing away any aches left over after that much needed nap. Alas, when she stepped out of the oh-so-peaceful bathroom, she was met with a wall of sound.

Mac was wailing, hard, as Jake swayed him back and forth, holding another warm compress against his little ear, and trying to make soothing noises despite the shrill screams of No and MAMA! straight into his face.

“Shsshhshsh, hey, it’s okay, bud, it’s okay. I know you don’t like me much at the moment, but it’s gonna be okay, and mom is coming back soon-”

He stopped as he noticed her stepping into the room, giving her an apologetic smile as she took Mac from him. The wailing turned into regular crying at least, albeit still loud.

“I’m sorry babe - did he wake you up? He won’t eat either.”

“I set an alarm, actually. So you won’t be back late.” Amy sat down on the couch and pulled up her shirt (freshly changed after the shower, and god had that felt good as well). Mac latched onto her breast almost immediately, and a wonderful quiet settled across the room, only his little snuffling and suckling noises breaking through.

Jake’s face was unreadable before he turned towards the kitchen to plate her bagel, but that stoic, almost empty expression told her enough anyway. She grabbed his wrist as he set the plate down on the couch table, pulled softly until he sat down next to her, running her fingers through his hair again to comfort him.

“You know it’s not true, right?”

“Hm?” Jake looked up at her after watching Mac, who finally seemed to calm down completely in her arm, with a vacant look in his eyes.

“It’s not true that he doesn’t like you. He loves you just as much as me. It’s just a difficult phase.”

“I know that.” Jake’s attempt at a smile was still sad enough, and she wiped across the corner of it with the soft tip of her thumb.

“And I love you too. So much.”

“I know that.” And this new smile seemed to turn out right, at least. “You wanna re-marry me, after all.” He teased as he leant his head against her shoulder, looking down at Mac again with a much less forlorn expression.

“Hey, I rescinded that proposal!” She quipped back, falling into their usual banter easily now that she was rested enough and sure that Jake felt better as well. “But I might consider re-re-proposing again if you promise to pick up Polish for dinner.”

“I knew you only wanted me for all the free food delivery.”

“I also need you for other things.” Amy said as she sat up a bit straighter to finish Mac’s feeding, Jake’s head lifting off of her shoulder with the movement. “Like burping your kid. I really don’t want spit-up down this fresh shirt.”

“Aye aye, Sergeant.” Jake joked, already scrabbling for the burp cloth thrown over the armchair next to them and taking Mac out of her arms.

She watched him as he expertly settled the little, squirming bundle against his chest, the swaying and patting motion almost second nature by now, ducking his head down for a quick sniff of that perfect toddler hair scent. He’d have to leave for the precinct soon enough, and she certainly wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the afternoon probably being a reprise of her entire morning, and she didn’t even want to think about the night or next day to come.

Life with a toddler was unpredictable. Almost nothing was in her control anymore. But, as she’d learned over the years, as long as she was with the right people, she could handle anything. And Jake Peralta proved, again and again, that he was the right person for her.

#b99 #brooklyn 99 #jake peralta #amy santiago #peraltiago #baby mac #mac peralta #fic #my writing

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ahgaseda · 4 years

Text

pray | two

you are more than my existence, please listen to my prayer, hold me, tell me about myself, call my name so I can know who I am...

summary : everyone knows of the unspeakable evil that lives on the mountain, but you willingly sacrifice yourself to the demon named Jaebeom, as long as he takes you far away from the monster waiting for you at home.

warnings : strong profanity, explicit dialogue, instances of blood and violence, graphic sexual content, black magic themes, potentially triggering elements that involve mentions of past child abuse, mental health, etc.

miniseries chapters : one / two / three / four / five / six / seven

For the first few days, you returned to the border without fail. Waiting, but mostly hoping and praying that an entrance was made for you. It went without saying you navigated the edge of the forest, searching for the slightest break in the trees and thorns for you to slip inside. You were ready to endure any injury to be back where you belonged.

Of one thing you were certain - you hated Jaebeom. How he had taken everything from you. It was selfish and cruel, and you would never forgive him for it as long as you lived.

After weeks passed and the woods remained silent as the grave, wholly impenetrable, you finally surrendered. The last time you stood before the forest, you bid her a tender farewell.

You would give anything to know Jaebeom felt your pain, that he longed for you in his heart as much as you did for him. The woods must have been lonely.

Did you cross his mind at all? Even for just a moment?

A voice came from behind you, jeering, “And here she is again, staring at a wall of trees.”

“Hello, Gale,” you droned with disinterest.

A more arrogant and disdainful boy never existed than Gale. As a child, he often led the charge of children throwing rocks as you passed by. He always shouted the loudest when it came to how alone and pitiful you were.

But in more recent years, as you developed into a young woman, his gaze became less scornful and more filled with something worse.

He came to stand beside you, though his presence was unwanted, and spoke mischievously, “I can think of much better ways to occupy your time.”

“I’m sure you could,” you spoke, monotonous and uninterested.

Neither your body language or tone could dissuade him. “Everyone has advised me against my attraction to you,” he continued, moving even closer to your side.

You avoided his eyes and retorted, “For that I am eternally grateful.”

Gale ignored your response altogether and said, “They say you’re wild, untamed, and that you would not be a good, dutiful wife.”

Music to my ears, you mused, fighting back a grin. “They are absolutely right.”

Gale crept closer, until you could smell him, until you could feel his hot breath on the top of your shoulder. Your entire body bristled, wary.

“I spent a lot of time with horses, the kind we use for war, and I can assure you,” he whispered coldly. “Even the wildest of them can be broken into submission.”

You rounded on him, refusing to show him even the slightest of fear, and countered, “I’m not a horse. I’m a woman. And I would defy you with every breath in my body until the day I died.”

Gale’s lips broke into a broad smile and he cooed, “And that is what I desire about you.”

You rolled your eyes, parting from the border with a rush to your step. Gale was unnerving. There was malice in his eyes. He didn’t see you as a human, he made that abundantly clear. To him you were an animal, a trophy; something to own and mount on the wall.

He followed you closely, losing what little patience he had. “I would rather you accept my proposal willingly.”

You snorted and kept walking, exclaiming, “That was a proposal?”

“Yes,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “I want you for my wife.”

The mere thought set a bad taste on your tongue. You frowned, wrinkling your nose, and said, “I have no interest in having you as my husband.”

Angered, Gale grabbed your arm roughly and yanked you back, nearly knocking you off of your feet if not for how solidly he gripped you. “And do you think you will ever find better than me?” he shouted, leering over you.

You stared up at him in defiance and said, “I already found better than you and I loved him. And I can still taste his kisses.”

Gale blinked rapidly, shock fading into jealousy. “Is that so? Then, where is he? I do hope I’m invited to the wedding,” he sneered, mocking.

You bit your lip, eyes filling with tears at the memory of Jaebeom casting you out of the forest.

“You are an insane little thing,” Gale muttered, tightening his grip on your arms until you whimpered. “If not for how beautiful you are, I would never waste my time on you.”

At that, Gale released you harshly and skulked away, leaving you with your tears.

You turned a little, gazing solemnly at the forest in the distance. It was time to let go, time to move on. You would have to focus on self-preservation for the foreseeable future. And so you stopped visiting the border, forcing yourself to keep from looking in the woods’ direction.

On the morning of your eighteenth birthday, you wanted nothing more than to stay in bed. It had been a year since you last saw Jaebeom.

Despite your sadness, your father would never allow you to spend a day in your room and you continued on as if it were any other Thursday. You sat at the table and picked at your breakfast.

Your father did little to hide his eagerness at the offers he received for your hand in marriage. He planned to build his small fortune on your back.

However, the current war waged between men had put a delay on the arranged marriage. And your father’s temper had never been worse.

He reached sharply across the table and grabbed your wrist, growling, “You had better make this man happy. I will hear nothing of you resisting his advances. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, father,” you spoke submissively. You knew nothing of the man he mentioned, only that he would soon own you.

There used to be more fire in you, but it had burned out. Every day felt as cold as the forest had been when she was taken from you.

Your father continued to rant, but his voice faded into the background. All you could think about was the kiss with Jaebeom on your last birthday. Your first kiss. And you shared it with a demon in the canopy of the forest, watching the sun go down.

There was nothing that could compare, nothing that could ease the pain of having lost your only friend on the same day you realized you were in love with him.

Commotion outside tore you from your melancholy thoughts.

Your father glanced through the window, brows stitching, and huffed irritably, “Damn kids harassing something again.”

That piqued your attention. You excused yourself and gathered your heavy skirt in your hands, hurrying outside to see what the rowdy neighborhood boys had found this time. Once you rescued a nest of eggs from their clutches. On another occasion you saved a fawn with an injured leg from their amusement.

This time, the boys were chasing a little black shadow and cornered it along the fence by the chicken coop. Only when you squinted and looked closer did you realize it was a baby panther.

“What is wrong with you?” you exclaimed, snatching a stick from one of the boys’ hands and slapping him over the head with it. “It’s just a baby, you brat!”

“Give it to me,” jeered another boy. “My father can make a little rug from its pelt.”

“I will skin you first if you touch it,” you threatened with a snarl, approaching the small beast delicately.

She seemed to sense your intentions and did not attempt to bite when you hoisted her up by the scruff. You cradled her in your arms, seeing she was female, and spoke soothingly to her.

The little cub wailed, starving for food.

The door to the nearby house burst open and a man wielding a knife yelled, “That little beast killed two of my chickens!”

Your eyes widened at the weapon he brandished and you knew the cub was about to suffer a brutal fate. You couldn’t stomach the thought and so you did what you had always done.

You ran.

The boys shouted with disappointment and called for their fathers. The man preparing to butcher the cub warned of punishment you would endure for blatantly defying him. Another voice, belonging to your father, broke through them all, demanding you stop dead in your tracks.

You listened to none, thinking only of the innocent beast in your arms. She gave no struggle, only gazed up at you with warm yellow eyes. For an animal, she seemed well-aware of the dire situation.

You ran until the border came in sight. Months had passed since you saw its thorns. They had not moved even an inch since the day you were barred from entry, but you had to try.

“You have to let me in,” you yelled with conviction. “I won’t let them kill her!”

The little cub mewled in your arms.

For a moment, you were met with only silence and your heart sank. Someone or something had weighed the scales and did not find in your favor. Tears filled your eyes and you whimpered, desperate.

Then, the forest groaned. It knew your voice, even after all this time.

The boughs shifted and the thorns parted. You were given the smallest of entries, enough space for one person as if you were a highly kept secret. You knew, thought it went unsaid, that the forest would certainly seal itself again in your wake, trapping you inside forever.

This was it.

You contemplated setting the cub at the edge and ushering her inside, but there was no one to feed or protect her. Then, you looked down at the cub and chuckled at your own hesitation. Your heart belonged in the forest and now you could finally return home.

You pressed inside, vanishing into the darkness.

After only a few steps, the thorns came alive again. No one would be able to follow you.

You cradled the cub close to your chest protectively and walked. You had no idea where to go, no thought of where you should go. You merely walked among the trees, breathing in the icy air that tickled your skin.

The forest had darkened. Light struggled to seep through the canopy. You could hardly see ahead and your breath appeared like smoke from your mouth. The cub noticed too and burrowed against your breasts for warmth.

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, exhaling heavily so your breath was manifest. “I’m a dragon.”

The joke may have amused you, but it was lost on the cub’s ears. She whined and hid her face in your arms with a mewl.

You pressed on, reaching the small clearing that once made your heart soar. The ground was brittle, the grass had died. A howl echoed amidst the darkness.

The forest had remained bound in winter for an entire year.

Rustling tickled your ears. The air chilled even more. Ice nearly formed on your lips and lashes. You shivered in place, hands turning numb. But you stood firm, knowing he had come.

Jaebeom descended from the shadows above and your heart jumped wildly in your ribcage. His feet touched the ground and his wings swept gracefully around him, coming to perch over his head.

“I told you,” Jaebeom warned through clenched jaws. “Never to come back here.”

You glared vehemently at him, how he could treat you with such frigid judgment. But you were quick to notice the year had not treated him kindly either. Darkness marred his beautiful, piercing eyes. Even more ink seemed to be branded across his chest. Despite the anger coursing through you, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him and melt the ice.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” you murmured shakily, glancing down at the beast you had smuggled inside. “They wanted to slaughter this little cub.”

Jaebeom took a step closer, peering down at the ebony creature in your arms. She turned and with one look at him, hissed in defiance. You fought a grin, pleased at her reaction.

That was why the forest let you in, Jaebeom mulled with a frown. Your willingness to protect nature. The wood heeded his wishes, but he was also required to heed hers. It was a mutual, symbiotic relationship.

Though he cursed the forest in his mind for letting you inside, he knew she would hear no argument of sending you back.

Jaebeom moved closer, wings dragging the ground behind him. “Are you afraid, cheonsa?” he asked lowly, almost in intimidation.

You hardened your gaze and replied, “No.”

Jaebeom tilted his head and persisted, “But you know I’m a monster.”

You eyed the great horns on his head and scoffed. “You are no monster compared to them.”

Jaebeom came even nearer and you could hardly breathe. Winter had taken residence in his chest and was freezing everything around him. He reached out and stroked a thumb over your cheek. You sucked in a breath. Despite his cold, he carried the scent of a raging wildfire, destroying all in its path.

“If I steal you away, you will be my bride,” Jaebeom reminded, his voice almost like a song. “Can you fathom that - being the demon’s bride?”

You countered, “You can’t steal what is already yours.”

Jaebeom’s eyes flickered and he was tempted to smile. A year for you had been an eternity for him. It still perplexed him how he had been able to survive for so long without you. His wings arched, flaring out in display.

“You broke my heart, Jaebeom,” you whispered morosely. “You chose my life for me.”

Jaebeom nodded, apologetic though he dared not apologize. “Fate had other plans,” he replied gruffly.

“If not for the war, I would be married by now,” you told him with a foul taste in your mouth, then snorted. “It’s been a year. I would undoubtedly have a child as well.”

Jaebeom stuttered, imagining the great swell of your belly or the sight of a dark-haired newborn nursing at your breast. He could barely force out the question, “Do you… want children?”

For the past year, you had been forced to give the notion plenty of thought. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you replied softly, “If I have a child I want them to be from a place of love and passion. Not convenience or obligation.”

“I understand,” said Jaebeom with a nod, glancing down at the cub once more. The little thing promptly gave a high-pitched growl at him.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, surprised. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

Your cheeks flushed as you asked, “Is that what you want from me?”

“What?” Jaebeom exclaimed. “No.”

You searched his face in confusion and pressed, “Then, why do you have to take a bride?”

Jaebeom pursed his lips and spoke dryly, “The Master commands it.”

You shuddered when you realized who he was referring to and said, “He’s not here. Why do it?”

“As we age our magic grows,” Jaebeom explained, surprisingly patient. “That’s why the forest is saturated in black magic.”

You waited.

“We have to find someone, someone we can bond our souls with, or the magic will become too much. It will kill us.”

Your eyes widened. “You mean, I will bear magic?”

He gave a single nod. “Yes.”

Your imagination ran wild and you asked, “Will I grow horns or wings?”

“No, you will stay as you are, but the sun will not smile upon you any longer.”

You sighed, softening a little, “I will be doomed to live in the darkness. Just like you. That’s why you pushed me away.”

Jaebeom’s eyes shone with unshed tears and he reached to cup your cheek, desperate to feel your skin beneath his fingertips again. He pulled you close, lips mere inches from yours, and whispered, “I saw you in the sun. I could never bring myself to take that away from you.”

You set your jaw and replied, “They can keep the sun, but you stole away my light for a year. For what I thought would be the rest of my life.”

Jaebeom winced, hearing that pained him though he already knew it deeply. “I promise, I will spend every day until my last making it up to you.”

You fought a smile, lowering your head to hide the corners of your mouth lifting.

Jaebeom slipped his hand beneath your chin, tilting up until your eyes were on him again. “Well?”

You sang quietly, “The demon comes to take her away. On a bed of stars they will lay.”

Jaebeom smirked before finishing, “And never again will she see the light of day.”

You giggled. It should have come as no surprise he knew the songs your people sang of his kind.

A scream sharply pierced the forest, making your blood run cold. You whirled around, shuffling backwards in horror. Jaebeom wrapped his arms around your waist and steered you behind him.

“What is that?” you gasped. The cub in your arms stirred restlessly, terrified.

“The forest is wounded,” he told you angrily, charging forward. His great wings fanned out, bristling with aggression.

Gale stepped with purpose inside, sword glistening with the dew of trees and vines. He had cut and sliced an opening for himself in pursuit of you.

The moment Jaebeom came into view, Gale gripped the hilt with both hands and held it before himself, shouting, “Stay back, demon!”

Jaebeom was livid and snarled, “You dare bring steel inside this place?”

You molded yourself to his back, a hand on Jaebeom’s arm, and called incredulously, “Gale, what are you doing?”

Gale felt his blood boiling at the sight of you in a demon’s clutches and said, “I saw you run here. I know you’ve been entering the forbidden woods all along.”

Jaebeom snapped, “Be gone from here.”

“Like hell I will,” Gale retorted. “Do you think you can steal my fiancee?”

Jaebeom scowled, seething.

“Your what?” you blurted in disbelief. “Gale, I said I will never marry you!”

“Your father agreed.”

You stood there dumbfounded. It was your worst nightmare come true.

Jaebeom’s wings rustled, a testament to his fury - and his restraint.

Gale held out his hand and called your name. “Come. He won’t take you while I have a sword.”

Jaebeom grimaced, eyeing the weapon with nothing short of loathing.

You let your hand slip down Jaebeom’s arm, moving past him until he was behind you. Jaebeom didn’t stop you. He knew the choice was yours and he would have to live with whatever you decided.

“You said I was insane,” you told Gale, gazing down at the cub against your chest. “Maybe I am. But not nearly insane enough to marry the likes of you.”

Gale recoiled and his face tensed with rage. “You little bitch, come with me now. I bought you fair and square!”

You met his eyes and felt only sympathy. And after a pause, you said, “I am where I belong.”

Jaebeom moved faster than you thought possible, sweeping you in his arms and taking to the air with a forceful beat of his great wings.

Gale’s shouts and threats faded into the rushing of wind.

You gripped Jaebeom tightly, gasping for air and lost for words. The demon soared through the forest, branches moving from his path and birds singing his arrival. When he broke through the canopy, you gasped at the thick fog around you, the same clouds you remembered surrounding the mountain.

Jaebeom flew higher and higher. Your ears began to ring. Your breaths were labored. You had never been at such an altitude. The cub in your arms screamed its confusion.

With you in his arms, the demon burst through the clouds, alighting on a precipice of stone. You looked around curiously, gasping at the sight of a looming castle before you.

For a moment, you held Jaebeom tightly, peering over the crest of his shoulder. He rather liked the heat of your rapid panting on his neck and made no moves to set you down.

“Where are we?”

“Home,” Jaebeom replied softly.

“This is your home?” you asked, voice trembling from the flight as you gawked at the many turrets and towers.

“Our home,” Jaebeom whispered in your ear, nuzzling his face in your hair. The scent of you was overwhelming.

“And what about this little shadow?” you asked, leaning down to kiss the brow of your baby panther. She closed her eyes contentedly at your affection though her fur still stood on end from defying gravity.

Jaebeom lowered you to the ground, an arm wrapped around your waist until you found your balance. “She’s all yours,” he droned. “I’ll have no part in raising her.”

“Shadow,” you mulled to yourself, meeting the yellow eyes of your new companion. “I quite like that name.”

You placed the cub on the ground and she danced at your feet, following you dutifully as you walked with Jaebeom into the castle. The demon pushed open the double doors and you stepped into the endless stone foyer, the pitter-patter of your bare feet echoing down the walls.

“It’s massive,” you said, gazing up at the ceiling and spinning in a circle.

“Mostly unused,” Jaebeom told you blithely. “I tend to keep myself between the bedroom and the kitchen.”

You chuckled, twirling again. Little Shadow refused to part from your feet.

Jaebeom watched you with delight, but you would have never known given the lack of expression on his face. “That… human in the forest,” he began.

“Gale.”

Jaebeom clearly wanted more explanation than that and pressed, “He was your betrothed?”

You laughed. “No. Definitely not.”

Jaebeom still wasn’t satisfied. “He seemed to think so.”

You finally faced him and quipped, “Then, he is much crazier than he ever said I was.”

Jaebeom tilted his head, smiling slightly. “Do your people consider you insane?”

You beamed with pride. “Very much so.”

The demon chuckled.

You studied him, approaching him with purpose in your step, and began, “All of my betrothals fell through. Men were ready to pay for ownership of me. Did you have something to do with their failures?”

Jaebeom shrugged and replied, “Men are preoccupied with the war between realms.”

You cocked a brow. “And how would you know that?”

“I have prayed every day since you left that the war would never end,” Jaebeom told you solemnly.

Folding your arms, you shot back, “I didn’t leave. I was cast out.”

Jaebeom felt his heart clench and hardened his gaze. He reached out and took your hand, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss. “And how long are you going to hold that against me?”

You smiled up at him and smarted, “For as long as it pleases me.”

Jaebeom wanted to chuckle. His heart was spinning, dancing in circles. Every moment you stood there before him he found it harder and harder to breathe.

When he woke up this morning, he had no idea you would be with him.

But here you were, the brightest of smiles on your lips, traveling up to your glistening eyes. Jaebeom was hopelessly drowning in his feelings for you.

You blushed when he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His bare chest was hot beneath your fingertips and you wanted to trace the pattern of one of his many tattoos.

“Do you accept me as your husband?”

You stared up at him, the grin making your cheeks hurt, and replied with a single nod, “I do.”

Jaebeom ran his thumb over your bottom lip, studying you intently. “Come with me then,” he beckoned with a low voice.

“Where?”

“To bed,” he replied bluntly, taking your hand and leading you beside him.

Your eyes widened and you asked curiously, “Are you trying to bed me without a wedding?”

He looked over his shoulder. “When I said make you my bride…”

“Oh, I see,” you said, planting your feet and letting your hand slip from his grasp. “I want something more binding.”

Jaebeom stopped, pivoting on his heels to face you, and his wings shuddered with excitement. “There is nothing more binding than me claiming you as my own.”

You found your resolve and reminded him, “Once upon a time, I offered myself to you.”

Jaebeom paused, heart heavy, and murmured, “I remember.”

Your lip trembled. “You made me feel unworthy.”

Jaebeom asserted, “I was the one that wasn’t worthy.”

You sighed. There you stood in the castle of a demon, about to become his bride for all eternity. You had prayed and wished for freedom and protection all your life, and he would forever be your lighthouse in the storm.

One day you would let go of your anger.

“I fully intend to surrender my virtue to you, Jaebeom,” you told him. “But first, I want marriage.”

Jaebeom wrinkled his nose. “Hmph.”

“And a wedding,” you added, at this point resorting to humor to relieve the tension you caused.

“Fine,” he said shortly.

“It can be just us,” you continued, slipping back into his embrace and wrapping your arms around his waist. “And someone obviously to perform the ceremony. Whatever you desire.”

Jaebeom roamed his hands to rest on your hips and his great wings moved instinctively around you, shielding you from invisible dangers. “My only desire is you…,” he finally revealed. “And whatever makes you happy.”

You batted your lashes. “I would not be opposed to a white dress, if you happen to have one.”

Jaebeom exhaled loudly, searching his thoughts for where in hell’s name he could find one. “I need to send a few letters.”

At that, his hands slipped free of your body and he began striding down the hall.

You followed him eagerly, hot on his heels, and asked with excitement, “Does this mean we will fly again?”

Jaebeom turned, brows furrowed. “No,” he replied flatly, pushing a door open and pointing inside. “Stairs.”

“How boring,” you whined, proceeding forward.

The two of you appeared in one of the higher towers, a turret with glassless windows. Ravens congregating inside squawked at your sudden arrival, but quieted at the sight of their fellow winged creature.

Jaebeom took small rolls of paper on the nearby table and began scribbling with a narrow piece of charcoal. You watched in silence as he prepared six brief letters, tucking each into the ankle band of a crow and sending it out into the sky.

“Ravens,” you thought aloud. “We use doves.”

“Doves have very small attention spans and even smaller brains,” Jaebeom deadpanned.

You giggled.

Returning to the main hallway from the tower, Jaebeom said, “Come along. I will show you to your room.”

“My room?” you questioned in pleasant surprise.

Jaebeom held out his arm and you looped yours in the crook of his elbow. “Assuming you won’t come to bed with me until we’re married, it would be poor manners to put you in my room.”

You chuckled. “I see.”

He escorted you to a door and explained, “This is the only spare bedroom that gets any use. My fellow demons sometimes stay here when they come to this side of the forest.”

You nodded to let him know you understood.

Jaebeom pushed the door open and ushered you inside.

“Oh,” you gasped, eyes widening at the scale of your room. Massive windows graced the far wall, curtains blowing lightly in the breeze. The bed lay in the center, on a raised platform, and a canopy of white gossamer material gathered overhead, tied to each of the bedposts.

Your vision darted to the desk along the wall, littered in writing materials. Then, you looked to the bookshelf and quaint reading nook, wanting to throw yourself on the velvet chaise and feel its warmth.

Shadow bolted inside, nearly colliding into your legs, and began to survey the room for herself. You giggled at her joy, following after the baby panther and plopping down on the side of the bed.

Jaebeom struggled to hide his smile more than ever, but his pale face stayed constant. He proceeded to say his goodbyes, allowing you to get settled with privacy.

“Jaebeom,” you called, before he could shut the door.

Jaebeom stuck his head back in and asked, “Yes?”

You gripped the side of the bed, your legs hanging and unable to touch the floor, and hoped he would sate your curiosity. “Do demons really steal away only the most beautiful of mortal women for their brides?”

Jaebeom bobbed his head. “Those of us doomed to live among mortals have no other choice. The Master keeps all she-demons in Hell with him.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Jaebeom shifted his weight, his wings curling to his back almost in embarrassment as he continued, “We aren’t like your kind. No demon forces a woman into bed with him.”

You had tried to veil the question, but clearly he had realized what you were after and his answer put you at ease.

“We mate for life. Whoever we give ourselves to is our mate until we die. We need them to want us.”

You stood, approaching him somberly. “Am I free to leave? If there ever came a time…”

Though you had accepted him, Jaebeom understood you would want reassurance that you weren’t a prisoner in his castle. “I could not stop you,” he said, tender.

“Even if I am your mate?”

“Then, I would go the rest of my life with half of me missing.”

That’s right, you remembered. He said you would bear magic. “It sounds intense,” you told him. “So final.”

Jaebeom snorted. “We demons tend to live in extremes. Very dramatic, the lot of us.”

Heat flushed your cheeks when you asked shyly, “Would you prefer to have a demoness as your mate?”

Jaebeom shrugged. “I’ve never laid eyes on one.”

You looked down bashfully, tucking hair behind your ear, and mumbled, “I’m sure they’re far more beautiful than I am.”

Jaebeom felt his hands twitching with the urge to take you in his arms again as he whispered, “Nothing in this world or beneath it is more beautiful than you are.”

You lifted your head, gazing up at him while your heart fluttered.

“I’ve said too much,” Jaebeom huffed, gliding back to the door. “Rest now, cheonsa.”

“Why do you call me that?”

He paused, then teased, “It means… clumsy one, in my mother tongue.”

Somehow, you knew that wasn’t true.

Turning back to your room, you grinned and danced on your toes. It was a far cry from your little cot in the attic of your father’s house. Shadow whined at you, curling comfortably on the bed.

But you couldn’t sleep. Excitement raced violently through your veins. You smiled until you covered your face with your hands. Despite having no wings on your back, you swore you could fly.

Here you were, stepping into a new life; one you had always dreamt of, but could never reach.

As you lay on your back in bed, comforted by the crisp night air slipping past your curtains and into your sheets, you thought of Jaebeom. Your mind was consumed with memories of him.

You licked your lips, thinking of his broad chest and muscled arms. He had felt so strong when he carried you through the forest, as if you had been weightless. You imagined it must take endless restraint to keep from breaking you.

Your pulse quickened as you thought of your kiss beneath the trees, how carefully he had laid you on a bed of grass. How gentle his caresses and touches had been.

You tossed and turned a last time before giving up. Such a fool, you thought. As much as you had longed for Jaebeom, every moment of every day for the past year, to be sleeping in the room across the hall from him.

Smirking, you sat up in bed, looking to the baby panther asleep on one of the pillows. You gave her chin a scratch and sang, “Stay here, little Shadow.”

The door to Jaebeom’s room creaked no matter how slowly you pushed it open and you winced. To your relief, the figure in bed did not stir. Tiptoeing closer, you marveled his wings and how they tucked to his body like armor whilst he slept.

You pushed aside the wisp of curtains hanging from his bedframe and climbed onto the mattress, propping yourself over him. How beautiful he was, you thought. You were green with envy at the length of his lashes.

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his with the most innocent of kisses.

His eyes slowly opened. Clearly he had not been asleep.

“Why are you…” Jaebeom began.

“I changed my mind,” you interjected.

He cocked a brow. “About?”

You straddled his hips and pulled the nightgown over your head, revealing your naked body for the first time.

Jaebeom swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes on your breasts before returning to your face. “No wedding?” he asked, more so for your benefit.

“Yes, wedding and the white dress,” you said levelly. “Tomorrow.”

Jaebeom brought his hands to your thighs, caressing his way to your hips and waist. Then, he confessed like a solemn vow, “All I’ve thought about is you. Every waking moment is you. Every dream I dream is of you.”

You felt tears in your eyes and whispered, “Kiss me, Jaebeom.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Jaebeom sat up, ensnaring your body in his arms and molding his lips to yours. You held his face in your hands, kissing him back with desire before raking your fingers through his dark hair.

Jaebeom rose with you in his arms, guiding your legs to lock around his waist. His massive wings were daunting as they shrouded protectively over you. They shuddered and rustled with arousal, restless.

You slipped your hands through his locks and gripped his horns, feeling their ridges from base to tip. They were sharp, no surprise there, but Jaebeom seemed to feel nothing.

His wings were entirely different. The moment you touched where they connected to his shoulders, the wings came alive, fluttering. You danced your fingertips through his feathers, pleased at the way Jaebeom’s breaths staggered out as you kissed and touched him.

When you had your fill, you took his hand, fingers covered in black script, and brought it to your mouth, pressing kiss after kiss to his knuckles.

Jaebeom returned your affection, lingering his lips on the curve of your neck, trailing kisses to your collarbone and the swell of your breast. His hand slipped from your grasp and his palms roamed your body, drawn to the softness of your skin. You let out a small whimper when his thumbs rolled over your nipples.

Finally, he tightened his arms around you and asked, “Are you sure?”

You gave him a nod. “Yes.”

Jaebeom pressed his lips to your chest, squarely over your heart. The brands appeared, flesh-colored. Not stark black like his. The markings blended in with your skin.

You clenched your teeth and hissed. The burn of his branding was not painful, but the searing heat took you by surprise. You relaxed when you realized you were in no discomfort.

Then, you tipped your head back and moaned softly. Magic was coursing through your veins, from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet. White hot fire pulsed from your heart, like you were consumed in flames.

Jaebeom pulled back, gazing down at his handiwork. The script was in his mother tongue, which one day he hoped you would speak fluently with him. The magic would seep into your bones, living inside you until you both returned to the earth.

“The first of many,” Jaebeom growled, eager to see more brands spread from the anchor across your heart.

You smiled down at him, reaching for his naked chest to trace your fingertips over winding letters that lined his muscles.

Jaebeom cradled your face, running a thumb over your cheek affectionately. You couldn’t part your gaze from his eyes for even a moment.

“Please be gentle,” you whispered shyly.

Jaebeom tugged you down, kissing your lips. Then, his hand parted from your face and landed on your naked breast. “You will never know pain from me, my love,” he growled, kneading your mound. “Only pleasure.”

You swallowed thickly, desperate to kiss him again.

Jaebeom gathered you in his arms and turned, laying you softly on your back and making a place for himself between your thighs. His great wings arched and splayed, hiding you within.

His wings shuddered as he made love to you, like the ecstasy of your body unhinged them. You would never forget how it felt to be one with him, how he not only filled you, but made you overflow. And Jaebeom would never forget how you cried out his name when he found release in you.

Never had you been more satisfied. Every ache in your body was gone, never to return. The longing in your soul had dissipated. You were completely whole. All of your life you had been running and searching.

Finally, you were home.

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#got7 fanfiction #im jaebum #got7 smut #jaebum smut #got7 #im jaebum smut #got7 fanfic #got7 fic #got7 au #im jaebum fanfiction #jaebum fanfiction #jaebum scenario #got7 scenario #jaebum au #got7 imagine #jaebum imagine

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johannas-motivational-insults · 4 years

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“Friendship” in the Horde

Season 4 raised some interesting questions about how people who grew up in the Horde define friendship. Kyle claimed that his squadmates were his friends, despite how we've seen them bully him, and Scorpia admitted she didn’t even know how to be a good friend. We also saw further developments in Catra and Lonnie’s dynamic that have some interesting implications about their bond, both past and present. However, while these themes became more explicit this season, they are hardly new. The Horde worldbuilding is really quite brilliant, as the writers have been laying the foundation for these revelations by showcasing certain patterns since season one.

This got a little lengthy on me, but there was a lot to consider. The lack of healthy emotional expression and relationship modelling is one obvious problem in the Horde, but the hostile environment has also led to some very specific power dynamics and social structures. These structures, while potentially helpful in hostile environments, are maladaptive in terms of fostering healthy relationships. Ultimately, every character who grew up in the Horde is emotionally crippled. (I’m not even going into Adora, an excellent example, because her repression and communication problems are well-documented and I wanted to focus on characters still in this environment.)

Scorpia

Let’s start with Scorpia. Her revelation that she doesn’t understand what friendship is was a big moment for her, but for those of us who have been watching closely, it’s no big surprise. Scorpia was so desperate for a meaningful connection that she latched onto the first person who showed any signs of considering her a friend, ignoring all the red flags indicating that the relationship was not healthy. Actually, she didn’t ignore them so much as not recognize them, because she didn’t even know what a healthy relationship looks like. To her, the fact that Catra invited her to her room and chose her to accompany her on a mission was enough for her to dub them the Superpal Duo.

Of course, we all know how that went for her. She continued to support Catra unconditionally despite the latter’s tendency to use Scorpia as her emotional punching bag. They did settle into a somewhat more reciprocal and caring relationship after Scorpia saved Catra against her orders during 2x05, proving that Catra was more important to her than the mission (even if that wasn’t what Catra thought she wanted). It’s sad when you think about it, because that was probably the first time Catra ever experienced her wellbeing being prioritized above all else.

Unfortunately, the revelation that Shadow Weaver had gone running back to Adora after betraying her triggered a trauma response and made her clam up again, lashing out at Scorpia and shutting her out even though she had done nothing to betray her trust. It took Catra blatantly attacking and insulting Scorpia when she failed to bring back Entrapta’s recordings (and some well timed reality checks from Emily) for Scorpia to realize that Catra was being a bad friend and she couldn’t win her over by being a good friend.

And actually, Scorpia’s confession in 4x10 that she “thought” she was being a good friend to Catra implies that she had since realized that she wasn’t actually being a good friend to Catra either. She knows the scorpions were a loyal people and she ascribes to that ideal, and she has so much love to give and always tries so hard to be positive, but not setting boundaries with people or demanding a measure of basic respect does nothing for them or you. Also, you can’t ignore the fact that Scorpia forced her affections on Catra, inserting herself into Catra’s life in a way that made her uncomfortable, and continued to ignore Catra’s attempts at setting boundaries with her (which is also very disrespectful). While Catra was certainly the aggressor, she was not the only one who failed in this partnership.

Let’s go back for a moment to Scorpia’s earliest indication that Catra might want to be her friend, when she confides in her and enlists her help coming up with and then executing a plan. Being chosen as Catra’s wingman seems to be important here, and perhaps she was wilfully ignoring how she was the only person who could make Catra’s plan work, but being confided in and trusted was huge to her. And since Horde soldiers are so used to being used, they don’t see it as a red flag. Catra actually flat out said Scorpia was the only person she could trust. How could a lonely gay not interpret that as a sign of being special to someone?

The squad

The importance of trust also becomes evident when considering the interactions among the main squad. Loyalty seems to be paramount in the Horde, not just the scorpion kingdom. Adora defecting to the Rebellion and leaving her squad behind was seen as a huge betrayal, and not just by Catra. Did anyone else want to cry when Lonnie struck back at Adora with “we were your friends” in 1x09? Lonnie was deeply hurt by Adora’s abandonment, feeding into her disillusionment with the Horde. Similarly, when Double Trouble revealed they had double-crossed Catra, her devastated reaction was not that her plans were ruined, but that they had betrayed her. That no doubt was also related to her previous betrayals, but also serves to highlight the importance of loyalty in their subculture.

While all the Horde characters were interesting to watch this season when it came to the themes of friendship, the arc was most pronounced in Lonnie. As I’ve mentioned previously, Scorpia had a short arc over one episode where her rosy worldview was destroyed, causing her to leave (much like Adora), while Lonnie was already a cynic who was aware of the Horde’s imperfections and had to go through more extreme hardships to detach from this unhappy but familiar environment (much like Catra, we hope).

Though she and the boys didn’t leave the Horde until the finale, her disillusionment was already evident in her first episode this season. After Catra berated them for something that wasn’t their fault and demanded they risk their lives to fix it (big Hordak energy), she had her first big revelation: “Catra doesn’t care about us, Adora left us. Everything they taught us in the Horde about loyalty is meaningless. It’s everyone for themselves.” In the next episode, she was frustrated by Scorpia’s naïve enthusiasm and trust in Catra, but it took a big blow up between her and Catra for her to finally decide she was done with her, done with the Horde in general.

Kyle represents a sort of middle ground between Lonnie and Scorpia in terms of outlook. He was not treated well in the Horde, but still believed in the ideals of loyalty and squad unity. He wanted to believe Catra had sent them out on a mission into the Whispering Woods because she trusted them and wanted it to be a team-building exercise. His take on it was: “She may be mean, but we’ve always had each other’s backs. Ever since we were kids.” He saw the squad as his family, including Catra (and previously Adora). It took Catra baring her claws and threatening to attack Lonnie outside of a battle sim for him to lose faith in her.

Bullying, the pecking order, and squad unity

As is clear by this point, the Horde defections this season were driven by Catra mistreating the others, but we can’t lose sight of how mistreatment is a fact of daily life in the Horde. And as I mentioned above with Lonnie, it’s those who were most aware of and desensitized to the mistreatment who had the hardest time naming it and leaving the toxic environment. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, call it the sunk cost fallacy, but either way once you’ve submitted to a system that dehumanizes you, it’s hard to admit that that system is wrong and leave it for a better life. Scorpia and Adora grew up somewhat privileged in the Horde in that they were destined for greatness, so they were never abused overtly and they had a level of protection from power-hungry cadets looking to claw their way to the top of the heap. They were already at the top and couldn’t be taken down, so they didn’t have to bully or be bullied.

The importance of pecking order is much more evident when considering people like Kyle, Catra, and Lonnie. Within their squad, Kyle is obviously the omega of the gang (get your heads out of the gutter, that is not what I mean), the one who gets blamed for everything that goes wrong and is constantly getting picked on. Lonnie shits on him, Catra shits on him, and even Rogelio gives him shit and goes along with the blame game. Despite all this, Kyle considers them his friends, his family.

This starts to make sense when you consider it in terms of intra vs. extra squad relations. Maybe the squad didn’t show Kyle any respect or treat him with kindness, but they did protect him in battle sims (sometimes lol) and rescue him from the spore storm. You also kind of get the impression that although they bullied him and asserted their dominance on the regs, they would protect him if other people tried to hurt him. You might say he’s the pet of the gang – he has no power within the structure and it may not be pleasant, but the structure still offers advantages. Having allies was still good for him even if he was at the bottom of the pecking order within the alliance.

Through a sociology lens, you might say the squad (and the Horde in general, given it’s a military society) follows the stereotypical male model of friend groups with clear pecking orders that everyone buys into (with exceptions for blatant power struggles), as opposed to the stereotypical female model that appears less hostile and more cooperative outwardly but involves a lot of underhanded infighting. (Obviously those are broad generalizations and it can be argued how much of it is nature vs. nurture, but they are observable patterns that boys and girls are socialized into in many human societies.) This ties in interestingly to @jaelav3‘s observations about masculinity equating to strength and femininity equating to power in the Horde (a meta she really needs to write, because it’s brilliant). The hostility of the Horde forces soldiers into these rigid pecking orders in order to find protection in a dangerous place. When everyone knows and accepts their role, it is easier for the squad to function in a unified manner and protect each other, even if it’s at the cost of their mental and emotional health.

Now, when not everybody buys into the pecking order or it’s ambiguous, and/or if there’s a sudden power vacuum, that’s when things get interesting…

Catra and Lonnie, the perfect case study

Catra also suffered a lot of bullying and abuse in the Horde, but in a very different way than Kyle. She was in a unique and kind of contradictory position where she was somewhat protected by her close friendship with Adora, but she was also Shadow Weaver’s favourite chew toy and everyone knew it, which made her a target as well. If Shadow Weaver abused her, she wasn’t going to care if the other cadets abused her as well. Catra’s defensive body language and general distrustfulness and hostility gives the impression that she was bullied behind Adora’s back and Shadow Weaver turned a blind eye, perhaps even encouraged it.

This was all illustrated in 1x03, when Catra and Lonnie butted heads and Catra was forced to back down when two other cadets backed up Lonnie, then Lonnie told her to watch it because Adora wasn’t around to protect her anymore. That one line alone told so much of their story. This was also one of the few times we saw cadets using people from other squads to affect their own squad’s dynamics, as – like I said – that seems to be kept mostly in-house. It may have had something to do with Lonnie’s overall standing among the cadets or how Kyle and Rogelio rank lower in their little hierarchy and seem uninterested in getting involved with the power politics, but I digress.

The argument itself was meaningless, really - the whole thing was a pissing contest, an attempt to assert dominance within their squad’s sudden power vacuum. Lonnie fancied herself the new leader of the squad, and she ended up getting her wish in a backwards way when Catra was promoted out of the squad and given official power over her. Catra, of course, took every opportunity to rub this in Lonnie’s face, perpetuating the cycle of abuse she’d fallen victim to.

The reason they had a power struggle in the first place wasn’t just because Adora left, it was because their pecking order was previously unclear. Catra wasn’t very cooperative and tended to go rogue, so she didn’t slot nicely into the power structure. She was also perceived as lazy, as she had adopted an air of nonchalance once she realized she’d never get the recognition or praise so easily heaped on Adora. (Why try when failing hurts so much?) That being said, she was Adora’s best friend and basically her sidekick, so in a way that made her second-in-command of the squad.

On the other hand, Lonnie was devoted to the squad and was always around to provide tangible support, so she was also kind of Adora’s second-in-command. Combined with her harder work ethic, this also gave her a very legitimate claim to the throne. She was obviously pissed when her teammate she saw as a lazy asshat got promoted, but to her credit she lived up to her own personal ethics, buying in and not pushing back against Catra’s authority until late in season 4.

Despite the power struggle, however, Catra and Lonnie do seem to have a bond. Even if they don’t like each other, they have a certain level of trust in each other. When the princesses invaded the Fright Zone in 3x04 and shit started to go sideways, the first person Catra was looking for to try to get support and/or answers was Lonnie. Then in 4x10 when she was starting to lose her mind amid a lack of sleep and Scorpia’s defection, she pulled Lonnie aside and demanded to know what was going on among the soldiers, what they thought of her.

This was an incredibly interesting scene with some deep implications. Because while it was on one hand an expression of trust in Lonnie, it was also an acknowledgement that Lonnie was one of her bullies and held clout among the people who have demeaned and abused her in the past. It also showed that Catra still has social anxiety and her sense of social power (as opposed to power in terms of rank) is very fragile, which is extremely characteristic of a bullying victim. Also, the fact that Catra said, “Just leave. Like everybody else.” implied that Lonnie leaving would hurt her emotionally, which is rather illuminating.

As for Lonnie, her loyalty meant she bought into the system and expected to Catra to do her job running the place, taking care of the Horde. And Catra certainly succeeded early on, taking territory and increasing productivity. In return, Lonnie was a loyal and obedient soldier, even if she never hesitated to give Catra a bit of attitude. But she became frustrated in season 4 when Catra went on her sunk cost fallacy spiral and ended up making things worse for everyone else as well as herself. This failure was a huge betrayal to Lonnie, and it’s important to note that she wouldn’t feel betrayed or disappointed if she had expected nothing of Catra in the first place. It’s one thing to be kind of a dick about your superior rank, another entirely to endanger your squad/friends (or anyone you are responsible for, really) and run them into the ground as a remedy for your own anxiety.

The breaking point of course was the scene in the locker room in 4x12, when a lonely Catra tried to be “friends” with the squad again and was briefly successful in mending fences a little until she snapped at Kyle and then at Lonnie, calling them pathetic. This prompted Lonnie to shove her, which in turn made Catra bare her claws and rush Lonnie. There was really no coming back from that, even though Kyle intervened before anyone got hurt.

As an aside, Kyle stepping up in this scene was amazing - this season in general was everything I wanted for him. And it’s important that it was him who intervened, because he was really the only one who could ask Catra, “We used to be your friends, why are you treating us like this?” It makes perfect sense for Catra to push back at Lonnie given their history, but Kyle doesn’t have a history of bullying Catra (quite the opposite). And wow, it had an impact on Catra. You could just see the confusion and regret on her face before she brings back the façade of anger and kicks them out.

When the squad left the Horde, Lonnie said that they were done protecting Catra. This assertion is interesting, given their checkered past – since when was anyone protecting Catra? Lonnie bullied her, and none of them protected Catra from Shadow Weaver, not even Adora (though bless her heart, she tried). But this does make some sense when you consider how much of the idea of friendship is based on loyalty, and how important that adherence to the structure is for protection. In Lonnie’s mind, even if Catra was now their commander, they were still a unit in a way. And she saw standing by and obeying Catra to be a form of protection, helping her stay respected and carry out her plans. Lonnie is a good support person, and by removing her support, she was in a way removing her protection as well.

(After the series is over I might just go all out and do a huge-ass meta about Catra and Lonnie through the seasons. I am absolutely fascinated by this relationship, if you can’t tell.)

Allyship

Overall, you can’t help but get the impression that the Horde’s version of friendship is more akin to allyship. It’s protection, unity, loyalty. However, that doesn’t mean they don’t get emotionally attached, it’s more that how you feel about someone is less important than what that relationship can do for you. That’s why Scorpia doesn’t even understand what friendship is. That’s why Catra tolerates “friends” who annoy her, because they’re useful to her (not that she doesn’t get attached in time, but that’s not why she tolerates them in the first place).

Catra’s one of the few people in the Horde who has experienced real friendship, as her bond with Adora was much more emotional than practical (even if it was both). And that explains why she eventually lashed out at Scorpia and said they were not friends when clearly they were by the Horde’s definition. Her and Adora really had taken the friends thing to a different level, and she was missing that dearly.

It will be interesting to watch the interactions between the Horde characters when they are thrown back together in new circumstances, out of the Horde’s rigid power structure. Honestly, the redefining of these alliances and friendships is one of the things I am most looking forward to in the final season.

#spop #she-ra #she ra #meta #the horde #catralonnie #scorptra #catradora #horde squad #catra #scorpia #lonnie #kyle #rogelio #adora #bullying #abuse #sociology

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racke7 · 3 years

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Supernatural Redone

So, because I started thinking about it, and because I'm bored. I decided to try to reimagine Supernatural into having a solid narrative all the way through. That is to say, that the first few episodes are consistent with later episodes in regards to “what is at stake” and “what is the enemy”.

(Supernatural is somewhat notorious for falling into ever-escalating power-struggles. Kind of like Dragonball.)

The first episode starts out the same. Sam's college-life gets interrupted by Dean showing up and telling him that their dad has gone missing “on a hunt”. They then set off to investigate various sites that their dad could've been investigating at the time of his disappearance.

During this process, various background-truths come to light. Things like Sam having basically walked out on their family, and that Dean was in many ways responsible for raising him, because their father was busy on his “quest for vengeance” against all the monsters (since a monster killed their mother).

Dean wasn't necessarily on good terms with their father either, but he was the one who always tried so hard to make him proud. And apparently the only one he ever seemed to be proud of was Sam who “went to college”.

Never mentioning that to do so, he abandoned his brother (who practically raised him himself) and more-or-less buried his head in the sand about the truth of all of the monsters who prey upon humanity.

Dean has a... complicated relationship to both Sam and their father. But he's picked his direction in life (hunting monsters for the betterment of humanity), and is painfully aware that trying to do the job solo won't end well. Which is why he's recruiting Sam for it.

Sam understands that going on solo-hunts is a good way to get killed, and for all that he dislikes their father and has some complicated feelings about Dean, he doesn't want his brother to get himself killed. So Sam follows, despite clearly wanting to go back to college and live a “normal” life, away from the death-defying bullshit of hunting monsters.

During their journey to hopefully track down some clue about their father, they encounter some kind of monster-thing that seems to have possessed one guy in particular. The monster-thing keeps popping up, trying to help them against the monster-of-the-week, and neither of the brothers are entirely sold on it.

It calls itself 'Castiel', and Sam keeps pointing out that “angels aren't real”. Castiel isn't very good at emoting, but generally just ignores Sam whenever he gets going about religion. Dean is just so close to pulling the trigger on the damn thing, but doesn't want to do it because there is a human in there.

Dean does this job because he wants to protect humans, and he really doesn't want to kill one. Even by accident. There are however probably hints that he might've done so in the past (Sam doesn't seem to be aware of this).

Either way, with the brothers unable to really attack Castiel, Castiel begins hanging out with them more and more frequently, and seems to be developing a little bit more in the sense of “human emotions” as a result.

Castiel cares very deeply about the idea of protecting humans, but also doesn't want to interfere with humans. Or rather, keeps saying that they shouldn't be interfering with humans, but will always step in if a human is being threatened. And Dean... kind of respects that.

(Cue weird homoerotic tension between Dean and Castiel.)

Sam and Dean finally hear about some clairvoyant person and whilst Dean is highly skeptical, Sam insist that they go ask them about their father.

The clairvoyant person (after a bunch of monster-of-the-week shenanigans) finally relents and gives Sam the information that they've been looking for.

Their father went after a bunch of monster-worshiping cultists. Sam tells Dean and Dean warns him that those cultists are “bad news” and that they really should maybe perhaps reconsider going there at all.

Sam pushes on, because if they can find their father then Sam can finally go back to his college-life that he left behind. Dean is very reluctant, but also very much refuses to let Sam go after them on his own.

Upon arriving, they find an abandoned house. Sam is frustrated, but Dean is still nervous and wants them to just leave already. Sam insists that they continue looking.

After interviewing the neighbors, Sam hears about a bunch of murders that took place in the house. Some kind of crazy person breaking in and shooting everyone. Thankfully the kids made it out okay.

Sam is a bit confused, because monsters generally don't use guns, and so he goes looking for the kids who supposedly survived the whole thing.

Sam drags Dean off to meet with them, and Dean is very blatantly reluctant to go. Sam needles him about “being scared of little kids” since he's been worried about the cultists all this time, and they're clearly all already dead.

Sam interviews one of the kids, and it goes mostly alright. Sam isn't used to kids, and the kid is a bit traumatized about the “scary men” who attacked their home. Apparently, there were two men involved. Which is news to Sam, but alright.

Unfortunately, the kid then catches sight of Dean and gets very scared. Because that's one of the “scary men”.

Sam makes a quick retreat, and confronts Dean about it. Dean continues to be very cagey and trying to persuade Sam to just “drop it, and let's leave, dad clearly isn't here”.

Sam puts his foot down and refuses, because why were there two men, and why does the kid recognize Dean as one of them?

Dean finally and with a great deal of reluctance and bottled-up anger relents. Dean brings Sam back to the abandoned house, and finally tells him.

Their father decided to attack the cultists, and Dean went with him, because it was a big group and he needed the backup. They made it into the building, found out a bunch of really fucked up shit about the cultists, and started blasting. So far so good, Dean isn't really proud of it, but the cultists had it coming.

Then they found a room filled with children. Children who didn't really understand the fucked up shit, but were still the children of the people who did the fucked up shit. So they were rightly terrified of the people who broke into their home and murdered their parents.

But Dean and Sam's father saw this as them being “accomplices” who'd inevitably grow up to be just as bad as the cultists. And so he decided to kill them too.

So Dean shot him in the back, terrified out of his mind, because those were just kids.

Sam is understandably horrified about what happened. Both that their father would do something like that, and with the idea of everything that Dean told him about “dad going missing on a hunt” having been a lie.

Dean angrily pointing out that he'd had nowhere else to go. Nobody else to turn to. And that the monsters weren't going to just stop murdering people just because it was Dean's fault that he was hunting solo.

Basically, a big and emotional fight between brothers.

Now. This could either go in the direction of forgiveness from Sam's side of things. Of him finally calming down and thinking it through and telling Dean that he “did the right thing” in killing their father, and that he's sorry that he had to do that.

Or it could end with Sam finally breaking off his last family-bond with Dean in particular, instead of just “walking out on the family-business”. Leaving Dean to mourn the train-wreck that is his life. Up until Castiel walks into the screen, and crouches down next to him, offering his own brand of awkward comfort (“there's a place just down the street that makes excellent pie”).

Either way, the end result is that Sam goes back to his college-life, and Dean teams up with Castiel to continue saving people from monsters. Even if those monsters sometimes turn out to be humans.

(Nobody ever finds out if Castiel is actually an angel, or is just using the name of one. But he’s clearly not a bad person, despite apparently possessing someone who may-or-may-not have consented to it.)

#stories #supernatural #rants #my writing

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hellomynameisbisexual · 3 years

Text

“Faggot.” “Cocksucker.” “Femboy.” “Abomination.” Gay. The list of names I’ve been called since coming out as bisexual in June 2020 doesn’t stop there — nor did it stop when I went public with my sexual identity either.

From a young age, I knew I was different from my peers.

Maybe it was the way I walked. Or the way I talked. Or the way I dressed. I just knew I stood out to them like a sore thumb — or perhaps a rainbow of color in a sea of dull gray.

My differences became evident to me when other children at the preschool I attended in suburban San Diego, California, would forsake my company in favor of each other, already forming cliques and inciting drama at such an innocent age.

When my family and I moved to dreary Erie, Pennsylvania, I knew my struggles would only get worse.

Many of the children in my kindergarten class had already known each other for several years before I entered the picture.

They quickly noticed differences in my mannerisms, speech patterns, thoughts and ideas. I wasn’t like the other boys, but I wasn’t like the girls either. I was an outlier, a foreigner and a stranger considered dangerous and unwelcome.

Though I made friends the following few years — including some who would become lifelong companions — most of those primary friendships mirrored the kernels of a neglected ear of corn: delicious when ripe but quick to harden, rot and flake off.

By my fourth grade year, I was teased and bullied nearly daily for being too feminine, too weird, too annoying to fit into my school’s social circles.

When I told my teachers about my struggles, their solution was to attempt to masculinize me by placing me in groups of athletic boys in my class, boys I had nothing in common with and who certainly had nothing in common with me.

Even my grandparents — then and now my caretakers — noticed my un-boyish behavior and enrolled me in the local little league baseball team — whether to also attempt to instill in me a sense of masculinity and male toughness or to help me make new friends I knew not.

I would grudgingly participate in the sport for six, nigh on seven grueling years, never making a single lasting friend and crying almost weekly from the torment it caused me.

Needless to say, I felt like a floundering fish without fins in a sea of angry, hungry sharks during those years.

It wasn’t until the final year of my elementary education that I was introduced to the concepts of puberty, adolescence and sex.

I was told that very soon, I would start noticing the girls in my class and would begin to want to form meaningful relationships with them. Eventually, I would become sexually attracted to them and want to have children with them.

But in those coming years, though many girls would pique my interest, it wasn’t them who ignited the fire in my soul and made me feel the burning passion of desire — it was men.

I quickly realized it was this that set me apart from my male peers and resulted in me being shunned by the girls. I was a boy — soon to be a man — in every physical way, but I wasn’t attracted to or passionate about girls like the other boys in my class were. I was obsessed with men.

But I couldn’t possibly be gay, could I?

Growing up in a household of religious relatives, I was always taught that sex before marriage was a wicked abomination and that being anything but straight was a sin comparable to none.

I distinctly remember watching a news broadcast with my family around the time I was transitioning to my middle school years. The ABC World News clip showcased LGBT marriages being performed out west and contained affirming remarks from then-President Barack Obama on the matter.

“The Bible says marriage is between a man and a woman,” I remember my aunt saying in utter disgust at the television, murmurs of agreement echoing her around the room.

I resolved then to hide my feelings and my pubescent curiosity from my family at all costs, lest I be scolded, shunned or worse: abandoned.

During middle school, I relentlessly dug deep within myself and attempted to alter what I thought was but a simple mental barrier to social normality. All thoughts of being with men were forcibly suppressed in my mind before they could even become tangible, and each of my increasingly urgent bodily needs went ignored and unsatiated.

I even resorted to religion, the only weapon I thought strong enough to aid me in the war raging inside myself.

Day and night, I attempted to “pray the gay away,” but to little avail. Much to my chagrin, I realized that even divine intervention could not “help” me: My homosexuality seemed to be an immortal, malignant tumor infecting each and every one of my thoughts.

Thus, the preliminary years of my second decade of life became miserable and unfulfilling — I was engaged in a fierce battle with an integral aspect of my identity and was inadvertently shattering the chains that bound a beast capable of obliterating every fiber of my cognitive being — anxiety.

By my high school years, men — mean, nasty and indifferent but awe-inspiring, mystifying and oh-so-gorgeous men — had begun to control my deepest, darkest desires and fantasies. My lust had grown large enough to thwart even my most furious attempts at diminishing it.

As I slowly came to terms with the realization that nothing in the universe could “fix” me, my mental situation severely worsened. I fell into a dangerous downward spiral of self-doubt and woefulness.

My relationship with my grandparents quickly began to deteriorate, as did my relationships with my friends. Every day brought with it a new reason to hate my existence — the constant verbal altercations, the continued teasing and even bullying at school, the countless lonely nights spent sobbing quietly into my pillow.

And, to make matters worse, the true nature of my sexuality seemed to express itself in each of my social mannerisms. It wasn’t long before despicable rumors about me spread through the student body of my high school like wildfire.

My teachers noticed my strife, and some took the time to speak with me about a few of the different mental illnesses they suspected I had. But not even they could halt the hordes of horrifying thoughts racing through my head or the string of ruthless comments that would assault me in the hallways.

Soon, however, the light at the end of the long, grueling tunnel that was public education began to shine: I was graduating from high school and about to start fresh. Nothing could have contained my excitement at the prospect of escaping the largest source of my daily torment.

As I digested the freedom going to college offered, idealistic daydreams began to flood my mind — I could live how I wanted with whomever I wanted, and no one could judge me or tell me differently.

How wrong I was.

My first year as an undergraduate student at Penn State Behrend was a living hell.

Though the petty and immature teasing of high school was no longer an issue, standing up for my newfound political identity was, as well as dealing with my growing anxiety.

I was constantly engaged in polite yet heated political debates with those in my dorm. I felt like they were blatantly attempting to oppress me with their own beliefs and had grown to hate me for mine.

The same situation occurred with my grandparents, and we grew increasingly distant over the course of that year.

It didn’t help that I was still “in the closet,” so to speak, and contemplating methods of publicly revealing my true sexual identity. I hadn’t yet officially told anyone I was bisexual, and it remained my most closely guarded secret.

Needless to say, my social circumstances and the added stress of my adjustment to college academics and lifestyle allowed my mental state to reach an unprecedented low. I needed help.

That same year, I saw my family physician and then a psychiatrist, who prescribed me antidepressants in an attempt to lessen my now untameable anxiety. I took them with gusto and also began attending therapy sessions to teach me how to manage my thoughts and emotions.

For a small while, I felt better — I was actually happy in my skin and even happy with my bisexuality.

But then, even my long-awaited mental comfort abandoned me, and I slipped into the deepest, darkest pit of my life.

I became suicidal but never acted on that petrifying potentiality.

I didn’t trust myself to be alone, so I constantly sought the company of others, which only made me feel like a nuisance and waste of time, energy and space.

About a month later — in October 2018 — I got into an accident.

I was barrelling down the highway, escaping a particularly heated verbal altercation with my grandfather. It was raining that day, and the roads were slippery.

Going around a curve, I lost control of my vehicle and flew into a small ravine, flipping not once, not twice but three times in midair before landing upright — dazed, but alive.

Escaping relatively physically unscathed from the incident, with only a broken right clavicle, I was not mentally the same for weeks afterward.

I decided at that time I would come out and reveal my true sexuality at the soonest possible opportunity — I blamed my silence on every terrible situation that had occurred in my life up to that point. If I didn’t come out, I quite literally thought I would die.

Telling even my closest friends was difficult, but I managed, and the relief I felt was paramount to that of the titan Atlas in Greek mythology: I felt like the weight of the entire world — sky and all — had been lifted from my shoulders.

Fast forward to the present: I’m alive, well, out and proud. I’m no longer ashamed of my innate traits or of my thoughts.

Being a bisexual man has taught me many lessons, but foremost among them is that the people who can’t accept me for who and what I am don’t deserve to be in my life.

My anxiety made it difficult to let go of toxic relationships over the years — I learned that the primary source of my mental strife is a fear of abandonment by those I care about — but doing so opened the door to newer, healthier relationships that build me up and boost my confidence instead of chipping away at it.

I’ve since improved tremendously, and not even the onset of the coronavirus pandemic was able to pause my progress. Every day is a learning experience, and I’ve grown so much from the helpless boy I was mere months ago that if you showed me a map of my mentality from 2018, 2019 or even 2020, I wouldn’t recognize myself at all.

Revealing my bisexuality to the world didn’t solve all my issues — there were and still are other factors that contribute to my anxiety and mental health — but coming out was perhaps the most profound, life-altering moment in my 21 years. Nothing compares to the freedom I now enjoy, nor will any other experience compare to the relief I felt following my announcement.

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pastelwitchling · 4 years

Text

The day had started with a knock at the door.

Alex had woken up in the middle of the night and had stayed awake, preferring to focus his mind on coding and military work than try to let it rest for another second. He’d been doing so since he’d come back to Roswell, and even more so since Michael and Maria had started dating. It never mattered that they broke up, something in Alex had shattered at the thought of Maria’s hands on Michael’s body, kissing down the trails that Alex had kissed himself.

The real problem now, however, was the fact that Alex was struggling to do almost anything during the day, the exhaustion taking over more and more of his sanity. But he couldn’t go back to sleep, he couldn’t hide behind any more trenches, hear any more explosions, run from his father, run from the man he loved and the woman who had been meant to love him and yet betrayed him. Alex would’ve rather let the exhaustion kill him than succumb to these nightmares.

But that also meant that time stopped having any meaning, so when Alex heard the knock at his front door, he thought it was still barely dawn. A glance at his phone told him it was almost noon. Days off without any work schedule will do that to a man.

He pushed himself off the counter and went to answer, surprised to see Max Evans standing on the other side, smiling mischievously as if he and Alex were best friends sharing a dangerous secret.

“Morning, Manes!” Max said, uncharacteristically cheerful.

“Uh – good morning, Max,” Alex said with furrowed brows, stepping aside as Max let himself in. “Did – did something happen?”

“Hm?” Max looked over his shoulder at Alex, arms crossed behind his back. “No. I just felt like coming to see you.” He raised an eyebrow at him. “That okay?”

Alex blinked, surprised. A blush rose up his neck but he ignored it and began quickly clearing away his files. “Y—Yeah, that’s fine. Does Michael know you’re here?”

Max chuckled. “Come on, Alex, you know Michael. No one can even mention your name around him. You know, because he�� – here he did animated quotes with his fingers – “loves you.”

Alex’s brows furrowed. “Max?”

“Or, you know,” Max shrugged. “So he says. Doesn’t really act like it though, does he?” He chuckled. “What a dick. You want me to make you some breakfast? I’m basically Chef Ramsay with a few eggs and spices.”

“Uh – Max,” Alex asked. “Are you okay?”

Max stilled for a moment in front of the stove, but when he turned to Alex, his smile was smaller, more hesitant, the kind of smile Alex knew Max to usually have. Though there was something about the look in his eyes…

“I miss Liz,” he said blatantly. “You know, with her gone to California, I just thought you would understand what it feels like to miss someone and not be able to tell them.”

Alex felt an odd chill at the base of his spine at the darkness in Max’s eyes. Something still felt off, though Alex couldn’t put his finger on what exactly. “I…”

“I can’t tell Michael,” Max shook his head. “You know what he’s like, he doesn’t take anything seriously, he doesn’t think anything’s worth caring about –”

“He cares about you and Isobel,” he defended.

“I know,” Max nodded gravely. “I know, but he doesn’t love anyone like you and I do. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to feel like you’re burning from the inside because of how badly you want that person.” He sighed. “Alex. Michael doesn’t have room in his heart to really love just one person. He fights for who he loves… but not to keep anyone. He just doesn’t care enough.”

Alex blinked, startled at the cruelty of Max’s words. He wanted to deny them, to tell Max just how loving Michael could be, to tell him of all the times Michael had fought for him… and he came up with nothing. All Alex could pull from his memory were moments Michael had taunted him, had turned him away, had refused him, had let him turn away without a question, without holding on, without a single request to stay. Then there was the moment Michael chose someone else because it was easier.

Alex’s shoulders fell only for a moment, his gaze dropped for a single instant, but it was enough for Max to notice, and for a split second, Alex thought he saw Max smirk, but when he blinked, the man’s expression was one of sympathy and kindness.

Still…

“So,” Max shrugged a shoulder, his smile so gentle and so full of hesitation that Alex could not help but sympathize. “Can I make you some breakfast?”

“I…” Alex glanced at the door, half-expecting Michael to suddenly come in and explain what Max was really doing here, and why his brother was offering to do something nice for Alex instead of him. “Sure.”

Max smiled, and Alex felt the small ball of tension in his chest loosen just slightly. “Okay! Okay, food for two.” He pushed Alex’s shoulders, guiding him onto a stool at the counter. “You just sit down and relax, I’ll take care of everything.”

Alex sat down with a sigh and watched with a smile tugging at his lips as Max took a carton of eggs and a bundle of vegetables from Alex’s fridge as if he lived there. Alex had no idea how hungry he was until Max set a colorful omelet in front of him with an expectant smile, waiting for his reaction. Alex dug in and his eyes fluttered. A moan escaped his lips and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand, hoping it would take the sound back, but it was too late. Max had heard him and his smile had widened.

“Good?”

Alex shook his head. “Amazing.” He pointed a fork at Max. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Max blinked, as if surprised to be offered. “Sure. Yeah. Breakfast, you and me.”

So Alex and Max sat and laughed and talked. All about little nothings but none of it mattered because for the first time, Alex wasn’t thinking about Michael or Project Shepherd, but about Jane Austen and movies and Hamilton. He was smiling and it didn’t feel forced. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

Then his phone rang.

Alex glanced down at the name flashing on the screen and any semblance of a smile on his lips disappeared. Max followed his gaze and his brows furrowed. They sat in silence until the phone stopped ringing.

“Why didn’t you pick up?” Max asked.

Alex searched Max’s face carefully, looking for any sign of judgment, any disappointment. There was none. He sighed, choosing to smile instead of cry about it like he wanted. Like he’d been wanting for the past few years.

“Because I’m having breakfast with you,” he said simply and stood, taking his and Max’s empty plates. Max was staring at him with an unreadable expression. “Look,” Alex said, putting the plates in the sink, “for the first time in a long time I’m having an actual good morning. Can’t I have it just a little longer? And then, I promise I’ll call him and help him with whatever he needs.”

Max smirked, something that reminded Alex a little too much of Michael. He shrugged. “I’m not here as Michael’s brother, Alex.” He scoffed then, as if he’d made a private joke. “Believe me. You want to have a good morning, let’s have a good morning.”

Alex began to smile, but then they heard a tapping on the roof and rubble fell from the ceiling.

“What the hell,” Alex muttered.

Max tilted his head. “Must be an animal up there or something.”

Alex rubbed his eyes. “If it’s picking at the wood, I need to stop it.”

Max stood. “Now?”

“I don’t want to let it get worse,” Alex said. “I’m sorry. Hey, make yourself at home, I’ll be right back.”

Alex turned, not even considering that he was leaving Max alone with his phone that had started, once again, to ring.

“Come on, Alex,” Michael muttered. “Pick up. Pick up.”

“He’s still not answering?” Isobel asked, sitting across from him in a Crashdown booth. “Maybe he’s still asleep.”

“Alex is always up before the sun is,” Michael said. “He doesn’t really sleep.”

She frowned. “Aw.”

Michael was directed to voicemail again. He got off the automated message and dialed again.

“Would you give it up?” she said. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I just need to hear his voice,” Michael said.

“Then go see him.”

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

Michael was just about to hang up and try texting instead when Alex picked up on the other end.

“Private?”

“No,” Max answered. “Not exactly.”

Michael frowned. “Max?” He caught Isobel’s gaze. She looked just as surprised as he was. “What’re you doing with Alex’s phone?”

“Oh, we’re just spending the morning together,” Max said cheerfully. “It’s been a lot of fun. I’d ask you to come, but… well, Alex really hates you right now.”

Michael’s brows furrowed, a painful sting in his chest. “What?”

“He just gets it, you know?” Max said matter-of-factly. Michael was getting more and more confused.

“Max, what’re you talking about? What’s really going on?”

“Michael, I’m telling you,” Max said with a chuckle. Was he drunk? “Alex and I just understand each other. I know what he’s going through. Being abandoned by the one you love sucks. Not that you’d know, am I right?”

Michael’s fingers curled to fists. “Max,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m being there for Alex,” Max said sweetly. “Does that bother you, Michael? Does it upset you that someone could actually care about Alex? Or do you want him to wait on the sidelines until you decide he’s worth your time?”

Michael’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. Isobel kept nudging his arm, asking him what was wrong, but Michael couldn’t hear her anymore. Because just then, Max Evans walked through the front door of the Crashdown. Isobel followed his gaze and gasped, her eyes wide.

Michael stood. Max saw him and came over, concern evident in his expression.

“Mr. Jones,” Michael hissed before Max could ask what was wrong. “If you touch a hair on his head –”

“Then what?” Mr. Jones laughed. “Tell me, what will you do, Michael?”

“Listen to me, you sick bastard –”

“It’s too bad, you know,” Mr. Jones said. “He’s pretty handsome. Really nice, too. But, you see, the problem is… he’s too clever. Pesky, I know, but how am I supposed to corner you guys if he’s always there to save your asses? No. You understand I have to do something about it, right? Nothing personal.”

Michael was already out of the Crashdown, Isobel and Max at his heels. “I’ll find you,” he said. “You hurt him in any way, and I swear, it will be the last thing you ever do!”

“Oh, gotta go, Michael!” Mr. Jones said cheerfully. “Alex is working on the roof. I should probably go make sure he doesn’t, you know, slip and fall to a painful death. Later!”

Michael tried to argue, to threaten, to plead, but the line had already turned dead.

“Alex, hold up!” Max called as Alex brought out the long ladder and set it against the side of the house.

“Max, I told you I’ve got it,” Alex said. “You should go back inside, have some coffee.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a Superman if I let you do this by yourself, would I?”

Alex laughed, and Max smiled. “Superman?”

“Don’t look at me!” Max said. “I’m not the one that came up with it! But,” he sighed, “I figured that if everyone was going to make me out to be so perfect, then I should probably do more than screw up all the time.”

“You’re talking about Liz,” he said softly.

“I let her down,” Max nodded. “Least I can do is help make sure her best friend stays safe.”

Alex looked to the ladder and sighed. “All right, hold onto it then.” He got ready to climb as Max hung onto the ladder. He paused, “And don’t worry. This time, Liz was in the wrong. She’s just got too much pride to admit it. But she’s smart, she’ll realize that she made a mistake, and she’ll come back.”

Max scoffed. “You, Alex Manes, are way too nice for this town.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

It was slow, Alex’s climb up the ladder, but eventually he made it to the roof. He tried not to show how out of breath he already was, looking around for the animal tapping on the wood. Instead, he found that a part of the roof was caved in, barely held together by the support beams below.

Alex frowned. “What the hell?”

“What’s going on?” Max called from below.

Alex shook his head. “It looks like something struck the roof and broke the wood apart.”

Max hummed. “Or someone.”

“Who would be able to do this? I would’ve noticed if someone had been on my roof, they would’ve had to not use their… hands…” Alex looked down again and was met with two sights.

The first was that the ladder had been taken down and Alex was now stuck on the roof. The second was that Max was watching him, amused, his arms crossed.

Alex stepped back slowly so that he could hold onto his chimney but keep an eye on Max – or the imposter, he should say – at once.

“You’re not Max.”

“No,” Mr. Jones said with mock sympathy. “But hey, getting you up there was easier than I thought it’d be. I thought this would have to be a lot messier, but falling off the roof works, too.” He cackled. “You’re usually too smart to trick. You must be tired!”

“Get away from me,” Alex warned.

“Oh I won’t touch you, Alex,” Mr. Jones smiled. “That’s sort of the point. Murder always comes with way too many questions. Accidents, on the other hand…”

“No one will believe that I let myself fall off the roof,” Alex said.

“They will actually, want to know why?” Mr. Jones tilted his head. “Because you’re broken, Alex. You’re a shattered toy who can barely stay on your feet, and everyone knows it. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat…. Max Evans may be Superman… but you’re definitely not.” He shrugged. “Anywho. We don’t really have a lot of time, so –”

Mr. Jones put out a hand and Alex felt himself suddenly jerk forward. He managed to stay on the roof only by grabbing the chimney at the last second.

“It’s a shame,” Mr. Jones sighed. “You really could’ve been someone, you know, if you weren’t so busy looking after everyone else. Let this be a lesson for the future; only look out for yourself. Well, you won’t have a future, but you get my point, right?”

He tried to yank Alex off again, and once again, Alex held on by the tip of his fingers, his nails scraping the bricks and breaking off. Alex’s fingers bled and his hands scarred, his head felt heavy and the world was spinning. He was too tired to keep holding on, too disoriented to think of a plan. All he could do was hang on as Mr. Jones tried to throw him off the roof again, and again, and again.

“You’re being really difficult right now, Alex!” Mr. Jones snapped, the both of them breathing heavily after several minutes. “Would you just… die… ALREADY?!”

Michael, Alex thought desperately, terrified that just saying the cowboy’s name would take too much of the energy he was using to stay alive. He wanted to see Michael, he wanted to tell him how much he loved him, how much he would miss him. Where are you? Alex shut his eyes tight, thinking of Michael, his grip on the chimney weakening.

One more pull, he knew, was all it would take. Then –

CRASH!

Alex opened his eyes and gasped. Mr. Jones had been thrown into the set of chairs and tables Alex had in his backyard. He was unconscious.

“Alex!” Michael called. “Alex, where are you?!”

“Here,” Alex breathed, then, louder, “Up here!”

Michael, Isobel, and the real Max came into view, looking as if they’d run a marathon.

“Alex,” Michael called, eyes wild. “Are you okay?!”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, I’m – I’m fine.”

“Michael,” Max said, lifting the ladder. “Help me with this.”

The both of them set the ladder against the wall for Alex to climb down. Max held onto the ladder while Michael held his arms out for Alex. The airman barely touched the ground before he was engulfed in a bone-crushing hug.

“You’re okay,” Michael breathed against his hair. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

“Alex,” Isobel stared cautiously at Mr. Jones who Max was injecting with what looked like a serum. “What happened?”

Alex shook his head. Michael would not release him for a second. “I thought he was Max. I’m sorry, I – I should’ve been able to tell.”

“You’re exhausted, look at you,” Michael said, taking Alex’s face in his hands. He seemed to forget himself as he kissed Alex’s forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. Alex stopped him before he mindlessly kissed his lips.

“I’m – I’m okay,” Alex said, though he kept a tight hold on Michael’s jacket. “Really.”

Michael seemed to realize that Alex also wanted to stay close, and he brought an arm around his back, rubbing soothingly. Alex thought he could almost collapse against him and fall asleep now.

“What did he want with me though?” Alex asked.

“He knows how important you are to us,” Michael said.

“All the help you’ve given us,” Max shook his head as he came over. “You’re kind of our protector, Alex. He doesn’t really like that.”

“No kidding,” Alex muttered. Looking at Max now, he could see the difference between them. Max’s eyes were darker, but his concern more genuine, his kindness almost palpable. Alex blushed when he thought of the man he’d had breakfast with. He found himself disappointed that he’d lost a friend he didn’t know he needed.

“I’m here now,” Michael said against his hair, and Alex’s heart hammered painfully in his chest. “He won’t touch you again.”

Alex turned his red face away from Isobel and Max’s eyes. He wished Michael wouldn’t talk to him like that in front of other people.

“I just need some sleep,” Alex shook his head against Michael’s chest. “Please, just… get him off my property,” he nudged with his chin at Mr. Jones. “I don’t want to see him here again.”

Max nodded sympathetically, touched his shoulder, and asked for Isobel’s help dragging Mr. Jones to his car. Meanwhile, Alex was left alone in Michael’s arms.

“Mind if I stay with you?” Michael said, pushing Alex’s bangs back from his eyes. “I won’t be able to function if I know you’re here unprotected.”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Please, Alex.”

Alex searched his face, his hands coming around Michael’s waist and reaching up to touch his back. He couldn’t believe how much he missed Michael’s body against his.

“Can’t you just stay with me for the sake of staying with me?”

Michael’s expression faltered. “You’d let me?”

Alex pressed his forehead against Michael’s shoulder, trying not to think of Mr. Jones’s words. He fights for who he loves… but not to keep anyone. He just doesn’t care enough.

Mr. Jones had been wrong. Alex knew that better than anyone. He held on tighter to Michael, as tightly as he needed to make sure the cowboy didn’t leave him again.

“Just stay with me, Michael. Stay.”

#alex manes #michael guerin #malex #malex one shot #malex fanfic #malex fic #malex fanfiction #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis

90 notes · View notes

bufu · 3 years

Text

I've been wanting to make this post for awhile, and I keep stopping myself because I know this isn't worth my energy, but it is getting harder and harder for me to ignore someone blatantly telling lies about me, my partner, and my friends. So I would just like to set the record straight, mostly to retain my own sanity. I'm only going to talk about the things that affected me specifically, since pretty much everything else has already been said.

Everyone probably knows who this is about, but I'm gonna leave it vague.

I was not one of the people they considered a "popular" creator. I had (and still do have) consistently fewer hits, comments, and kudos on all of my fics. This was already something that was discouraging to me, but I constantly saw them saying that their fics must be horrible and they must be a horrible writer because they don't get enough hits/comments/kudos. Given the fact that my fics got even less engagement, it felt as though they were saying I was a horrible writer, too. I told them multiple times that them putting themself down like this so often was hurtful to me, too, but they didn't stop doing it. They kept using an excuse to say that when they said those things, that it only applied to them, but I still felt worse about myself every single time.

Still, I always tried to reach out to them and encourage them about their work. I was a "small creator," too. I also struggled to get words out in my writing. I also had trouble feeling good about my writing. I also found it difficult to do things in order to improve my writing. We had a lot in common and I wanted to support them and their work because I knew how hard it could be. I read their fics. I had conversations with them about their fics. I gave them compliments, and I gave them constructive criticism that I thought would be helpful. And they did none of this for me in return.

That, in itself, would literally be fine. They don't owe me support or engagement on my work. I wasn't supporting them just so I could get support back. I genuinely wanted them to feel good about their writing and give them encouragement so they could improve. What bothers me, is that they insist that they did read my work. However, I have a very, very strong belief that they didn't. This part is frustrating because I can only speculate, and there's no way to prove whether or not they did, but it really goes beyond just that.

I have two versions of my only longform fic on ao3. The first version was a rough draft where I posted chapters as they were finished. When they read it, there were over 10,000 words. This can be a lot for someone to focus on, specifically for this person, who has said multiple times that they struggle with reading longform and focusing on reading in general. It is very hard for me to believe that they read my 10,000 word fic in one day, and didn't even mention that as being any sort of accomplishment for them. They left me a comment that gave no indication that they read it. I know it can be difficult to word comments or compliments, but even after that, it was clear to me that they didn't read it based on interactions we had in the server.

Specifically, I asked for an opinion on a scene I wanted to write, and they suggested I write a scene that I had literally already written and was already published on ao3 that they had already read. They chalked this up to the fact that they just forgot what happened in the fic. They assured me and promised me for months that they were going to read my fic, but they never did.

Finally, they have now told me that they aren't ever going to read my completed fic, because when they tried to last, they realized they were uncomfortable with the ship. I'm not sure how they read 10,000 words worth of my fic focused on that ship extremely easily, and then somehow realized months later that it made them uncomfortable actually.

I could be wrong about all this. They could've read it. All of these things could just be a coincidence. However, I take issue with their hypocrisy over this whole situation. They guilt trip people into giving them "book report" comments, but are unable to do the same for others. Which, in itself, is fine. You don't need to be great at leaving comments, but I don't understand why they can leave short comments and everyone else has to leave long, detailed ones.

Aside from all of this writing shit, they have had a history of ignoring me and my feelings. I asked them to stop making jokes about sex being wrong and bad because it was genuinely hurtful and damaging, and they made little effort to stop or understand my side of things. They made a xenophobic comment, and instead of recognizing this and apologizing, I had to tell them multiple times why it was wrong and hurtful before they even barely apologized. They made another awful comment implying trans men on hormones are I guess constantly horny.

I know they eventually apologize for these things. They backpedal and say they didn't mean it like that, or they didn't mean any harm, but that doesn't absolve them of the hurt they do cause. They will defend themself constantly before ever admitting any fault or responsibility for hurting others.

Anyway, I know that if they do read or acknowledge this post at all, they will give more excuses, and more defenses, and likely only focus on replying to one little detail in this whole long post. I know they won't acknowledge that I am an actual human being with actual feelings who was actually hurt badly by their actions. I've struggled immensely with making friends. I find it hard to talk to and socialize with people even just on the internet. I made a small Persona server with my partner so that I could find people who I had things in common with that I could just talk to and be friends with. It wasn't even a writing server. The only thing I wanted was a safe place where I could talk about something I loved with people who also loved it. I never wanted this.

#alright this will hopefully be the last time i acknowledge this situation publicly #who knows #blue.txt #long post #vent /#drama cw

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lunariasilver · 3 years

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The Virtuoso / 3. Meteor City Part III

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I couldn't seem to distance myself from the Phantom Troupe. Every time I considered it I found myself somehow spending time with one of the members. It was strange. I had never wanted to spend so much time with somebody before, except maybe Killua; but even that was different.

At the time I was just concerned with showing him and everyone else that I was his superior in every way.

It wasn't long before they gathered new members. Only a few, and they helped lay the groundwork for the Troupe.

Shalnark and Phinks.

Phinks was ok. Pretty fun to mess with, actually. As far as Phantom Troupe members went, I'd say he was the most excitable. I mean, aside from Uvo. But he was a different kind of excitable. I spent a truly unnecessary amount of time bullying the man. Something about the way he reacted was hysterical to me.

He had tried to fight me, however. Luckily I was really good at evading. Plus Chrollo always had my back....even though he told me to stop harassing the man. I didn't though. What was he gonna do? Stop me? Please.

I hated Shalnark. I had no idea why. I just did. He was the worst. He was entirely too cheerful. He, however, was determined to be my best friend. Whenever I was doing anything he just turned up and started pestering me.

"Ivela!"

And there he was now.

I elected to ignore him, instead continuing to play my violin in a secluded alley.

"Look, I brought you a crown!" He exclaimed, carrying with him a ridiculous silver circlet with a red gemstone centered in the front.

My violin screeched. "What?"

"Look how pretty it is!"

"I hate you."

"Aww, but you're my best friend!"

Naturally, I took the crown. I had hopes that he would give me a different gift sometime in the future, but I always need more gifts. Gives me more things to summon.

Chrollo and I had already talked about every book he had, and now we had started sharing our own stories with each other. Only told orally, because there was no way we were wasting paper on that. Plus I blatantly refused to write on the dirty paper that could be found here. It was gross.

It was kind of fun to bounce ideas off of each other. These sessions usually ended in the two of us chuckling at the absurdity of what we had just come up with.

"Did you make yourself into a character?" Chrollo asked me one time.

I furrowed my eyebrows. "No, she's-"

"She's an assassin born girl banished from the family trying to prove herself worthy so she can go home." He deadpanned.

I paused. "Alright so I might have made myself."

He laughed at me, the bastard. I joined him a few seconds later. It was, admittedly, kind of funny.

My time spent alone was filled with, surprisingly, composing. It was something I had never really had much time for after Killua was born, but I had enjoyed the hobby tremendously when I was still the heir. I wasn't sure why I had started writing music again. It felt kind of nice. They were all little songs, though. I didn't think I had it in me to write a full length one. Or, rather I didn't really have the inspiration.

I tended to meditate a lot while I was alone too. Basic nen training, I guess. It was incredibly important that I get stronger. I wouldn't let myself fall behind the others- the members of the troupe. My nen prowess grew by the day.

I was worried I was becoming an alcoholic with the amount of time I spent drinking with Uvo and Nobu. It was a good thing they never had enough alcohol to keep me buzzed for more than an hour. I didn't think Uvo ever had enough, either. He was always talking about how much he wanted to get me to an actual bar so he could "drink me under the table."

Personally I thought that I would beat him in a drinking contest.

I had started sparring with all the members of the troupe when they were up to it. There was no better training than actual combat. Well, not really actual combat. None of them wanted to kill me. I hoped.

"Ivela!" Machi called to me as I was walking. Her tone seemed...clipped. I didn't like that.

I paused my gait and half turned to see her approaching me.

"Machi." I stated.

"Did you take my dagger?"

I paused, furrowing my eyebrows. "Why would I do that?"

"You said you liked it." She replied, her eyebrows twitching.

I nodded. "It is a nice dagger."

"So you admit it?"

"No. I have a dagger."

The conversation continued in this fashion for a few moments before Machi stormed off, still convinced I had taken the dagger. I had no idea why she assumed that I would steal from her, but I had been unable to convince her otherwise. I spent the next week on my guard, fully expecting some kind of violent retaliation. It's what Illumi would have done, and they were about the same age. It was strange, despite Meteor City being a place in which I should've always been on my guard in, I realized that I had been oddly relaxed here. It was jarring to go back to a state of hypervigilance.

The next time that Machi approached me, it was again outright. I was honestly expecting some kind of ambush, but couldn't find any signs of one.

"Do you need something." I asked her after a moment of examination. She seemed to be struggling with something.

Honestly her demeanor was terrible. It was obvious she was about to do something she didn't nessecarily want to do, like stab me.

"I..." She paused again. I sighed. I wished she would just get this over with.

"I found my dagger." She finally said. What? "It turns out I just misplaced it."

I narrowed my eyes at her. She was absolutely planning something.

"I uh, came to apologize."

My eyebrows raised practically to my hairline. "Apologize?"

"Yeah, I'm uh. I'm sorry I accused you."

I continued to stare at her for a minute. "Are you not going to stab me? Or....I don't know...try to set me on fire?"

"Not unless you stab me first!" Machi quipped before laughing.

.....Why.....was she laughing I was being completely serious.

"My hair has gotten longer." I noted. Chrollo and I had just finished discussing another ridiculous story when I brought up my hair in a lull in the conversation.

"That tends to happen." He replied.

I stared at him, eyes narrowed.

"Hair grows, Ivela."

"I hate you."

"Be that as it may," Chrollo said, smiling subtly. I hated it when he teased me. "Is there something wrong with that?" I assumed he was referring to my hair's length.

"Yes." I grumbled, crossing my arms.

"Do you want me to cut it?" He offered.

I stared at him blankly. "Have you ever cut hair before?"

"How hard could it be?"

He found that it was harder than he anticipated, as evidenced by the reflection staring at me from the water. The haircut was kind of choppy. It was actually a bit of a mess. It stopped at my shoulder, just as my hair had when I had first come here, but it wasn't perfectly sculpted.

"I'm sorry." Chrollo said from behind me.

"I love it..." I whispered, staring wide eyed at myself. It was so different than the ridiculously perfect bob I had been forced to have all my life. Mother was...insistent that I dress however she wanted me to.

"What?"

"This is the best haircut I've ever gotten. You have to cut my hair from now on!" I stood up from where I had been crouched by the waterside and rounded on him.

"H-hold on-"

"Too late, you're my hairdresser now." I was pretty good at reading him. He was secretly pleased that I liked what he had done.

"I-" He started, before sighing. I grinned for a split second, knowing I had won. "Okay." He relented.

It wasn't long before a year had passed since my arrival. It was honestly the best year of my life so far. But all good things must come to an end.

"We've done all we can here." Chrollo explained. "We have to branch out more."

"You'll come with us." Feitan said.

Paku shook her head. "Obviously he means we want you to come with us."

I glared at the ground while clutching the ends of my shirt. "I...can't."

"Why not?!" Uvo exclaimed, leaning forward. I could tell all of them were shocked by my admission.

"You know better than us that it's better out there!" Phinks yelled. It was nice to know that even he wanted me to come along.

"You can't really like it here." Machi stated.

I did kind of like it here, actually. But... "You don't understand. I can't leave." I reiterated. I still couldn't bring myself to look at them.

"Ivela, you're being stubborn." Chrollo sighed. It was as if he couldn't fathom the concept of me not wanting to go with them. He was right to be confused. I did want to go with them.

"I am not!" I shouted, looking up. "I....if I leave they'll..." I stopped, sighing heavily. I really didn't want to tell them.

"My family...they're...I'm..."

"They're assassins. You told me already. But what does that have to do with-" Nobu started.

I cut him off. "They're the Zoldycks." My admission was met with stunned silence. Even in Meteor City the Zoldycks were well known. We got all of our butlers from Meteor City. I looked anywhere but at their faces.

"The day before I came here, I tried to do something...unforgiveable." I didn't want to elaborate on what I had done. Especially not to people who were leaving. People I would never see again.

"They left me here, and told me if I ever left that they would kill me. I know they weren't just saying that. If I leave, I'll die."

The air was heavy. A pin dropping could break the silence.

Paku was the first to recover. "We'll just have to visit you then."

The rest of them were quick to agree.

I smiled humorlessly at them. "Then, I'll see you when you do." I didn't believe them.

I would never see them again. Of that I was certain.

A/N

Either one or two more Meteor City chapters before we get into the real story.

#Chrollo x reader #Chrollo x OC #Chrollo Lucilfer #Chrollo Lucilfer x reader #Chrollo Lucilfer x OC #Hunter x Hunter #Ivela Zoldyck #The Virtuoso

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