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therenlover · 3 years

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The Boy With The Easel (A Young Artist!Helmut Zemo x Reader Oneshot)

(Hey! If you end up enjoying this fic, it’s the first chronological part of a new fun expanded AU I’ve created with @creme-bruhlee! Their fic Bliss is part of the same timeline and takes place about a year after this one, so you should check it out!!!)

Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.

Tags: Meet Cute, College AU, First Meetings, Coffee Date, Artist!Zemo, Embarrassment, Awkward College Kids Falling In Love

Rating: T

Warnings: Very Vague Mention of Sexual Content, Swearing, Zemo Says The Word Daddy In Reference To His Father and The Reader Thinks It’s Kinda Hot

Word Count: 7000~

This fic has been crossposted to my AO3!

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The University of Novi Grad

Fall 1996

Mornings in Novi Grad could be beautiful if you knew what to look for.

Sokovia was… different from America in many ways. From the language to the scenery, you often found yourself adrift in the strangeness of it all. There had been nothing quite as old as the buildings in the historical district of Novi Grad back home, no towering grey behemoths serving as a reminder of a bygone fight against Soviet invasion in the memories of your childhood. Still, though, there was beauty in the strangeness nonetheless.

From your tiny room in the Helena Lyudmila International Scholar’s dorm, for instance, you had a perfect view of a large campus courtyard hosting a statue of the donor by the same name. She was some royal who had invested in education a few hundred years ago, and by the looks of her metal likeness, she had been quite pretty. The sight of her shining in the early morning sun was one of the things that made uprooting your whole life seem worth it in the end, no matter how silly that seemed.

There were other small comforts that you had found beauty in during your first month attending your prestigious university, too.

You found beauty in the way the sunlight streamed over the rooftops like the opening to an Oscar-winning film. In the sound of traffic below and the overcast skies above. Sandwiches from corner stores, wildflowers growing in the median of the road, cups of the worlds best black coffee served steaming by scowling attendants at the cafe; Everywhere there was something small and kind and just familiar enough to relish in, more than able to distract you from the stress of living hand-to-mouth in a country where you didn’t even know the language. It made it all worth it.

That being said there was something else too…

Someone else to be specific.

The campus tended to run like clockwork. The same groups of students would walk past your window to their classes, the same professors would get their coffee and lunch at the little cafe across the square, and every weekday morning at 8 am on the dot, easel boy would set up his palette and canvas and paint the same bustling street.

He was talented, that you couldn’t deny. Even from the 6th floor, which was a considerable distance away, it was possible to admire the detailing and consistency with which he painted. His talent wasn’t when kept you captive at your window in the morning, though. Though you were sure his art was beautiful, he himself was a thousand times more stunning.

All dark eyes and dark hair and dark clothes, he parted crowds with his piercing gaze alone. He was always dressed like the protagonist of some awful artsy film. Massive argyle sweaters, untucked button-ups, corduroy jackets, and flare bottomed pants that must have survived his father’s wardrobe from the ’70s… his style was as close you could get to atrocious while still being impeccable as possible, and that wasn’t even getting started on the smudged black liner always present under his persistent gaze. You had never had the pleasure (or embarrassment for that matter) of meeting him in person, but you were sure that you would have had the same awed and slightly frightened reaction if you ever did. He could have been plucked entirely from the pages of some awful romance novel.

You were well and truly smitten with the idea of him.

If you looked at your morning routine through the eyes of a stranger, you’d consider yourself odd for your strange obsession with him, but you didn’t look at it like that. It wasn’t an obsession. You never overstepped your bounds. He was simply pleasing to look at and so you did. That didn’t constitute as obsessive, right?

Even if it did, you weren’t causing any harm.

Easel boy, as you had come to refer to him, was simply a tool you used to ground yourself in your new and frightening environment. Nothing more. If you ever met him, you would surely hate him from the short interactions you’d seen him have with strangers. They never ended well. He would remain an unattainable, attractive ideal in your mind until he eventually faded away into a funny memory you’d share with your kids one day.

Until then, though, you would watch him from your window before your morning classes and refused to feel guilty about it. So, that was that, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

On the morning in question, you had woken up a little late and in a foul mood. In preparation for a test in your foundations of algebra course you had spent the better part of the night pouring over formulas while your upstairs neighbor’s bed slammed repeatedly into the wall and floor. Though you were sure they were having an excellent time, you were most definitely not. It all culminated in you missing your original alarms and despite the fact that your first class started at 10, you were exhausted, furious, and not looking forward to missing breakfast to finish the assigned reading you had put off the night before. The only thing keeping you from throwing in the towel and just giving up was the promise of seeing the painter.

So, when he arrived for the day at 8 am sharp, you were positioned at the ledge by your window, textbook in hand with a mug of instant coffee at your right. It was like a breath of fresh air.

As usual, he retrieved a small pack of cigarettes from the back of his eternally paint-stained jeans only to bring one to his lips and light it quickly. He always smoked before he worked, and just like always, he took an extra cigarette from the pack to tuck behind his ear for later. Then, he got to work setting up his easel and the small stool where he set his palette.

Pulling tubes of acrylic, brushes, and pencils from his well-worn messenger bag, easel boy flipped out the kickstand without any problem and set his thick, pre-primed canvas on the worn metal. You watched in fascination. Art had always seemed so unattainable to you. Instead, you were drawn to the more academic. The man before you, though, created beauty with an ease that had evaded you all your life, and it had you both jealous and entirely intrigued. Slowly, you reached down to take a sip of your coffee as you let your eyes drift back to your reading.

Learning about ancient Babylon was far less interesting than watching him, though.

When you next looked out the window and away from your work the handsome artist had created his base sketch already. How did he do it so fast? You assumed it was practice. He had been drawing the same 3 buildings every weekday morning for at least a month, so after a while, it must have been second nature to measure out the lines and put things into perspective. You smiled. He tended to have that effect on you.

The process was repeated until a little before 9:30. You would read a few paragraphs then look up to watch the painting progress from a sketch to a full-fledged work of art. It was good today from what you could see. The colors were a bit more muted than usual, but that was only on account of the awful, dreary overcast sky that threatened to dump rain on the city at any time. Overall, you would have considered it a masterpiece. Easel boy didn’t seem to think the same.

He regarded the painting with a sort of begrudging satisfaction that bordered on disappointment before he pulled the second cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and began the process of packing up his materials. You finished the last of your coffee watching him do so. Smoking, well, smoking tobacco at least, had always been a vice you had avoided and yet you often wondered what it would feel like to take a drag of one of his cigarettes after it had been between his lips. Then, the magic lifted.

He folded up the flimsy easel, tucked it away with his materials back into his messenger bag, hoisted the stool under one arm and the painting under the other before taking off at a brisk clip down the street away from your window. You watched him until he was out of sight.

You were snapped from your concentration by a knock at your door.

“Y/N,” a heavily accented voice called, sending you scrambling for your bag, “If you are not outside in the next 15 seconds I will break down your door,”

Shit.

“Coming, Sasha!” You wailed. It took about 10 of those seconds to grab your backpack and shove your textbook inside, an extra 2 to check your appearance in the mirror- you looked slightly disheveled, but it was the best you were gonna do after the night you’d had. Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing anything important. You didn’t need to be dressed for a date -and you were opening the door for a quick save at the 14th second. Your door was safe for another day.

Out in the hall waited Sasha Balandin, arms crossed and grey eyes piercing in the flickering light of the terrible overhead fluorescents. As a fellow international student, you had become fast friends with Sasha. He was a little rough around the edges, and definitely didn’t take your bullshit, but he was a rare friend. “I have been waiting for 10 minutes,” he griped. You tried your best to look apologetic. “Don’t do that,”

“Do what?” You asked, closing and locking your door behind you as you began walking down the hallway.

Sasha huffed. “Do not pretend you were not too busy ogling that painter in the courtyard to hear me knocking on your door,” His Russian bluntness was on full display now as you shook your head in mock disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”

“It is not an accusation if it is true,”

“There’s no way you know for a fact that I was watching him again,”

“But you were. This happens every week,”

You sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I was,”

Taking the stairs in twos, Sasha sighed. “You are too soft, Y/N. Besides, you have said so often that he seems like an asshole. Why do you continue to get all mushy at him out the window if this is the case?”

“Because… well, because…” for a moment, you floundered in search of an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete freak, but you found that there really wasn’t one. It came down the one small factor. “He’s just really hot, okay?”

The look Sasha gave you could have killed. He kept his mouth shut, though, choosing to let his silence shame you more than anything else did. It worked. For the entire trip down the stairs and the mile-long walk to your lecture hall, you felt the weight of shame heavy on your shoulders. Or maybe it was just your backpack. You didn’t know which you’d prefer. He did start speaking again eventually, going on about some party you had missed in favor of studying, but the feeling never left. Even as you sat down for your lecture it was still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, you were so busy thinking about your crush on easel boy and the problems with it that you barely paid attention to the professor’s rehashing of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Your error only hit when the professor flipped the PowerPoint to the final slide.

“Before you go, I want to remind you that you have a paper on the importance of Enkidu in the Epic is due at the beginning of class this Friday. The details and requirements should be listed in your syllabus. Class dismissed,”

Fuck.

Friday was only two days away.

You were so screwed.

The problem was, you didn’t have a spare copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh just lying around your dorm room. Usually that wouldn’t have been an issue, the professor for your current history course used English for her slide because her particular history course was specifically for first-year international students. Unfortunately for you, though, you hadn’t been taking notes. Instead, you had been daydreaming about how it would feel to have easel boy blow his cigarette smoke in your face and then subsequently scolding yourself for having thoughts like that about a total stranger. In a terrible twist of fate, the professor only held office hours after her last classes on Mondays and Fridays, so even getting the information from her then was off the table. Dread began to pool in your stomach.

Any other student would have been able to cut their losses, rent a copy from the library, slog through it in a night, and write the damn essay even without the help of the classroom slides for context. The only problem was all the books in the library were in Sokovian, and you still barely knew how to order a coffee correctly. Reading the language in a full Cyrillic alphabet would just be impossible, especially for a book as stupidly old as the Epic of Gilgamesh.

In short, unless you could get your hands on a copy in the next day or so, you were absolutely, well-and-truly fucked.

Sasha was quick to find you as the hall cleared out, waiting near your seat as you packed away your notes. “That was all bullshit, no?” He asked, but the second he took in your slightly panicked expression he stopped short, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. You knew what he was going to say before he ever said it.

“Something is wrong. You were not paying attention. Were you thinking-”

“Yes. Okay? Yes, I was thinking about him,”

He shook his head slightly. “I am concerned for you,”

“Who isn’t?”

Despite his usually stoic demeanor, that made Sasha huff out a soft laugh. “You got yourself into this mess, Y/N, you will get yourself out somehow,”

Your jaw dropped as you slung your bag over your shoulder and started making your way towards the door. “You’re not gonna help me?”

“Though I would love to be helpful, you forget that my English is poor. It will do me better to read the book in Sokovian myself than to use the information from class,”

Oh, yeah. You winced. “Sorry, Sash’”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged as you walked out onto the lawn, chilled to the bone by the wind that whipped in every direction.

A storm was brewing. It might not fully take hold of the city for a few hours yet, but it would make the walk to your evening class absolute hell if the rain fell as hard as it had several weeks prior. You could only hope that it wouldn’t start until after you had walked home. Your odds were looking slim, though, based on the way you could already hear thunder clapping in the distance. After a moment you hit the edge of the sidewalk where your paths would diverge.

“Good luck with the paper,” you offered weakly.

Sasha replied with a sharp, “Good luck with your crush,” and then he was off in the opposite direction without another word. Sasha was blunt like that, never overstaying his welcome or lingering when he didn’t need to. There was something enviable about it. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply say things as they were without an unnecessary sugar coating to save face and spare feelings. It lingered on your mind for the whole half-mile walk to the campus bookstore. Speaking of which...

There was only one place where you might possibly find an English copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It wasn’t the big student bookstore, most of the textbooks there had been in Sokovian, Russian, or German and you hadn’t even tried to set foot in their actual book section. No, your only hope was the tiny hole-in-the-wall bookstore you had stumbled upon during move-in. It was only about half a mile away from your dorm from any of your lecture halls, so you often found yourself wandering inside when you had time to kill. They were one of the only stores you’d come across that sold anything in English, magazines included, so despite the fact that the young cashiers rarely spoke your language you often found that the back shelves of that tiny shop kept you from going mad.

Now, they might also be keeping you from ruining your GPA.

You could only hope. If anybody could save you, it was them.

Ducking in through the small doorway, you were greeted by the soft ring of the bell above your head. The attendant at the register simply regarded you with a polite nod. You had seen her there before and she knew you barely spoke a lick of Sokovian, so she didn’t attempt a pleasantry. Instead, she simply let you wander through the entrance and into the towering bookshelves, passing a few other faceless shoppers on your way towards the back. You were grateful for her nonchalance.

If there was anything worse than feeling foolish for not knowing Sokovian, it was being talked down to in perfect English by a Sokovian citizen. Most interactions left you wishing you’d actually taken anything away from your high school French class other than emotional trauma from your teacher and a caffeine addiction. Damn America and its terrible public-school language programs…

The path to the English classics section was one you’d walked many times since discovering the book store. It was right in the very back corner of the shop, tucked away where the city natives wouldn’t have to address or see it. You had snagged a copy of Pride and Prejudice a few weeks back, so you knew exactly where to search. The only problem was slogging through every single book on the shelf in search of the one you were looking for.

Your eyes scanned the wall.

Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh…

Gilgamesh!

On the 6th shelf up sat one small copy. Score! You were saved! As you reached up to grab it, though, you were met with yet another roadblock. The shelf it was on was juuuust a little too high for you to reach. Oh, come on…

You hopped a little, extending your hand up as far as it could go, but your fingers just barely brushed the spine. Somewhere behind you, you could hear footsteps. Then someone coughed to suppress laughter. The shame was plain on your face. As your flannel rode up and you stretched up in one last desperate attempt to grab the book when suddenly someone, you assumed the same person who had been laughing at your misfortune, spoke.

“They have stools, you know,” he said, accented voice thick with amusement. The English surprised you, but you assumed they used it for your benefit. You were in front of the English language books after all. Besides, the shame of it all kept your mind from questioning it too much. “For reaching the top shelf,”

Of course they had stools.

If your face hadn’t already been burning with embarrassment it definitely was now.

In a split-second decision, you decided playing dumb was the only way you could walk out of the situation with any dignity left at all, so you plastered on a confused smile and spun around to greet the stranger. “Really? I had no cl-”

You stopped short.

Oh.

Oh no.

You’d know those paint-stained jeans anywhere.

There, with his hands in his pockets and the most self-important, thin-lipped smirk you had ever seen, was easel boy in all of his cocky, intimidating, hot glory. Had you really noticed how hot he truly was before? It didn’t feel like it. Not now that you’d really seen him close up and reveled in the way his dark eyes hypnotized you with their smudged liner that felt borderline obscene. You could smell him too, all charcoal and turpentine and cigarette smoke. If you had it bad before when he was just a blurry ideal out your window, you were completely and utterly smitten now.

He regarded you with a sort of practiced annoyance, and yet there was a strange softness to it that you hadn’t found in many native Sokovians, especially ones that saw you as the stupid, bumbling American wandering blindly around their country.

“Would you like my help?”

“Huh?” You were so lost in his eyes that you couldn’t even focus on his question.

“To reach your book. Would you like my help?”

“Oh!” With a brisk nod, you stepped away from the shelf to make room for easel boy, “yeah, I’m just trying to grab that one there. The, uh, Epic of Gilgamesh,”

In one swift movement, he was stepping right beside you to easily reach up and grab the offending piece of literature. The closeness of it all nearly sent you into a tailspin. That wasn’t even mentioning the way your heart thudded just a little faster when he finally handed the book to you, his calloused fingers brushing against your own. You barely find a grip on your brain strong enough to thank him through the fog of embarrassment and attraction. Eventually, though, you managed to choke out a placation as your eyes explored the cover of the book.

“Thanks for that,”

“It was no problem,” he shrugged. He didn’t move though, still standing just inches away from you. When you looked up from the book you found his eyes were still on you, watching intently as if he expected something from you. The answer to what he actually expected was a mystery but you could tell he wanted something. When you didn’t speak, he spoke for you. “So, The Epic of Gilgamesh? That’s definitely a bold choice,”

You looked up at him sheepishly through heavily lidded eyes. “It’s not a choice at all, actually. I’m only buying it so I can write an essay,”

“Ah,” Something about his tone was almost disappointed as the conversation stalled.

You quickly changed the subject to the first thing you could think of.

“Your hair is really nice!”

“My hair?”

“Yeah… your hair,”

Smooth move, dumbass.

Easel boy’s expression seemed to soften once more as his signature grin crept back onto his face. “Thank you, I grew it myself,” Between his accent and the way he was looking at you like he was going to eat you alive, you weren’t exactly sure how you hadn’t had a heart attack yet. Still, the attention was nice, even if it was bourne out of you repeatedly embarrassing yourself in a never-ending cycle of fuckups. He ran a hand through his loose brown hair. “I like your shirt. Very American,”

Silently, you cursed yourself for not taking a few extra seconds to pick out a better outfit when you woke up. Standing next to him, even while he was dressed in his paint-stained jeans and undone button-up, you looked like a wreck in comparison. He didn’t seem to be speaking from a place of judgment, though.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was being nice, but that couldn’t be the case… could it?

“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t met very many Sokovians that are fond of America, but I’m not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult,” You joked. It was a bit sarcastic, the lilt of your voice masking your deep insecurity, and to your surprise easel boy laughed. He really laughed. From your place beside him, you could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as he shook his head.

“It was definitely a compliment,”

Oh.

Your heart skipped a beat.

That was a new revelation.

You steeled yourself with a deep breath. Fuck it. It was now or never.

“I, uh… I’m Y/N, and you are?”

He regarded you once again with that strange expression of expectation. “What?”

“I asked for your name,” you repeated, and yet he still stood, slightly dumbfounded, staring down at you with that same expectant expression from earlier. For a moment, you almost thought he expected you to know it already. That fact was quickly glossed over when he moved to rub the back of his neck with his hand, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m not very good with people. My father thought college might help me finally connect with my peers, but I don’t think he expected that I was the problem, nor do I think he expected me to pick a degree in the arts,” Suddenly, he paused and stuck out his hand to you. “I’m Hel. It’s very nice to meet you Y/N,”

With only a moment of hesitation- because wow, your name had never sounded more right on someone’s lips -you took his large calloused hand in your own and shook it gently. His palm was warm, his fingers lingering on your own for just a moment even as he pulled away. It wasn’t much, just a soft brush against your flesh, but it sent a flash of heat and liquid confidence through your chest.

“Is that short for something?” Your eyes met his in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Seeing him like this, so up close and personal, he looked a lot more human than he had from your window. Sure, he was imposing. Underneath the initial harsh facade, though, was something softer and almost poetic. You weren’t an artist by any means but if you had been, you had no doubt that he’d be your muse.

“It’s short for Helmut, but only my father calls me that, and only when he’s cross, which, unfortunately, is most of the time,” he chuckled, “Besides, it’s an old man’s name. It doesn’t suit me,”

The words left your mouth before you knew what you were saying.

“Well, it’s better than calling you easel boy,”

Shit.

Today really just wasn’t your day, huh?

In the split second where you were mourning your chances with the most stupidly handsome guy who had ever shown any interest in you, you almost missed the way Helmut’s eyes lit up at the admission.

“Easel boy?” His voice was teasing, but not demeaning. That didn’t do much to ease your mortification, though.

“Is there any chance that I can get you to forget I said anything?”

“If you already have a nickname for me when we’ve barely met, I think you already know the answer to that question,”

His knowing smirk was enough to get you pleading. “You can’t just let me off the hook this once?” you begged, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in a desperate attempt to get away from his piercing gaze. The things those brown eyes did to you could be classified as obscene… “I will genuinely do anything if you don’t make me explain myself right now Hel,”

Hel quirked up an eyebrow. “Anything?” The way your stomach turned at just one word from him was both terrifying and extremely exciting. It felt like a promise. Without hesitation, you nodded. That made him smile. “In that case, get coffee with me today?”

Once again, you were rendered speechless.

“My treat,” he added, “unless you’re not interested…”

“No!” Your answer left your lips embarrassingly fast, “Or- yes? No, no, I think I meant no. No; I am very interested. Yes; I would like to get coffee with you,” There was a hint of shame in your words, but only a hint. After the day you’d had already, there wasn’t very much there to be ashamed of. Still, that same pit of dread began to open up in your stomach as you mulled over your choices.

Thankfully, Helmut continued to take it all in stride. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you’d like to do here before we go? It’s best we leave soon if we want to beat the rain,” He offered up his arm as he spoke like some sort of Disney prince. It was, by far, the cutest gesture you had ever been lucky enough to receive.

You linked your arm with his without hesitation. “As soon as I pay we can get going,” He was warm. It radiated off him in waves just like the warm hints of tobacco and wintermint that seemed to seep from his skin and clothes. With that, you made your way to the front desk as Hel shot you a sly smile.

“Who said anything about letting you pay?”

True to his word, he didn’t let you pay for a single thing for the rest of the afternoon.

The two of you made your way up to the cashier together, and Helmut only separated from your side to grab his wallet before you could grab yours. He then spoke in rapid-fire Sokovian to the lady at the register and pulled what could only be described as a wad of Sokovian koronas while you set the book on the counter, and from the looks of it, she seemed more than pleased with the two of you. Who wouldn’t be, especially when Hel seemed to insist that she keep the excess? In the end, after the book had been wrapped nicely in a paper bag and deposited in your backpack, Helmut held the door open for you like some sort of gentleman and followed you out into the grey afternoon.

Then, you were off down the street on Hel’s arm, pushing through the wind and the biting chill that had settled in the air.

“So, you don’t sound like a big fan of your dad,” you asked, half laughing as you attempted to broach conversation once again.

Helmut groaned beside you. “My father is a menace who is unable to understand that some people want more in life than to sit behind a desk all day making phone calls. In fact, most of my family is the same way. The only reason I haven’t completely cut them off and changed my name is the money,”

“I assume you get a lot of it if it’s worth sticking around someone you hate so much,”

“Never ask a man about his net worth,” he chuckled, gently elbowing you in the ribs, “but yes, I’m very comfortable. I have my own apartment just far enough away to be considered off-campus with my own car and as much money as it takes to keep me happy and getting good grades; Daddy makes sure of that,” The word daddy was a deep sneer, barely there in the wind, but something about it sent butterflies through your stomach. Well, that was never something you thought you were into… “Little does he know, I’m not here to make money. I’m here to find inspiration worth my time while out from under his thumb,”

You snorted softly. “Artistic and rich? You’re just ticking all the boxes, Hel,”

“Good for me. Would offering help on that essay of yours endear you to me further?”

“Absolutely,”

The next 5 minutes you spend discussing the Epic of Gilgamesh. Surprisingly, in one of the first stokes of good luck you’d had all day, Helmut seemed to be one of the only people on earth who knew plenty about Enkidu off the top of his head. When he was the one lecturing you in his smooth, heavily accented timbre it was so much easier to pay attention to something so very tedious than when you heard it from your aging and often monotone professor. In fact, you were so enthralled by his retelling of the tale that you barely noticed you’d made it all the way to the cafe that sat across from the international dorm.

If you didn’t consider Hel to be smart as a whip and twice as clever as he was smart, you would have thought it was a coincidence. It couldn’t be though. No, there was no way anything was a coincidence with Helmut around. You shot him a smile when he opened the door for you and ushered you inside.

“You know Hel,” you muttered, “I’m starting to think you might know more about me than you initially let on,”

He shrugged. “You’re American, so it’s unlikely you live anywhere else and I wanted to make the walk home easy. It’s supposed to rain, you know? Besides, despite the… interesting waitstaff, they make the best pastries in town right here in this cafe,”

“Did you mean it when you said you were paying?”

“Absolutely,”

“Then I can’t wait to try one,”

The two of you were seated quickly (you assumed it had to do with the waitress finding Hel as hot as you did, because you caught her looking at him from behind the counter and whispering excitedly in Sokovian to her coworker at least twice over the course of the meal) and the conversation flowed easily as you waited on your coffees and the deserts Helmut insisted on splitting to let you try. Millefeuille, pear tart tatin, chocolate devil’s food cake, and a towering plate of apricot kołaczki awaited you, and they kept you sitting and talking and snacking for over an hour as you really got to know each other. The more you learned, the more you fell in love with the man across from you.

Over the course of the afternoon, you learned that Helmut was majoring in studio art while minoring in psychology just because it interested him, he hated the Beatles almost as much as he hated Freud’s theories on women, his favorite color was purple, and he spent most of his free time reading or getting high off his ass in his massive studio apartment in what you now knew was one of the most expensive areas in the city. He, in return, sat at rapt attention across the table as you gushed about your life in America, your reasons for going to university in Sokovia, your favorite books, and the ridiculousness that was trying to pass college-level classes in a country that seemed to avoid English at all costs.

Eventually, though, you did touch upon his nickname.

“I just thought it was really interesting that you did the same thing every single day, no matter what,” you explained, grabbing one of the last kołaczki from the plate and ignoring the powdered sugar that stuck to your fingers, “and by watching you… I don’t know, I guess it kind of felt like I had another friend who’d share breakfast with me in the morning if that makes sense,”

Hel nodded, swallowing his last bite of chocolate cake. “I understand completely. It can be lonely, coming to a new place without any friends or connections, but you were brave enough to take the leap. I admire that,” He brought his napkin to his lips before crumpling it and setting it one of the now empty plates before him, “But I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that you didn’t watch me because I’m attractive,”

You nearly choked on your pastry. “Well, I wouldn’t say your pretty face didn’t help…”

The grin that spread across his face was heartstopping. He grabbed a napkin from the little holder next to the two of you and grabbed a pen from one of his pockets as he spoke. “In that case, you should join me tomorrow morning. Bring coffee if you can, I never have enough hands to bring a cup for myself, but even if you can’t bring some, if you want to come and watch me work I’d be more than happy to have a companion for the morning,” he paused for a moment, flustered, “or every morning, for that matter,”

“That sounds like a deal,” Your cheeks were hot, but not from embarrassment this time. No, it was anything but, because here you were across the table from a kind, attractive, intelligent Sokovian boy with money to spend and time to spare for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud too. He wanted you back, after all. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than he should, and even more plainly in the way he wrote his phone number in bold blue ink on the napkin and signed it with a doodle of a heart before passing it across the table to you.

“I’m going to go pay,” he said quietly while standing, “but I’ll be back in a second to walk you out. Alright?”

“Alright,”

There was something strangely similar to sorrow sitting in your chest when you watched him walk away. The sight of his ass as he went made up for it, though. Once he was obstructed by other patrons, you turned your attention to the napkin in your hands. Hel’s handwriting was neat as far as artists’ handwriting goes, but it still held a sort of looseness in its curves, a freedom in the way the numbers had flowed effortlessly from his pen. You popped the last kołaczki in your mouth as you admired the blue ink before devouring the final bites of pear tart and millefeuille. How had you gotten so lucky to have someone like him giving you his number and buying you pastries? You pondered the bizarre nature of it all until Helmut returned.

You stood quickly, folding the napkin and putting it away in your pocket. “Ready to go?”

“If you are,” he replied. In an instant, you were standing beside him again as he opened the door for you. The wind was even stronger now, strong enough that his loose hair whipped wildly around his forehead from the force of it. You couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance.

He caught you off guard as he walked you across the street. “You have such a pretty laugh,”

It was like you were seeing him again for the first time. You fiddled with the strap of your backpack as you got closer and closer to the door to your dorm. “Thanks. I’m pretty fond of your laugh too,”

Then, you were there, just two college kids standing awkwardly before your first departure.

“So,” you said before you could stop yourself, “when I tell my one friend all about this afternoon after my math class tonight, should I say it was a date?”

Hel’s cheeks flushed pink. “You can call it that, if that’s what you would like it to have been,”

“I think I would,”

“Good, good,” he let out a little chuckle, “I’m glad. Would you… would you consider going on another? I promise I have much more to offer than just small talk and tips on where to buy the best pastries,”

Looking into his brown eyes, so full of uncertainty and hope, you knew you couldn’t have denied him even if you wanted to. Still, you weren’t going to give in to his advances without a little bit of taunting. It made it fun, a game to be played where, hopefully, you both would win big in the end.

“That depends,” you teased, letting your lower lip catch between your teeth, “what do you have in mind?”

Helmut shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pensive. “If you want to, we could go to my place and I could actually show you all of the paintings I’ve been working on while you watched me. The view from the rooftop is lovely too. We could have dinner up there while looking out over Novi Grad. I have to warn you, though, it’ll probably be takeout. I’m an atrocious chef,”

Slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. “Does Friday work?”

The smile Helmut shot back was as bright as every star in the night sky and even more enthralling. “Friday is perfect. Can I pick you up at 7?”

“As long as you come in that fancy car you were talking about,”

“Then it’s a deal,”

“Well,” you turned away, walking up the steps towards the door before turning back to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Hel, and I’ll bring coffee. Have a good night,”

“You too, Y/N. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that,”

With that, he gave one last short wave before turning on his heel and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. You watched him walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did you enter the punch code and race up the stairs to your room.

Your back was pressed to the door of your dorm room the second you had shut it, your hands clutching at your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your heart from beating right out of your ribs. The second you were in the privacy of your own place, your cool facade had melted away to reveal just how much of a wreck you really were.

He had invited you over to his apartment.

He liked you.

Easel boy really, honestly liked you.

No, not easel boy. Helmut. Hel.

Hel liked you, and he invited you over to his apartment, and you had plans to meet him with coffee as he painted the next morning.

You smiled softly under the fluorescent lights and pulled the book that had brought you together from your backpack. It seemed so unassuming now, just a fresh paperback with an unbroken spine, but in reality, it was so much more than that.

Hel.

It was such a nice name. You liked it a lot.

Now you couldn’t wait to see what else you liked about him too.

------

a/n: I have been so excited to start sharing this AU with you guys, and it’s finally here!!! If you liked this fic, I once again will direct you to Bliss by @creme-bruhlee because that’s technically next in chronological order for this AU. I hope you enjoyed!!!

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 , @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @mossybank , @simsiddy , @xxspqcebunsxx , @be-cautious-around-bri , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car , @frothonthedaydreams

#zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader #fanfiction

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cornacopicimagines · 4 years

Text

A Rose Blooms │t.h

pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

words: 8.4k (WHOOPS)

warnings: arranged marriage, SMUT (we been knew), slight praise kink and 10000% breeding kink, therefore unprotected sex, swearing, slight cockwarming & good lord there is so much

summary: Perhaps God does have a sick sense of humour. To allow such misguided souls to one another. Souls that shouldn't be allowed to feel the sense of happiness he can provide, that should accept their dire situations. The Prince of Wales and his new bride can attest to the quite well.

a/n: what do y'all mean a historical prince au!tom holland with major smut and breeding kink is not a thing. i know the sluts want it, even if they never ask for it. i must provide it.

masterlist

━━★✼☆｡

y/n of Burgundy was a splendid piece of artwork. A sweet and humble French Princess with a huge dowry and a bright future. It was as if DaVinci had casted the girl from Venus's shadow and gifted the baby to displeased parents. Parents who so wished for a boy, that the arrival of a healthy girl is so overlooked that the girl is better off dead. The sadness is heard across not only France but the entirety of Europe. Poor y/n of Burgundy! The Unlucky Princess of Burgundy! It's all she hears; she is deemed a tragedy before her life is even written. Perhaps that is her greatest misdeed in this life, that because she is born the wrong sex to what is expected she is casted to the side as a woman destined for slight and anguish for her entire life. Even if this is the case, y/n wished to think of herself as unwritten for the moment being. A woman waiting for a calling no matter how big or small. A woman who's only current wish to sit atop this windowsill, letting the cool September French breeze kiss her flushed cheeks. Alas, even this is stripped from her.

"Get off the window, y/n!" her mother's shrill voice shrieks as The Duchess yanks y/n to the floor. It's harsh and frantic, as if an arrow is to fly through and hit her. Her tightly coiled chest hit's the wooden floor hard. It knocks the only wind y/n really has left, a wasteful shame.

"I am sorry mama," y/n responds quietly, her hands desperately pat to find a piece of wood that will not cut up into her as she attempts to regain her balance. Though her room is filled with four maids not a single one offers their own hand to help her. She knows it is because of her mother's cowl. If they dare so move in a direction towards her, The Duchess will become a Fury of Hell himself.

"The breeze is so sweet at this time of afternoon." Finally, y/n does place her feet back on the floor with a small clack of her heels. She takes a moment to take in the state of her gown. While she has countless others, something about the pure white of the satin being destroyed by the inevitable dust that has collected is disheartening even to her. The pattern of bright red roses now looks more of a dull blood grey than a true flower.

"The breeze is something so frivolous my dear," The Duchess is suddenly content with her surroundings. "Busy yourself with something more intelligent, it makes for a much better bride."

"Thank you for the wise advice mother," y/n snaps, her fingers gripping the ruined material of her gown. "I'll be sure to not engage myself in something that gives me the slightest bit of freedom in the lifeless castle," it was no louder than a whisper. Her braided hair still muffling the sounds.

As if her words seemed to not even reach her, The Duchess mumbles in agreement before taking her leave. The door shutting loudly behind her, the air was finally safe to breathe. The maids immediately begin to swarm her. Like flies to honey; they grapple her, prod at her and pinch her. It was too much. It was as if a million ants had swarmed her body, nipping at any piece of flesh they could just because it was what they were meant to do. An instinctive need to draw more blood than necessary, it was overwhelming. They inspected her perfectly capable hands, wondering if their incompetence has cost them their heads because y/n of Brittany split her blood and The Duchess refused to let them help. She was suffocating.

She didn't mean for it to slip, it just did. Her voice raised, "Get out." It was softer at first. "Get out," they still didn't move, still abusing her. "I said get out!" Everything stopped for a moment, the air her mother had ensued had now come back. The maids all took a single step away from her. y/n felt the tears threaten her, warning by dancing across her lower lashes. "Do none of you listen, get out for Christ’s sake!" That's all it took, in a matter of seconds y/n was finally alone. She could hear the faint song of the trees whispering to her, it was calm, but she couldn't appreciate it. She dropped to her knees and began to softly weep into her palms. The groans muffled by the skin of her hands and the tears halted from falling by her fingers. In this moment and forever ahead of her, she was desolate.

But like all things, even this bleak minute of sorrow was cut to an end by the deafening sound of her father's boots storming down the hallways towards her room.

━━★✼☆｡

Tom spectated as the pole shattered into a thousand pieces. The splinters hitting ever edge of the arena. He watched as the knight fell limp and as his horse rode on through the chaos. The young prince roared out of his seat, his knees hitting the harsh wood of the royal box. His name echoed on the young knight's medallion above his breast. He had picked the winning side and rightfully so, Sir Harrison had never been defeated. For a moment, Tom turned around to face his beaming mother. A woman who loved the games, Tom always relied on his mother to accompany him to these festivities but his father. The Prince would always ask graciously but was refused every time. Constantly belittled for the consul of old men with a working cock between them, it was a joke. The King had many failed efforts to rile the English people to cause, Tom had offered a large gathering to help inspire the people. The King told his son this would cause nothing but useless panic and many painful deaths. Scoffing, Tom waltzed back to his seat. It was uncomfortable, it felt as if ants hand made their nets below the seat's support. He wished to ride alongside them.

"You cannot and you will not," The Queen smiled at him, waving to squires as they led the horses away. Tom's head swivelled around to meet his mother's. "I refuse it my son."

"I had said nothing mother," Tom replied quietly, he too doing his duty to the lower noble men who had come out today. Each one sweatier than the last. "Perhaps you are hearing things, 10 childbirths can change a woman's mind," Tom stifled a laugh, too which he received a slap on the arm for.

"Don't play smart with me son," The Queen spoke coolly, her countless rings clanged as she rose from her seat. Tom followed suit, allowing a hand for his now middle-aged mother for gracious help down the impossibly large stairs. "I almost lost your father to one of these silly little cock shows, I will not go through it with you my boy."

Tom raised an eyebrow, watching his mother's golden trim become bleaker by the stain of the grass. "I had half a mind to believe you enjoyed these silly little cock shows," Tom played. The Queen peered up at his through hooded lids. It was dangerous waters even for him, a man who has seen the blood of war. He allowed his mother and her ladies to return to Windsor, watching as if to wait for the shark to disappear.

"Your Royal Highness, if I may have a word," a soft voice called out from below the podium. Tom paced to the edge and stared down. Constance, he thought to himself as he smiled wickedly. She was a short and mildly plump woman, with wild unruly hair that had to be constantly shoved out of her face. He remembers her name because of how sweet his name sounded dripping from her tongue. Countless nights spent in the throes of passion, wearing moonlight as cloth. Tom knew he had dishonoured her just by bedding her, but he couldn't help himself. She was the first woman who really took an interest in him. Still, he had to come to her aid on multiple occasions. While he likes the way, she grips at his biceps, he however, doesn't like when her father comes storming into court demanding his daughter's honour back because Tom had prayed on her. Perhaps, it was the odd lack of ladies that would flock to his side or maybe it was simply because he wanted a little bit of fun before the inevitable.

"You may, my Lady," Tom smiled widely making his way to her side. He could tell the mud was ruining the polished leather of his boots, he completely forgot about his favourite riding boots he had put on in hopes that he may indulge himself in the sports. Still, he pushed the though deep down at met her eyes. He not an unusually tall man but the way he almost dwarfed her was delectable. As he watched her squirm, he wondered as to why she would speak with him where anyone could see. There was no danger for him, but the world's eyes were on her.

She played with the small ring on her pinkie finger, riding it up and down the skin. "Why did you not tell me," she whispered, refusing to look up at him. Tears began to well.

"What on earth do you mean?" He queered, genuinely curious as to what had got her all worked up. His hands went to stroke her cheek gently, but she abruptly pulled away from him. This time her eyes did meet his, the salty liquid glossed over her eyes.

"It is bad enough that I am called the Prince's Whore but now they are cursing my name because I have ruined the royal couple!" she cried out, her deep green dress swallowing the mud below. "That a stupid maid slut has stolen you away from the beautiful French Princess!"

Tom saw nothing but red. Not because of Constance but because of what she said to him. He had begged his parents to let him choose his own wife. If he was to rule England after his father's passing, he wished to at least have a woman whom he truly loved by his side. He said nothing to her as he stormed away. The small drizzle of rain hitting his skin as he picked up his speed. He knew that his father was in a council meeting alongside his mother. Perfect opportunity to unleash his rage. He faintly heard her calling after him, that was muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

He had been told who he was meant to be and what he was meant to be from the moment he was born. Hardly ever seeing his mother or younger brothers because he was eldest, never knowing true companionship because he would be constantly cooped up listening to his advisors and tutors as they taught him the art of war and foreign policies. This was his one chance to spend his life with a woman who understood him and would grow a loving family much in contrast to what he had.

His hands pushed the heavy wooden doors, they hit the walls with a large smack. The entire council stood for the Prince, with the exception of his mother and sickly father. He walked past them with ease and took his seat at the opposite end of table. His eyes focused solely on his father as he absently noted the appearance of his son.

"Wonderful of you to finally join us," The Duke of Essex smiled weakly, in any attempt to deflect the tension elsewhere.

"When were you going to tell me?" Tom spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with venom. His elbows digging into the cool wood of granite of the table. He watched his father finally face him; the man was a wreck. His greying hair stuck to his hair with copious amounts of sweat, his brown eyes had sunk deadly back into the sockets and his skin was pale and filled with wrinkles. "When were you going to tell me father?"

"You were spending too much time with that scullery maid," The King respond calmly, still flipping through royal documents. Tom was on the verge of an explosion. If the Prince was known for something, it was his anger. Much like Mount Vesuvius, he didn't get angry often, he hated how it affect those around him. The times he is pushed to the breaking point however, he was destroy everything in his path. "We had to put an end to it."

"We?" Tom pushed.

"Your mother made the arrangements; she is being brought here as we speak." Once more, the King had no interest with the devastated look on the Prince's face. Too caught up in an attempt to stile a cough.

"You promised me my own choice of bride," Tom seethed. He faced his mother, if the King wouldn't listen perhaps the Queen would.

His mother sighed; the silk of her sleeves draped over the arms of the chair. "That was before you had instinctively made the choice, we hoped that perhaps you would have fallen for the daughter of a Duke or at worst an Earl. You were going to marry that girl, after everything her family has done against the court. We couldn't allow it."

Tom jaw clicked. "Who is she?" He was done arguing, done protesting.

"You'll marry the granddaughter of the French King; y/n of Burgundy," his father spoke up before his mother could sugar coat it. "The family sent a portrait of the girl as the first payment of her dowry; it has already been placed in your room. Hopefully, you can find the slightest bit of attraction for your new bride before the wedding."

"Will I get to meet her beforehand?" He at least hoped to see the girl with his own eyes before calling her his wife. Finally, the King met his eyes. He dropped the quill on the desk as locked his eyes, leaning towards him.

"Did you really think you'd get that luxury?"

━━★✼☆｡

The sea breeze prickled at y/n skin as she sat atop the deck. She could tell they were getting closer. The wind went from a soft tone to a howling scream, something her great aunt had told her all about. English weather could go from a perfect sunny day to god's worst mood. In all honesty, she preferred it to French. It was wild and unpredictable, something she so desperately needed.

She remembered how she got into this predicament as she lay down a 9 ace on the table. Waiting for the ship to land.

"You'll leave tomorrow, it will take you a good couple of days to get there." Her father exclaimed, picking a raspberry from the plate and eating the sweet fruit. y/n stood in silence, still reeling her tears back into her eyes. She refused to weep in front of the Duke. She moved around the large room, in order to hear his words. "You'll make a fine queen," he smiled, placing his hands atop her cheeks. y/n smiled warmly before raising a concern.

"How do you know this will be different than the last?" she asked quietly, staring down at her shoes. Her father sighs before picked his coat up from the chair.

y/n placed her bets, her hand is exquisite. Three queen and a pair of Kings. If she doesn't win, it's as if God is going against her. The men that sit beside her raise their brows in confusion. She's not backing down.

"Because, you know their language and their culture from Great Aunt Mary. You were her favourite after all," her father tells her, the memory of the old lady teaching her English brings a curve to her lips. That was not the answer she was looking for, however. Her father knows it as well, he knows the answer she wants but he cannot give it to her. "Trust me pumpkin," the endearment is wonderful. Unlike her mother, y/n's father has always been kind to her. She doesn't know if it because she is his eldest daughter or because her brother is a lousy boy and she is the only child with a head still attached to her shoulder blades.

She releases her tension; she knows whatever comes out of this she must go along with it. She must accept whatever situation is handed to her and accept her duty as a future queen and mother to the English Throne.

y/n squeals, her hand's won. The rest of the chips are placed in her corner, she is asking if they want to go another round but instead, they all huff and walk away from her. y/n feels her heart sink into her stomach. Perhaps the English wind has turned their moods sour. Soon enough her worries are washed away as the boat docks into Brighton and y/n hears the cheers for her. She can't exactly make out what they are saying. Sadly, she doesn't get a chance to even greet her new subjects as her new English ladies are gently pushing her towards the carriage. The only thing she can do is wave and smile at them, hoping to instil a fraction of hope for the new royal couple. As she steps into the carriage, a huge white dress follows her. The abundance of ladies and herself are stuck in the cramped space for a little over an hour before they start agreeing to change her dress into the one being coddled.

"Why? This is dress is perfect as it is," y/n laughed gently, her fingers playing with the pearls that lace the neckline.

"Forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty; The King has requested that you wear a white gown." One of the younger girls pipes up. Sighing, y/n nods her head to agree and goes to stop the carriage.

While they don't completely undress her, she knows that the smock under her dress is shear and leave nothing to the imagination. Quickly they strip her of the current dress, even unlacing the corset before adding another one. As they place the soft silk of her veil over her head, she can hear the ringing bells at Westminster. It hasn't completely dawned on her what she is exactly going through. Marrying a man she has never met. Marrying a man for all she knows could be a tyrant. She's heard quite a few English Monarchs fall under that said category. Her heart started to jump now; she could fell the beat thump against her vocal box.

The people began to line the city. Countless bodies waved at her as she strolled through the city of London. The abbey somehow seemed ten times bigger in person. White rose petals fell through the air as the coachman opened the door for her. The walkway was paved with red velvet. Her heels felt as though she was ruining the beautiful material as she walked.

Tom can physically hear her pounding heartbeat from where he stands. He can't exactly make out her face, but he can see the white gown strutting towards him. It's the same patterns as the dress his mother wore more than 20 years ago. He's seen it in countless paintings, his mother scowling as she attempts to salvage any positive thing out of such tremendous pain. Harrison lays a hand on his shoulder; the contact makes him jump.

"I heard she looks like a siren," he joked, dusting a small particle of fluff off Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps she'll sound like one too," the comment was enough to grant the knight a hard whack on his arm from the Prince. He truly did wonder if she would as beautiful as the painting which depicted her. A small red rose for his house in her fingertips as she grinned softly. It was as if she was staring into his soul.

Tom reached out to allow her aid in getting up the stairs. She graciously accepted muttering a small thank you as her other hand lifted the countless layers of fabric to mend her steps. Her touch was soft, something he wasn't used to. The gentle touch of a noble woman, even if it was only upon his fingers. The entirety of Westminster Abbey went silent as the faced each other.

y/n could barely hear anything over her rampant anxiety. Though she was eased slightly as she blindly grasped at his fingers, she was afraid she gripped a little too tightly. Finally, she stood in front of him. The gown dipping down the stairs to end in her ladies' hands. She wondered what she looked like to him. Wondering if it was a glorious sight to witness a new bride waltzing towards him. Or if it was one of dread, to be in holy matrimony with someone you've just met for the first time. She's still trying to decide between the two.

The ceremony was beautiful. A simply yet elegant affair, as two young royals wed. She knows that she is marrying the Prince of Wales, a worthy husband for any noble woman. Yet she can't help the dread that builds as the Archbishop drones on. The hymns falling deaf ears. She tries to pay attention, but she can’t, all she can hear is the drumming of her heartbeat. It pounds against her ribs, creating echoes in her head. Before she knows it, his hands reach for hers. There was no strength in his grip unlike beforehand, it was soft and gentle. As if she was a beautiful yet delicate doll, that she would completely shatter if he pressed just that bit too hard. Their fingertips locked; her skin fell into the ridges of his knuckles.

“I proclaim thee, y/n of Burgundy to be my lawfully wedded wife from now until the end of my days,” he hesitated. She could hear it in his voice. “She shall sit beside me as I rule the kingdom.” The ring passes down her skin, the metal biting at her finger.

She repeats him. “I proclaim thee, Thomas – Prince of Wales to be my lawfully wedded husband from now until the end of my days. I shall sit beside him as he rules this beautiful country.” She smiles at the end, though she never intends to. y/n thanks her ladies that they cover her grinning face behind the thick white lace of her veil.

The entirety of Westminster Abbey is silent, no one dares even breathe as Prince Thomas coils his fingers around the tipping of the lace. He lifts it over his now wife’s face. He taken aback slightly. The painter wasn’t paid enough, clearly. She was even more beautiful standing in front of him. The same clear complexion now glistening in the soft sunlight of England. He doesn’t pry of course; it would be rude of him. Just to stare at his bride, as if they were the only people in the hall. Good lord, does he wish it was.

His hands reach her cheeks. Tender once more, he brings her forward. She shifts on her feet as they meet. A quaint and soft kiss, unlike anything either of them has felt ever. He can’t remember the last time, it was this – well, gentle. Thomas doubts he has ever kissed a woman of such luxury in his entire life up to this point. y/n is the first to pull away, her fingers resting lightly on his raised wrists. Their eyes meet for a moment, a short moment.

Westminster Abbey erupts into celebration. Red rose petals fall from the ceiling and music begins to flood the area.

As she stared around, y/n began to think to herself. I do not know what will come out of this, but I already can see that joy my presence brings to these people. I shall not let them down.

Prince Thomas of England, Heir to The English Throne and y/n of Burgundy, Granddaughter of The French King had been wed. They were now locked in holy matrimony, a feeling unlike any other. Both horrendous and hospitable.

━━★✼☆｡

The Hall is a grand party. Laughing and singing is heard from every corner, mugs of beer and wine are flung across tables and scraps of food are being thrown to the dogs. y/n has never seen such a scene unfold. Too contained by the prudish French court. The most scandalous thing she has seen is a risqué dance meant to be for a married lover.

That is what she always despised about the French Nobility. Their secrets. Whispers and Rumours spread faster than fire. If you had committed some heinous act, the entirety of France will hear about it by the end of the week. Perhaps that is another reason why she felt so trapped in Burgundy. y/n could never do a single task on her own before her ladies’ loose tongue would find their way back to her mother. A delicate little flower, such a waste of potential.

Tom noticed her prodding, her fork twirling the few peas left on her plate. He hadn’t said a word to her all night and yet he looks at her if she’s unwillingly to speak. Does she know any basic English? Perhaps not.

“How are you liking the food,” Tom asked her, leaning into her. She smiled up at him, he spoke to her in French. It made her heart swell for a second. y/n turns to face him, smiling warmly. Tom wishes he could keep that smile forever.

“It’s is very well Your Grace,” y/n replies to him. Her flawless English rolling off her tongue with a petite French accent. It’s like heaven to his ears and he’s taken aback. “My Great Aunt was an English Countess, I loved her very much. I was fluent in English before I was 8.” She explained, almost as if she had read his mind.

“You need not call me Your Grace,” he teased, it was somewhat natural for him.

“Then what shall I call you?” y/n queered.

“I am your husband now, whatever pleases you pleases me,” Tom replied, turning back to his empty plate in an effort to hide the rising red flush on his face. y/n knew she should leave it at that, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

“Are royal weddings usually this,” she paused, “loud?”

Tom laughed quietly, he too turned to face the ruckus crowd. Men laying in the laps of maids, dogs feasting over food that had been flung across the floor. Loud chants to the beat of the music filled the hall. He would have been completely embarrassed by the state of his people in front of his new bride, if he hadn’t seen the amused look on her face. “Not usually, I have only been to one other wedding and that was extremely sombre.”

“How so?” she asked, sipping from the freshly poured wine.

“I went to my uncle’s wedding a few months ago. He had also married a noble woman like yourself, but the poor thing was only 11. My uncle was 35 and counting.” He wishes it was different but like all things in this world, he is powerless to the wills of those who think they are higher than others.

He peered at her; y/n was already looking at him. An eyebrow and a lip raised in disgust. It was quaint.

“I wish I could be more repulsed by that,” Tom wondered if she was joking or if she was serious. He couldn’t tell just by the use of her tone. He did however note her wit. Something he so longed for. They talked for hours, sitting by one another and discussing anything that arrived at the conversation. Tom can’t decide whether it’s her honey-like voice or her banter but it’s making him feel things no one should for someone they are being forced to wed.

Just while they are comparing the contrasting jousting techniques, the joyful music suddenly stops. It’s a quick snap and the entire hall is now dead quiet. The Earl of Salisbury mounts himself on one of the tables. His cheeks red with drunkenness.

The Earl points directly at y/n and Tom as they sit in confusion. “The final tradition, an honour for any noble man. The Great Bedding!”

y/n turns to Tom, clinging slightly to his sleeve. He takes immediate notice. “Thomas, what is The Great Bedding?” There was great concern in her voice as she watched all of the men rush towards them. He didn’t get to answer as the women abruptly hauled him out of his seat and down the hall, away from her.

y/n didn’t fear too well either. At least a dozen grimy hands placed themselves all over her body, pulling harshly as they brought her into the air. Dancing her down the halls. She constantly whacked their hands, to no avail of course. They only dropped her once they got to a dimly lit room.

It was already buzzing with people. Hustling around a single bed, covered by finely woven silk. The men dropped her gently, placing her feet against the ground. y/n tried to turn around to give them a piece of her mind but was stopped as her corset began to become loose around her waist. Incredibly uncomfortable, y/n looked up to distract herself in any regard and found Tom at the other side. The maid’s hands undoing every buckle of his coat, tiny fingers unthreading the lavish ropes across his body. y/n blushed at the sight.

Tom was trying his hardest not to look at her, not to stare as countless men of the court undressing her. He could hear the bulky wedding dress hit the floor of the room, he could feel her eyes on him, and he could see the variety of unknown nobles swarming them in any hopes to achieve the right to gossip tomorrow morning. It was despicable.

He climbed in first, the cotton of the blankets itching his skin as he settled. The only comfort he found was in the softness in his unkempt hair. Not restricted by the gel he was forced to wear.

y/n slowly followed his lead, it was dead silent. No one dared breathed as the new Princess of Wales found her spot next to The Prince. All the while, the exact same priest Archbishop chanted away, and priests flung holy water at the bed. Some of the liquid found itself on her skin. Finally, the crowd bowed to the couple and began to take their leave.

Tom watched in peace; he would be alone. He closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, perhaps he would be able to get some well needed sleep. That seemed achievable until he felt a cold grasp around his wrist. His eyes shot open to find his father’s glare directly at him. “Don’t let the spring pass, I hope to see a grandson in the next few months,” The King spat.

It had been hours since the quarry of guests had left the room but the the monarch’s words etched themselves into his mind. Echoing nonstop, getting wilder as Tom felt y/n settle herself next to him. The mere presence of her alongside the duty he had to fulfil was too much for him. Tom shot up and quickly gathered his things, hauling his boots and clothes. He couldn’t be near her for another moment, too afraid of what he might do if she was subject to this sort of cruel punishment. Tom quickly decided he was sleep next door, just far away to have the thoughts no longer plague his mind but not too far that he would impose the wrong meaning on her. He reached for the door when she chimed in.

“Where are you going?”

He halted instantly. He wished that they could have gotten along like most royal couples should. A cold and initially distant meeting, then hopefully something would blossom over the years. Instead they had gotten along quite well, too well in fact. He was used to going slowly, taking his time in bedding a girl. A constant glaze over the court every few days, then promiscuous banter and in the span of months he would have her melt in his hand with a simple word. Now, he was feeling flustered and out of control and all of it was happening over a single night. Tom pressed his forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at her, just like a painting coming to life. Her hair was down, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not grimed with sweat and dirt nor was it pinned underneath a headdress or away from her face. This time, the soft curls framed it. The nightgown clung to her shoulders; the fabric dangerously close to falling off. It made his life that much more difficult.

“I am sorry. You are a beautiful woman, but I just cannot fulfil the expectations that are placed upon me tonight. I will be sleeping in the room next door if you need me,” Tom blurted out. He waited for a response before he could speed out. She sat there, like a perfectly sculpted statue. It was torture.

y/n sighed, “nothing has to happen tonight.”

“But they will ask, they will pry like they always will,” he countered.

“Who says we have to tell the truth?” y/n giggled. God, it was a symphony to him. Tom watched her leave the bed, waltzing around to meet with him at the door. He wanted the tell her to stay exactly where she is, not to move even an inch closer but with ever step she took, his breath hitched higher in his throat. “I would prefer to spend the first night of my marriage with my husband, whether something happens or not.”

He swallowed thickly, “you are incredibly calm.” He now met her, his full attention on y/n as she chuckled in delight.

“I am filled to the brim with anxiety, just not that same fear that you are feeling,” she told him as she sat down the small longue in the middle of the room. She took the wine from the table and poured each of them a glass. Tom was hesitant at first, still wishing to flee the room and into the safety of his own solitary. Still, he found himself pacing towards her. Taking soft and flinching steps until he sat beside her.

“Then what is the fear?” He took the other glass, quickly chugging the alcohol. y/n said nothing but just stared at him in confusion. “The fear you feel, why?”

It was now her turn to become flustered. He looked genuinely curious as to why she was feeling doubtful, but she was unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Her father made her promise never to speak of it to anyone, a shameful secret that would ruin her future if it was released. But Tom was now her husband. They were bonded by law, a thought she really didn’t wish to dwell on. Surely, whatever she told him wouldn’t cause them any stress? Still, it would be rude of her not to tell him the reason after he had just clearly demonstrated his own fears in the commitment. “You must promise not to become angry.”

Tom nodded his head gently, even more intrigued then he was before.

y/n quietly exhaled, avoiding looking at Tom. “I was married once before, he passed from the sickness 3 months into our matrimony. Perhaps it was God way of guiding me to a better future, but it ruined almost everything. His death caused create strain for my family as they attempt to rebuild myself as if I was not capable of it myself. I am terrified that I am cursed, that I shall find myself falling in love with you only to be weeping over your coffin months later.” She had poured her soul out, shared such a personal section of her life. She was ashamed to see his face. Too afraid that pure anger and disgust would paint his face.

“Who was he? The man whom you had married?” Tom asked her again. His voice calling out as she stared directly at the purple velvet beneath her dress.

“The Prince of Spain,” y/n squeaked.

“That inbred!” Tom joked, suddenly becoming relaxed by the mere mention of the Spanish Royal Family. “I am surprised you got three months and not three days, that kid was on death doors for his entire life,” Tom was now in a fit of laughter. It wasn’t directed to her but more that they allowed such a beautiful woman to be the wife of such a dull man. y/n peered up, thoroughly embarrassed as she gave him a light whack. Tom finally came down from his laughing fit, staring directly at her. “You are cursed Princess; you are just coddled. Forced into a life clearly not meant for someone like yourself.”

The mere mention of the cradling of her life got y/n riled up, “that’s another thing! The Spanish constantly treated me as if I was some porcelain doll ready to shatter if they dared even look at me! I felt like a child trapped in a woman’s body and he touched me like that as well. God, I was finally ready to truly live my life and then he just was too soft, I wanted something much mor-” Oh. Oh God. She had run her mouth too far, dug her own grave with her rambling. Her hands clamped against her mouth as a heat rushed to her face. She could see the French ships arriving for her next month, giving her passage because she was not in pristine condition. Hopefully Tom didn’t pick up on what she was inferring.

“You aren’t a virgin?” his voice was quiet, almost dark. She felt her entire world shatter. Tom scooted towards her slowly, it was completely unnoticed. She was too deep in panic to recognise the growing flirt rising in the Prince of Wales. y/n shook her head feverously. “That little tick took you?” When he put it like that, it made her stomach tingle. She had never heard such a sentence used in that tone. She was drowning in thoughts.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, that’s why I was so unsatisfied,” she tried to explain, her hands now bunched up the fabric against her knees. “He was just so soft, too soft and I wished he would have-”

“Would have what?” he toyed. Tom doesn’t quite know why he was acting like this. So intent on prying her little secrets out of her. Usually, he would have just simply got straight to the point but now, seeing her become red with frustration was a view causing him great pleasure. Any abstinence he hoped to place upon himself earlier in the night had been thrown out the window. He finally felt back in control, something he longed for. Something she was serving to him on a silver platter.

“I..” she began but the words got caught in her throat. Her tongue stopped completely, almost refusing to finish the damning sentence. She wanted him to be rougher with her, she wanted him to treat her like a woman and not a girl. “What happen to you wishing to keep your hands to yourself?” She attempted to change the topic, trying to flee but to no avail as he quickly caught her wrist in his palms. Their skins igniting on sight.

“Don’t try to change the subject Princess,” he purred, standing up to meet with her at the side of the bed. Her title now held a completely different meaning, it wasn’t being used to describe her. It was being used to utterly destroy her; a nickname only meant to be whispered in the dim light of a dozen candles. “I can see right through you,” Tom’s calloused fingers met the loose fabric on her shoulders, dancing over her collarbone. It was soft but held meaning. “I can see that you wished he touched you differently. Touched you like a real woman, rougher and passionate.”

His words were damned. She should feel ashamed that she was feeling light-headed just by the grazing touch of his fingers above her perked breasts. “Yes,” it was the only thing she could get out. The only single three lettered word that allowed itself out of her mouth. Tom pressed his lips to her neck, underneath her jaw.

“Perhaps, he too was inexperienced.” He spoke through small pecks. “Allow me to show you something different, something better,” it was barely above a whisper, but y/n heard every word. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as he peered at her.

“I would enjoy that very much,” y/n responded just as quiet, all the gentle touches he currently had placed upon her turned darker. He pulled her into his embrace quickly before tripping her feet from under her and ending atop her on the messily made bed. His hand instantly found the inside of her thigh, his finger bruising her skin. It was delightfully, the slight pain sending shivers down her spine.

Their lips met, gentle at first. Her hands moulding themselves against his jaw, moaning into his mouth as he pushed her deeper into the mattress. She wished she could stay like this forever, wrapping in Tom’s embrace as they mended together. Alas, he pulled away from her. Lips separating with a small pop and a soft whine from y/n underneath him. Tom took a distinct look at her; she was sprawled out and whimpering for something more. Did she give this look to him as well? Did she use the melody that was her voice to beg him to do anything? Tom didn’t particularly wish to replay the thought in his head but yet, he couldn’t help himself.

Her nightgown quickly found itself discarded; her nipples perked in the cold. His lips immediately latched on, massaging the soft tissue. He never knew something could feel this smooth, without any flaws or imperfections. Even though he knew he could spend an entire night between the valley of her tits, he too longed for something more.

In a matter of moments, he found himself staring directly at her sex. A glorious sight to behold, glistening with her arousal in the pale moonlight. She was practically dripping onto the sheets below her. He placed a soft kiss to her pelvis, she jumped at the contact. “If you feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me,” he told her all the while his fingers toyed at her hot hole. Dipping even so slightly into her heat. She was already in euphoria just from the slightest bit of pleasure. y/n nodded her head before locking eyes with him.

He didn’t waste another second, quickly licking a fat stripe through her folds. The taste was pure heaven, he didn’t give her a moment to register the feeling before diving right back into her juices. Sucking and pulling at her, wasting the night away feeling her thighs clamp around his head every time he flicked her clit coupled with a singular finger prancing in and out of her.

y/n wasn’t quite sure how loud she could truly be. She knew that even though they were in the far south-east of the castle, there could be a dozen scullery maids listening right outside the door. Or if someone was trying to achieve some sleep right beside them. At this very moment though, with Tom’s head in between her thighs devouring every inch of her throbbing cunt, she couldn’t give a single fuck. y/n allowed the string of curses and praised to tumble from her lips as she clasped onto the bed sheets for dear life.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Tom remarked, releasing her for a few seconds, “for such a pretty and delicious pussy.” He chuckled darkly. y/n wanted to bite back at him, but she was cut short but the addition of another of his digits sliding into her tight entrance. y/n clasped down hard on her hand. A foreign feeling began to drive itself into her stomach. While unusual, it was not at all exotic to her. It was thrilling, feeling her walls contract around his fingers as y/n began to instinctively rock her hips against his digits.

“God,” he purred, “that’s it, make yourself cum on my fingers Princess. Let me see that gorgeous face while you do it.” Tom had now retracted his mouth from her, completely mesmerised by the way her eyes screwed shut as she reached her peak. A cacophony of beautiful and dazzling sounds stumbling out of her mouth as he felt her climax all over his hand. Such a tantalising sight for any man.

y/n was too deep in her own return that she didn’t notice the retraction of his presences from the middle of her legs. So, when he felt his hands roughly pull her to the edge of the bed, she almost choked. The exhilarating feeling of his strained cock rubbing against her drenched folds made her forget her place. Made her speak before her mind could catch up. “I want you to fulfil the expectation.” She told him, her eyes never wavering from him.

Tom halted all his movements. It was painful but he needed absolute clarity before he did anything without her reassurance. “You need to elaborate Princess,” he told her darkly. He knew exactly what she was asking of him, he knew exactly what she desired.

“I want you to come inside of me,” she spoke as if she was a different person. y/n doesn’t quite know whether it’s the shift of mood or her own personal feelings but either way, she wanted to feel their juices mix and then leak out of her. Wanted him to fill her right up to the brim until the possibility was certain.

“You want me to fuck my seed right into you?” his words were dirtier than she expected but so was he as he slid in and into her. His naval hitting hers with a loud smack. He refused to move until he had played with her just that tad bit more. y/n’s head thrashed into the sheets behind her. She was so full, never has she felt this complete in her entire life. He wasn’t even moving but she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her.

“God yes,” she whimpered. “I need it so bad,” she was going to drive Tom insane. Just by a simple sentence, he was going to lose his mind and cum right now without even doing anything.

“Want to carry my child, our own Prince or Princess,” he pulled back out of her and slammed right back in, knocking the wind out of her y/n. It was so profoundly dirty, just discussing it. It thrilled her to the very core, child-bearing was meant for women not girls. Perhaps that is why she is so drawn to the talk, the talk of something so primally feminine set her entire body on fire. She couldn’t speak a coherent sentence instead she just let out a continuous plea.

He began slow, hips rocking to find that perfect beat. He revelled in the only sounds in the room, the sound of his cock hitting the divine spot inside of her over and over again and her delirious moaning. It was a symphony he was lucky enough to hear. He wanted to hear more, listen to the pure sounds of him railing into her. So, he picked up the pace. His thrust became not only deep and harsh but fast.

God, if he could immortalise this feeling he would. The feeling of her walls constricting around him as he pounds right into her, the feeling of her legs wrapping around his constantly thrusting hips and the feeling of her sweating skin underneath his fingers as he grips for support. It’s like the Lord himself made her tight little cunt just for him.

“You’re so big,” y/n praised mindlessly. He’s never had someone say that to him without it sounding forced. It’s so raw that he can’t help but go even harder into with each praise that falls off her lips. “Fill me up, I want to feel you all inside of me.” It’s a dangerous game, she’s tapped on something so feral inside of him it hurts.

y/n wants to prop herself up and explore his body while he pounds into her, but she simply can’t. Her limbs give out with every thrust. Her entire body spasms each time he hits the perfect spot inside of her. She a moaning mess, trying to maintain any sense of normality but failing miserably. It’s a constant state of pleasure, she’s afraid that she’s lost track of time. That is until the faint, but all the desirable fit finds itself lit in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m almost there,” she whispers, it’s the only thing she can get out. His thrusts, that once had gained a steady and harsh rhythm are now falling. He’s losing focus with each grip he receives. With her words though, he gives her the final stretch. No longer does he has some form of structure but instead he’s just railing her like a wild animal.

It’s an explosion and neither knows why but it’s addictive. y/n climaxes around him, her toes curling as her final orgasm hits her long and violent. Shaking underneath, him as she unknowingly milks his own finish out of him. Tom’s fucking his cum right into her, he doesn’t stop for a second. Too focused on the goal ahead of him. Placing it where it counts. It’s a feeling he wants to never forget, better yet it’s a sight he wants permanently etched into his memories. As he pulls out of her, their climaxes tumble out of her. Dripping down her leg.

“Hold your legs up Princess,” he teases as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I heard it works wonders.”

The rose blooms only for those who care properly for her.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: please don’t flop, omg this is so long and no one asked for this shit. please don’t flop chile 🤡

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excaliburofficial · 3 years

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Random Soul Eater headcanons cause I can't sleep

Kid got really into cooking when Liz and Patty moved in because he is a dad friend. He was really bad at it at first but learned. He makes really fancy macaroni and grilled cheeses because that's Patty's favorites

The reason Black*Star wants to transcend the gods so much is because he was looked down on/pitied so much growing up because of his family and he hated it

Stein runs a vulture culture blog that no one knows about

Crona likes to draw/doodle and its one of the things that helps them ground the most in a panic attack/flashback

Crona also gets really into crafting!!

Tsubaki is almost as avid of a reader as Maka and they like to talk about their favorite books. Tsubaki is really into poetry and is also lowkey into philosophy and Maka really likes historical fiction and fantasy

Kid also reads a lot but he only reads non fiction so he doesn't have a lot to say when Maka and Tsubaki start talking

He likes going and talking to Stein about that sort of thing though

I mentioned in a last post that Patty is a hardcore gamer and streams and Im gonna build on that and say she also gets really into mods and learns some simple programming and is a lot smarter than people give her credit for

I headcanon Black*Star as transmasc super hard honestly. I can see it for all the characters but I see it for him the most

He gets super protective of Crona sometimes because of their shared experience w gender identity

Soul tried to pick up guitar after moving to Death City but just wound up not being that interested because he only did it because he thought it was cooler than piano

Liz is a movie buff and has a half written screenplay stashed in a drawer somewhere and she has a whole film trilogy directed in her head

Maka is really really dedicated to saving the environment and punches anybody that doesn't recycle. She also HATES fast fashion and thrifts/makes a lot of her clothes

I have so many really random and silly headcanons for these characters haha I think about this show too much

#soul eater #maka albarn #soul eater evans #soul evans #black star #black*star #tsubaki nakatsukasa #death the kid #liz Thompson #patty thompson #crona gorgon #wrenn's headcanons

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josieandthepussycatsofficial · 5 years

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i have done my classic thing: i have started pride and prejudice 2005, i am 7 minutes in, and i am disgusting with this bastardization of the text

my liveblogs below the cut

elizabeth is a man-hating love-hater? not according to any book jane austen wrote!

elizabeth is too silly and improper, mrs bennet, kitty, and lydia are not at all silly enough

this sucks

lizzy is upset that mr darcy didnt find her attractive? that is a devastating mischaracterization and sets the whole plot and their relationship off on terrible and incorrect footing.

also wtf are they sitting under some benches at a dance?

hate that darcy immediately looks at elizabeth (in a way we’re meant to assume means he finds her attractive) as if his attraction to her comes from her initially from her appearance. he really was not interested in her until he began observing her behavior and interacting with he

when mrs bennet says, “it’s a shame [charlotte lucas] isn’t more handsome,” a terribly improper and humiliating thing to say, mr bingley snorts a laugh. mr bingley is not supposed to be improper at all. he has good breeding, he’s rich, he’s just also very nice and friendly. he would never laugh at that

i do not know enough about the regency era to comment, but it seems to me that there are certain liberties with historical accuracy wrt clothing and such in this film that you don’t see in the bbc miniseries. for instance, elizabeth coming to netherfield with her hair down? i don’t believe women ever wore their hair down at this time (*edit* the bbc series and this movie take place in different periods. bbc series: 1813, movie: 1797)

why is mr bingley so awkward? i mean i know why, it’s to make him seem charming and unthreatening and cute and relatable or whatever, but it’s just inconsistent. his character is extremely warm, friendly, polite, not terribly intellectual, but not a bumbling mess who can’t execute a thought without backtracking because he’s so nervous around his lady love

the book has comedy to spare, you don’t have to cheaply manufacture it in this way just because the director’s scared that his audience won’t understand the original humor/scared that he won’t have the ability to make the original humor understood/doesn’t understand the original humor himself because he doesn’t understand the source material!!

i also hate the sharpness and vitriol that this darcy puts in his language. he’s supposed to be uber-polite but cold and haughty. propriety doesn’t permit active hostility (such as when he’s bemoaning the liberal use of the word “accomplished” when applied to women) in regular conversation. that’s intense and insane

why does he speak so quickly? also they really should not have cut the whole netherfield drawing room scene, at least not the conversation between darcy and elizabeth about teasing and pride. they actually now that i think about it cut his whole thing on how a great man can never be too prideful. that’s really fuckin important character stuff! for both of them!

the comedy in this mr collins scene is not landing. they’re like laughing at him before he’s gotten too outrageous. and the actor is such a quiet, mild-mannered dude that he’s not really grating as he should be. this is supposed to be an extraordinarily annoying character, so annoying that the bennets can’t stand him for literally one meal.

ugh they have mrs bennet suggest to mr collins that he should pursue lizzy instead of jane. that’s not out of character for her at all but it misses the opportunity to show how scuzzy mr collins is, and also how fucking little he cares about who his wife is, assuming she meets the criteria of lady catherine de bourgh

ew mr wickham is so skeevy! lizzy’s into him because he’s hot and picked up her handkerchief? that’s it? is she an idiot? he’s not charming or good-natured or fun or funny at all. lydia: he’s a lieutenant! wickham: an enchanted lieutenant (referring to being enchanted to meet lizzy). like scream! what a gross pick up line!!!!)

and their flirtation is based on banter (no!) and him being self-deprecating (maybe, but not in such an obvious way “ignore me i’m next to nothing” what a fucking weird thing to say)

he literally charms her by pulling a quarter out of her sister’s ear. are you kidding? is she 8?

this dance scene btw elizabeth and darcy is all wrong. she immediately jumps on him with “it’s your turn to say something” after it’s been .1 seconds since he last spoke, and he spoke way more amiably (”indeed, most invigorating”) than would be his wont.

oh my god they’ve stopped dancing to angrily talk to each other in the middle of the dance floor? this is so incoherent with the characters (so improper!) and the time period. just cultivating more drama. this scene’s already juicy, they don’t have to be spitting angrily into each other’s mouths for it to come across

so silly and melodramatic that twice in this movie the entirety of a loud crowded drunken ballroom has screeched to a halting silence immediately for some minor drama. the first being the bingleys and mr darcy simply entering the room. the second being mr collins introducing himself to mr darcy (that one is especially ridiculous)

oh god why are they portraying mr collins as so sympathetic and sweet? he’s a fucking asshole! he’s not just annoying he’s a dick! that’s important, otherwise elizabeth is really unjustly mean to him, especially while she’s rejecting his proposal

oh i disagree with the way they play charlotte’s reasons for marrying mr collins. instead of her just not being romantic and marrying for practical reasons because that’s her nature, they make it a biiig thing like she has to marry because she’s old and ugly and otherwise she’ll go to the poorhouse

it’s not surprising that a lot of my critiques have to do with them pumping drama that doesn’t make sense into the story. making characters shout or spit words etc, because of course that’s what a hollywood film was going to do with a 19th century novel of manners

i guess i should say some good things about this movie. the cinematography is very lovely, obviously. i think it’s well cast, especially judi dench, with the exception of kiera knightley and the actor who plays mr collins. i think matthew mcfayden could’ve been a great darcy had he actually known anything about the character beyond the script

actually i take it back, judi dench isn’t quite amping up the ridiculous nature of this character like she should. they keep a lot of her silly lines but she doesn’t hit them to emphasize just how silly they are. she’s almost too stately to play this woman who, despite her great rank, enjoys spending her time being condescending to lower rank people

here comes my agreement with the grand critique of this movie: they make darcy out to be socially awkward rather than a haughty ass. he’s leaning in and whispering that he has trouble conversing with people, as if he means he has social anxiety and doesn’t mean, “small talk with simpletons bores me”

oh no they cut the delicious piano practice scene! they rewrote it and lizzy just says, “you should practice,” and we don’t get to have this famous, witty misunderstanding that elucidates darcy’s character so well!!!

oh no no no in this scene where colonel fitzwilliam tells lizzy that darcy split up bingleys attachment he tells her that the problem wasn’t the lack of fortune but the family! why?????? that’s half of the big reveal of darcy’s letter????? it’s when she realizes that oh his intentions weren’t so bad

i know i already said it but fuck darcy speaks fast. it sounds like shit. why doesn’t he just shut the fuck up and slow down? it’s weirdly inconsistent with his character. though i guess if they’re trying to rewrite him as socially awkward this could be part of that. but they shouldnt be! because it invalidates the whole premise of the story, their romance, and his character arc!

whoa whoa whoa and in the proposal scene when she says “why did you propose by telling me you’re doing this against your better judgement” he interrupted apologetically, trying to explain. what!!! no!!! he is an asshole! he’s insulted that this low rank woman would dare reject him. he didn’t suspect for one instant that she would. he’s fucking fuming from her first word

wow they’re chopping up this iconic proposal scene huh. i guess to make darcy still seem like a Nice Guy. he didn’t get to accuse her of only rejecting him because she was insulted by his proposal, she had to say that line. this movie is like, let’s make lizzy seem as insane as possible, and darcy as sweet as can be.

you’re not supposed to realize how wrong lizzy is, it’s supposed to creep up on you very slowly. youre supposed to feel like she’s been very reasonable up to this point, and you’re as shocked as she is when she reads the letter.

even his face! so shocked and sad like a kicked puppy standing there in the rain (we won’t even touch why the fuck they’re standing outside in the pouring rain). he’s angry right now! he’s so mad! he’s supposed to be fucking mad, because he’s a proud, arrogant, asshole!

oh my god and look he’s saying the lack of fortune of the bennets had nothing to do with it, and lizzy wow she’s sooo crazy for suggesting it, even though 20 seconds ago he just said it sucks that i’m in love with you ‘cause you’re so low class. god this scene sucks

there’s a reason this is all written in a letter in the book, it works much better that way. this is not a back and forth, lizzy doesn’t get to ask questions and poke holes. he offers his defenses and is still kind of a dick, and lizzy has to read it all without responding or rejecting it, really has to sit with it, the way you can’t do in a fight

oh and he just apologized for accurately noting that elizabeth’s family is often really disgustingly improper! how fucking out of character! both in general and in the scene because, and i can’t stress this enough, HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE ANGRY

oh ok i have to redact some of my former criticism. he finally gets mad at the very end here, and makes the comment about “did you expect me to rejoice in your low birth?” though he still didnt say the crucial “perhaps you would have accepted had not the manner of proposal offended you”

wait what the fuck??? did they just lean in for a kiss and lean away?? like a whole, i’m angry at you i’m hot for you let’s fuck thing? what the fuck? not only is that cheap romance melodrama but also lizzy HATES this man. not like oops i love-i mean hate you but really hates him

why do they choose to have elizabeth not tell jane about the proposal? i can’t imagine there being any reason? except of course that’s she’s secretly already in love with him and doesn’t want to admit it! gag

this scene between elizabeth and mr bennet about lydia going off with the forsters is well done imo

ugh god but they’ve given lizzy’s “what are young men to rocks and mountains?” line to mary, making it seem stupid and platitudinal, because that’s mary’s character

oh good, elizabeth is going on another “all men are trash” rant that is a thinly veiled reference to darcy. they’re just fucking taking a wrecking ball to this character’s credibility and intelligence huh?

this is really devastating actually because at this point the movie is telling us that lizzy is fighting through the anger and hate and realizing she loves darcy, after their sexy confrontation and his letter. in reality, she’s realized she was wrong and is doing some deep self-reflection.

she feels a little sheepish about how she boldly she accused darcy of things she was so wrong about but she still isn’t in love with him because he’s still a fucking proud ass! he just happened to be right about some shit that she was too prejudiced to realize

it doesn’t make sense if she falls in love with him before he grows and becomes a good person. it shows a weakness of character on her part and makes his eventual character growth just a cherry on top. oh that’s nice, they’re in love *and* he’s not gonna treat her like shit. totally invalidates the whole point of the story, overcoming personal defaults and finding healthy love that way

wow they make lizzy so stupid! she objects so stupidly to visiting pemberly! oh let’s not. he’s so…. he’s so… he’s so rich! wtf are you talking about? in the book she’s just kind of like eh idk…. do you really want to go? i guess if you think we should go… oh he won’t be there? oh cool let’s do it

ok so i’m 1:21:54 into the movie. i have 45 minutes left. i’m stopping. i’m angry and getting no joy from this so. this was a humiliating project for me, thinking i could enjoy this movie. never again

#pride and prejudice

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latetotherant · 5 years

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Negotiating Remix Culture through Steve Oedekerk’s “Kung Pow” ••• By Lissa Heineman

In “Encoding and Decoding in the Television Discourse”, Stuart Hall explains the three ways we consume media texts: dominant, oppositional, and negotiated modes. The dominant model upholds society’s norms. These works don’t break barriers, and often entertain and reassert hegemonic ideas . The oppositional model, as its name suggests, identifies and critiques the dominant notions. Oliver Moore notes that these readings are often met with hostility from those supportive of the dominant framework. Finally, negotiated works lie between these extremes, allowing consumers to choose to accept or reject elements of a text. This mode employs dominant performances without subscribing to them. Negotiation twists popular notions into something new and subversive, while allowing them to be consumable by those in the dominant sphere.

Steve Oedekerk’s Kung Pow! Enter the Fist (2002) is one of many pastiches of the kung fu genre. The film follows in the footsteps of What’s Up, Tiger Lily? (1966), and the Can Dialectics Break Bricks? (1973), films famous for their own remixes (here meaning media that draws inspiration and shape from pre-existing works). Kung Pow opens with a production note:

This motion picture contains some footage from Hu He Shuang Xing aka “Tiger & Crane Fists,” a motion picture made in Hong Kong in 1976, but the voices and soundtrack were eliminated, and new voices and soundtrack were inserted by the producers of this motion picture.

While a bit clunky, this opening does what it needed to do: the Jimmy Neutron and Barnyard creator acknowledges the work of Jimmy Wang Yu (Tiger & Crane’s director), and prefaces the remix and remediation that Tiger & Crane Fists underwent in this movie.

As described within the production note, Kung Pow is a very literal remix. Oedekerk remastered Tiger & Crane Fists: he successfully took poorly preserved footage and had it saved digitally. He then scrambled this footage, filmed himself in front of a green screen, and reshaped the film around him. The process of remastering an old film is incredibly time-consuming and expensive, and yet he did it. Why? This is emblematic of his own fanboyishness. Oedekerk replaces the hero of a film he evidently loves in a very expensive form of fanfiction. Further, as noted in the movie’s preface, the film employs gag dubbing, a controversial redubbing technique used mainly for comedy. In the film’s commentary, Oedekerk notes that when any new characters or stand-ins were inserted into the remastered Tiger and Crane Fist footage, they wouldn’t record the script’s dialogue. Instead, they’d often be filmed speaking nonsense, and then the film’s audio was post-synced once filming and editing was completed. This ultimately made the film cohesively re-dubbed, with the entire film lacking sly lip-synching. Most films look to hide any issues with editing, and it’s clear Oedekerk’s choice was an intentional part of the film’s final result. This is poignant when one recognizes that the entire process of making Kung Pow! Enter the Fist is reminiscent of the production history of Godzilla: King of the Monsters (1954).

Godzilla: King of the Monsters was a heavily re-edited American adaptation, commonly referred to as an Americanization of the 1954 Japanese film Gojira. In the West, the original Gojira had initially only been shown in America in Japanese community theatres, and the re-edited version became the known Godzilla to the Western world. Gojira was a film that was made to cope with the nuclear fallout in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and when it was remixed for American and other Western audiences, this plotline was entirely removed. This process is reminiscent of Kung Pow’s removal of Tiger and Crane Fists’ anti-Japanese colonization narrative. Further, this exemplifies a dominant mode of remix. The hegemonic order of American politics at the time would want a film that could create positive relations to Japan through a fun spectacle, the inclusion of an anti-American dialogue was oppositional to that structure and therefore something that was censored as it was brought Westward. One can see then, in turn, how Kung Pow! Enter the Fist intentionally mimicked the style of dubbing, which could then mock Godzilla: King of the Monsters and other re-dubbed works that remove narrative elements from their stories. This American film is often recognized as the original Godzilla, but it was actually a remix of the 1954 Gojira. In this remix, like Kung Pow, a white savior is literally superimposed into the narrative, suggesting to an unknowing Western viewer that he was in Gojira all along. Oedekerk, in Kung Pow, seems to acknowledge this historical remixing of Asian cinema. The film’s apparent self-awareness and its transparency to the audience gives the film the opportunity to be negotiatory pastiche, and, with that, instead of invoking literal meaning through its more stereotypical comedy, we instead might see the more problematic nature of such performances in mainstream media. This being said, there are then two questions: does Oedekerk take advantage of his window to perform pastiche rather than parody? And, further, why would this film’s stereotyping be more excusable than other works?

On the topic of pastiche versus parody, it is most appropriate to look at scenes from Kung Pow! Enter the Fist. The film opens on an original six-minute scene by Oedekerk that sets the tone of the film: a man, known as the Chosen One, and his sentient tongue, Tonguey, seek revenge on Master Pain, the person who murdered his family and attempted to kill him. The scene uses a CGI baby that has a powerful knack for kung-fu and seeming immortality (displayed by not dying while being flung down a steep hill). This scene explicitly presents what is to be anticipated for the rest of the 81 minute movie: this film is absurd, parodic, hyper-masculine, and hyper-violent. The cartoonish exploits paint the comedy of the work, from the CGI Tonguey to the over-the-top redubbing for the main antagonist. The film is obviously ridiculous, and everything about the over-dramatic, cliched narration and equally contrived action demands the audience to recognize that the film is absurd. There’s no denying that it absolutely is an inherently dumb film—the humor is juvenile, and often much closer to straight-up mockery than thoughtful pastiche—yet the film reveals itself as more deliberate than its surface-level silliness. Across the following scene in Kung Pow, country-rock music mixes with moments of flute-playing reminiscent of traditional kung-fu scenes. This transcultural moment highlights how Eastern and Western action cinema influences the other. Looking at Jimmy Wang Yu’s work, as well as other kung fu films and anime, one can see how American rock-n-roll has become embedded as marker of “the Chosen One” archetype; he’s a badass loner. Similarly, the Western genre plays into the same markers of the solitary hero, often with a tragic backstory.

The scene ultimately continues to an abandoned dojo where the Chosen One encounters other adversaries. The actors, all Asian, are dubbed-over in ridiculous American accents, and perform dramatic Kung-fu style moves. The fighting choreography revels in the extreme. At one point, rather than attacking the main pursuer, the Chosen One speedily tears apart a man’s black robe, resulting in the garb resembling a tasseled bikini, which causes the man, mortified, to run away whimpering. Soon after, the Chosen One literally punches a circular hole through one of his attackers’ chest, the camera peering through the maimed body to see Oedekerk’s fist retract from the man-made cavity, and we see the missing-cylindrical bulge of flesh in the background. It’s impossible not to recognize the scene’s cinematic violence and hyper-masculinity. There is contrast between Oedekerk’s clothed body and how the shirtless or stripped villains are put on display. This is one example of how the film notes that many films promote Caucasian masculinity dominating Asian masculinity.

Narratively, Kung Pow! Enter the Fist does significantly more to perpetuate problematic Asian stereotypes than many other kung fu remixes. However, the films’ genres are considerably different. Oedekerk’s work is well defined by the term “transgressive”, meaning that the film is oppositional and deliberate in its offensiveness. In the San Francisco Chronicle, Edward Guthmann wrote that “Kung Pow! is the kind of movie that's critic-proof, simply because it aims so low.” Guthmann suggests that the Oedekerk purposefully looked to disgust critics with the film’s exaggerated racism, homophobia, and misogyny. By making it “critic-proof,” Oedekerk reveals the film’s agenda, which is very different from, say, Quentin Tarantino’s art house style of taking lowbrow cinema (self-proclaimed “B-Movies”) and making it tasteful, in his duty as tastemaker. Oedekerk, instead, uses the same kinds of movies but degrades them further, making Kung Pow offensive to the taste of critics.

Despite being reviled by many critics, however, Kung Pow is a quite popular film. Despite coming out close to two decades ago, the film is still engaged by active reviewers on Rotten Tomatoes and Amazon, and is still commented on in Reddit channels and on Youtube videos. Metacritic reviews from the film’s cult following reveal the movie to be, to some, “silly and creative” and “one of the funniest movies [ever]”. One fan even described the film as “unbelievabl[y] hilarious”, stating that Kung Pow’s absurdity:

“...is something to cherish. It takes masterful skill to create such comedic bliss with this spoofing style...it can be a bit childish, but most of the time, I'm laughing harder than I ever have at film... I can confidently say this was the funniest movie of the decade.”

It becomes clear, from the film’s status as a new-age cult classic, that while Oedekerk doesn’t undermine racist representations of Asians in Kung Pow! Enter the Fist, he does ultimately mock genre and notions of the importance of critical acclaim. Even racist movies many win Oscars, but that was never Oedekerk’s plan. Steve Oedekerk, unlike Quentin Tarantino in Kill Bill, didn’t strive to make an art film. Rather, as he notes in film’s commentary, he sought to have fun, and, seemingly, had fulfilled making a “realization of his childhood dream to be in a martial-arts flick.” By taking over director and actor’s Jimmy Wang Yu’s role from Tiger and Crane Fist, Steve Oedekerk fulfills his own dream of being a kung-fu action hero and simultaneously embodying an Asian director. Oedekerk successfully takes over and embodies Jimmy Wang Yu, but then with that power he doesn’t replicate Asian cinema, but rather destroys it in a transgressive act of defiance against the politics of film criticism and connoisseurship. Ultimately, while Oedekerk doesn’t negotiate racist rhetoric, he does do substantial work in creating friction about what it means to be an auteur, and how his cult cinema and others’ art cinema operate deliberately and differently.

Kung Pow! Enter the Fist is a screwball cult film. Oedekerk’s film commentary offers insight into the film production, describing the joy and challenges of its creation. The movie ultimately presents itself as a fan-project, rather than an auteurist work. Yet, it is this structure, as described above, that allows for Kung Pow to mimic practices of problematic remix to then develop a subtextual commentary. This commentary doesn’t undermine racist representations of Asians, but rather reveals the immature-comedy-packed film to be intelligent and aware of the history it partakes in, and use this to critique the nature and importance of “critical acclaim”.

#lissa heineman #steve oedekerk #kung pow #kung fu cinema #kung fu movies #film review #remix #film #jimmy wang yu #transcultural #stuart hall #media studies #film studies #film theory #cult film #auteur #godzilla #gojira

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lentaska · 5 years

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Deep Water - Part 2

A/N: Featuring Sami Callihan. WWII setting, OFC, third-person POV. Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from wrestling, I do not claim any ownership over them. Any resemblance to real-life historical events, organizations, locales and countries/union is entirely coincidental.

Tagging people who gave likes to my work: @thecristsandcallihanmadness@monstersmaid @cherryfinolahobbes @i-ship-it-okay @ohcristimhookedonhavocimsodunne @clynch126 @amariemoore @jonmoxley4ever @morie-leigh Thank you for your support (also please let me know if tagging is not ok for you)

To not to bore the only audience, Sami summarized the whole story, starting from the day he volunteered to be sent to Poland. Soon after his arrival in Warsaw, the situation of the city shocked him, almost every street had been bombed into ruins, it was nothing like what he had seen in photos.

“I was in Warszawa for university,” said Anka in downcast tone, “when I was not blind.”

Sami could tell how forlorn she was, despite of the calm expression she wore outside. The strength and will of an individual was crushed into pieces in the war, yet she had to hide her wounded heart and soul, and pretended to be strong.

“It was magnificent city, people would travel far to only take good look of her. Now no one will look at her anymore. I prayed for Warszawa but I guess God didn’t hear it.” the slim female curled herself in old clothes and rubbed hands. Sami was worried campfire could expose their location,so all they had were candles and clothes from the previous house owner to keep them warmed.

“I don’t think God gives shit about it.” Sami spit.

“I thought something would change but we are left alone...”

Sami cut her off, “I ain’t gonna leave you alone. Listen, I can promise you one thing: I will stay with you. Even if you don’t trust foreigner, even this fucking war is unpredictable, but I’m here.”

Anka was speechless.

There was one moment that Sami thought his words were too abrupt for her to accept, because he saw Anka’s brows knitted, but all he received was her smile and gentle voice, “you shouldn’t promise anything in war, but I really appreciate it.”

“You have experienced all the tragedy, I cannot correct that, but there’s still something I can do for you.”

“There’s another thing you can do: tell me more about you, Sami. What happened to you in Warszawa?”

“I was captured by fucking Nazi after several days’ fighting, we fought hard but lacked supplies. They were about to put me on the train to some camp, but I found way to escape.”

“My Jewish friends were sent there... they never come back.”

He had heard about what happened in those camps and was disgusted. Not only Jewish, but also Slavs and other people who were considered as “subhumans” by Nazi had to face the misfortune of being sent there. There’s no way her friends could survive.

Sighed, he decided to not to reveal the cruel reality. Anka had already been through a lot, even only one thing could break her now. To meet her was destined, there’s not much he could help with her situation, but still he wanted to comfort her and to let know she would be fine, even though it’s just his wishful thinking.

Sami took out the knife he received on the first day of joining the army, handed to her, “take it, at least you have a weapon, but I’ll try to make sure you never need to use it.”

Anka was confused.

“Because I’ll protect you.”

The Polish girl whispered “thank you”, buried her face into clothes.

“Want some food? I can only offer water and dry bread though.”

“Tak. Thank you.”

“By the way, what did you study in university?”

“Music, but Nazi destroyed school and killed teachers.” she took the bread and broke it into smaller pieces.

Giving her an apologetic expression - although she could not see - Sami switched the topic, “how did you learn English?”

Dipping the bread into water to soften the texture, Anka said, “my father was diplomat. So much ambition, but little could he do.”

In despite of the accent and lack of articles - Sami guessed it’s because Polish language has no such concept - her English was fine. It made things much easier for him. He had met few Polish immigrants in Britain, their language was complicated as cipher.

Finished her “dinner”, Anka groped around to get closer to the candles, Sami grabbed her hands before she accidentally upset the candles and caused fire hazard. He was surprised at how cold her hands were, she was surprised at his move. The subconscious reaction was to pull the hand back but he had much more strength.

“You’d better save some energy.” Sami recommended, drawing her into his arms, “c’mon, it’ll be warmer. I’m not gonna do something stupid, trust me.”

Anka gave up the idea of struggling. He’s right, it WAS warmer. The sense of security and tiredness dulled her mind, she leaned closer to Sami and eventually rested her head against his chest. “Is it dark outside?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s probably seven or eight o’clock.”

“We should rob Nazi officer and get you watch...” she muttered sleepily. When she had a clear mind, she would never say such silly thing.

Chuckled, Sami brushed her chestnut-colored hair away from her face. Her profile was soft and flawless in dim light.

Anka let out a long breath of relief, asked, “what do you look like, Sami?”

“Me? I look normal, black hair, two eyes, one nose...”

“Do you look scary?” she paused, then apologized, “sorry, it’s stupid question...”

“No don’t worry.” Sami hugged her in more intimate way, it pleased him that she didn’t resist. He took both of her hands and pressed gently on his face, murmured, “it’d better if you can feel it by yourself.”

Her mind was totally cleared up by his action and the touch of his skin. She realized what she was doing and wanted to pull her hands back, but another voice echoed in her mind: don’t.

It might be attachment and feeling of dependency grew from the fact that he saved her in war zone, or sense of belonging that was caused by his existence after days of being alone, Anka wanted to be closer to him. She didn’t know if it’s right to have such feeling towards a foreigner in the time of war, or it might be nothing but ephemeral illusion.

Then she heard Sami’s low-pitched voice, “I want you to know me more.”

Nervously shivering, her fingers drew the outline of his face, starting from the forehead, down to his eyebrows, nose, cheek, lips and chin. She coughed to ease her awkwardness, said, “you have beard.”

“I also have scars from fights, on my back and here - ” Sami led Anka’s fingers to his chest, where his scar was. “Has the cruel world left you scars?”

She nodded, “right in my heart.”

Leaned closer, Sami kissed her forehead, “go to sleep. I will keep you safe.”

#sami callihan #Wrestling Fanfic #Wrestling #fanfiction #fanfic #ofc #oc #My writing #war setting #my soul hurts when writing this

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pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles · 6 years

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Slow Hands (Girls Talk Boys part 3)

Fingertips puttin' on a show Got me now and I can't say no

Each chapter has a song title attached so I could keep my files straight on my phone but it ended up really working so I kept it.

Warnings: drinking, smoking, drug use and cursing and a little bit of smut

Previous Chapter

Camille was on edge. Her entire body hurt from dance practice. It was only the second day but she was dying. She adored dancing and she adored Tom but it was kicking her ass. However she might lose a little of the weight she'd accumulated over the past year. Stress eating was one of her many weaknesses. Tom was being so patient and sweet. Camille was determined to do her best for him. She played “Fly Me to the Moon” on the speakers and went over her dance steps as she organized the studio. The house still wasn't put together and the mess was getting to her. She hadn't been able to find her favorite pen in four days. The last time she'd seen it was the night they'd moved in and also the night she'd last seen Calum. She frowned at the thought swore to herself she wasn't bothered. She heard the guitar downstairs and knew Luke had come over for his lesson. Luke had managed to find an excuse to pop in to see Cher every day so far. Camille thought they were cute together.

Cher had asked Luke to teach her guitar and he in turn had asked her to teach him how to draw. It became not so much a lesson as a conversation featuring beer, artwork and a guitar. Cher could not remember seeing blue eyes like that before. The way his smile faded into serious concentration and the way his blonde curls fell in his face when he played made her swoon. It was impossible to focus on the learning guitar when she kept staring at the way his fingers moved. The only thing that kept her from getting totally overwhelmed was the fact that Luke was a huge dork. A tall beautiful goofball. Cher sat back on the couch with her feet tucked under Luke's thigh and began to sketch him as he played. Cher was usually too intimidated to draw the guys she was into. She was amazed she felt so comfortable around him. It was a shame he'd never make a move. After a while Luke realized what she was doing and began to strike silly poses and make faces. Cher threw her pencil at him and went to get them another beer. When she came back she noticed Luke had set his guitar aside and was biting his lip nervously.

Cher began to set the beers down on the coffee table when she felt Luke grab her arm and her waist at the same time pulling her into his lap. “What're you doing” she asked him. “Kissing you” Luke murmured against her lips before his mouth was on hers. Cher moaned into his kiss shifting herself so she was straddling Luke. Tangling her hands in his hair she pressed her body down on his growing bulge. She was glad he'd worn basketball shorts instead of his usual skinny jeans. Between that and the thin material of her dress there wasn't much fabric between them. Luke bit her bottom lip as his hands slid the straps of her dress down exposing her naked breasts. His thumbs flicked over her pierced nipples causing her to shiver. Luke then twisted and tugged ever so gently causing a growl to erupt from the back of her throat.

Cher pulled back from Luke's mouth and pulled his hair back exposing his throat. She began working from his earlobe to his collarbone nibbling, sucking and kissing until Luke was a squirming moaning mess under her. Cher moved her lips back to Luke's consuming both of them in a deep kiss. Cher had one hand behind Luke's head while the other slid into his shirt her fingers grazing his chest and stomach. Luke's breaths became faster and more shallow as Cher continued to rock against him. She felt her own sensation grow as Luke moved to regain some control by kissing and biting on her neck. It was too late Cher kept up the steady motion of her hips against him. “Please I'm gonna..don't” Luke pleaded into her mouth as his hips thrust upwards against his will seeking release. Cher was so close as she pressed her chest into Luke's, and buried her face in his neck. Her fingers would leave tiny bruises as she gripped his shoulders. “Oh God please” Luke whispered as Cher rubbed herself down into him finding her release pressing down onto his lap. “Yes Yes Yes “ she hissed into his ear placing her hand between his legs stroking his erection before she continued to grind on Luke. His eyes flew open as he whined “oh fuck ” and Cher felt his hips buck underneath her violently as he came.

Cher was still in his lap when Luke raised his head his blue eyes meeting hers. “That's never happened before I'm sorry” he mumbled. Cher shushed him with a little kiss “don't apologize I'm the one who did it” she smiled at him. She'd never made a guy cum in his pants before and the fact that it was sweet beautiful Luke turned her on even more. Cher wanted nothing more than to drag him into her bedroom and fuck him until they made each other sore. She didn't want to move to fast and have Luke catch feelings. Cher didn't want a relationship and guys never believed her when she said that. Guys who claimed to be cool with a friends with benefits package always turned needy and clingy once they realized she had no need for a boyfriend. Cher didn't want to think about all that right now. She stood up still between Luke’s outstretched thighs. Pulling her dress straps onto her shoulders she bent down and kissed Luke lightly on the tip of his nose. “You can use the bathroom to clean up if you want “ she whispered to him before stepping back and heading to the kitchen to get some water.

Behind her she heard Luke get up and shut the door to the bathroom followed shortly by footsteps descending the stairs. Cher saw a flash of pink out of the corner of her eye followed shortly by a hushed voice “please tell me you didn't fuck him on the couch. We just got it.” “We didn't fuck” Cher replied matching her low tone “we didn't even take our clothes off.” Camille wasn't buying it “that's not what it sounded like and you've got a big wet spot on your dress so.” Camille and Cher both froze when they heard the bathroom door open. Camille reached into the fridge trying to act normal as Luke walked into the kitchen. “I should probably get going and oh hey Camille” Luke stopped when he saw her. “Oh hi Luke, did you have a nice lesson” Camille kept her tone light but she saw Luke start to blush. “You could say that” Luke mumbled looking at his feet. It was then that Camille saw the wet spot on the front of Luke's shorts. Her eyes went wide darting to Cher who quickly shook her head shooting back a look that said “don't you dare say it.”

Instantly Camille regained her composure “Cher I've looked through this entire place three times and I still can't find my pen are you sure it's not in your room” she asked changing the subject. “Cam I swear I've looked through my room and my car and it's not there” Cher rolled her eyes. Luke suddenly laughed and both girls looked at him. “It's bright pink and really shiny?” Luke asked. Camille nodded and felt her stomach drop. “Calum has it” Luke told her turning to Cher “Babe I gotta go, text me later.” He gave Cher a hug and then kissed her on her forehead and her nose smiling at her before turning to leave. Luke was halfway out the door when Camille found her voice. “Wait why does Calum have my pen” she called out. Luke's voice echoed back at her “you'd have to ask him.”

“That night on the back porch” Cher teased her. “He must've kept it”

“You're saying he stole it? It's bright pink.” Camille was trying to remember any details beyond Calum's presence.

Cher texted Luke who quickly replied. “No, no, no Luke says he got high and put it in his pocket. He forgot he had it till the next day.

“You and Luke seem to be getting cozy very quickly” Camille winked at her.

“He's gorgeous and fun, what do you want me to say” Cher was laughing.

“I thought you liked Ashton” Camille raised an eyebrow.

“I like them both. You've seen how hot Ashton is, or did Calum distract you from noticing any of the other guys” Cher was still giggling.

“Oh I noticed, you know I adore Tom already. Harry is gorgeous, but he's entirely too charming. Makes me suspicious. Ashton is dead ass sexy, but we would not get along.” Cher held up her hand and Camille stopped.

“How can someone be suspiciously charming?” Cher questioned

“That man could charm the feathers off of a bird and the scales off a snake. He's Lord Byron. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, but in like a good sexy way”

“You know it turns me on when you drop historical references into conversation” Cher dodged the towel Camille threw at her. “You and Ashton are too much alike. Both of you want to be in charge. What about Luke? Hmmm?”

“Luke? Be serious, he's been all over you like a beautiful labradoodle since we got here. He is insanely good looking and seems really sweet. Try not to snatch his soul would you?” Camille was only half joking.

“He is so beautiful.” Cher sighed “He's fun too.”

“I see that, you should probably change your dress” Camille replied, her phone buzzing.

“You should worry less about me and figure out how you're going to get the nerve to ask Calum for your pen back” Cher was interrupted by a loud squeal from Camille.

Looking towards her friend Cher saw her go deathly pale to bright pink flushed. She was afraid for a moment until Camille broke into the biggest smile.

“I'm gonna be on ESPN. Stephen got me on as a guest fantasy analyst.” Camille was almost speechless, if that were possible.

“That's amazing. When?” Cher was excited as she was.

“A couple weeks. It'll be as fantasy drafts really kick in” Camille suddenly felt panic mix with joy. What if she didn't look good enough for tv.?

Cher saw the clouds move in on Camille's sunshine. She crossed the room and wrapped the smaller woman in a hug.

“Camille don't doubt yourself. We've come all this way to start over. You left him behind, now leave what he said behind with it. We moved out here to this gorgeous place. We've got Cody. There are super hot guys crawling all over this place. You've already got one so caught up that he's hijacking your stuff.” Cher felt Camille relax as she pulled away wiping tears.

“ I don't know why I get like this.” she sniffled.

“Listen, he had a long time to tear you down. It's going to take a while to build yourself up again.”Cher told her. “We need to get you laid.”

“Calm down. Let's get my pen back first.” Camille changed the subject.

“Oh he's in the plans for both” Cher teased her.

“He's got a girlfriend” Camille rolled her eyes but she couldn't help but feel a bit excited to have a chance to see Calum again.

Chap 4 Pink Lemonade

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lynyrdwrites · 6 years

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5x01 Smut Fix

Yes, I am being very on the nose with the name of this one. Credit to @adelindschade for pointing out that Klaus had a blood smear on his neck, and that Caroline’s OCD would totally make her notice that.

Obviously, some spoilers for 5x01.

---

“Though why we’re bothering with all of this, I don’t know.”

Caroline rolled her eyes, keeping her back to him. It was ridiculous, really, how easy it was to fall into old patterns. Right from the first hello, Love, it was like the clock had gone back a decade.

Except that they were both parents, and time had changed Caroline’s perspective on time and the monsters it created.

“It’s a historical building,” she told him pertly, and really, Klaus of all people should have already appreciated that. Where was his talk of music and food and art now that he’d made a mess of a national marvel? Quite frankly, the building deserved better.

Klaus raised a brow at her, and Caroline glared him down. She didn’t care if he was a billion years old, she still wasn’t going to be intimidated into excusing his crappy behavior. He should know that.

“Start here.” He accepted the cloth she held out, and turned towards the glass display. Caroline began to swipe at the blood, feeling his gaze like heat on her skin.

She wondered if he was making the cloth make that ridiculous squeaking sound on purpose. He had to be, and she turned her head, ready to start in the next part of the lecture she had been putting together mentally since Rebekah had asked her for help.

Klaus watched her, his lips twisted into the smallest of smiles, his eyes warm, his expression clearly meant to illicit some sort of response.

That response died on a tongue that felt suddenly dry.

She hadn’t been a nun since Stefan had died, but it had been a bit of dry spell… and when she closed her eyes to imagine feelings long past, it wasn’t always her dead husband’s hands she felt on her.

Klaus against her friend and a tree at her back played their part more often than she cared to admit.

Now, she stood in front of a man that had seen her naked, and she was suddenly and inexplicably incredibly aware of that fact. There was a smear of blood against the pale skin of his neck, and as though her hand belonged to someone else, she reached out and swiped her cloth against it.

“Well, that’s just a waste of perfectly good blood, Love,” Klaus murmured, catching her wrist in his hand when Caroline began to pull back. They both look at the blood stained cloth for a moment, before their eyes met, and Caroline had to swallow.

“I’m not hungry anyway,” she replied, trying to bring back the levity that had colored their interaction up until that moment, despite the heavy topics they had been covering.

“Aren’t you?” Klaus replied, raising a brow.

It was a dare and an invitation, all wrapped into one stupidly attractive, accented package, and Caroline was only human.

His lips tasted as good against hers as she remembered.

She dropped her cloth, and clutched his shoulder with one hand, her other tugging his hair as she pressed her lips against his. There was no hesitation in Klaus’ response. He grasped her hips and pulled them tight into his.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t much taller than she was. He always seemed so much larger than life, that he seemed bigger. But it was convenient, to be able to kiss him with barely a tilt of her head.

“I didn’t come here for this,” she told him, breaking away from their frantic kisses.

“Then let’s consider a happy bonus,” he replied, shoving her shirt up. She lifted his arms, and barely spared even a moment of thought for the blood that would stain the shirt when it hit the floor.

She was too busy shoving his jacket away, impatiently shoving his shirt up and off as well.

Contact. His skin felt so warm, and a cold that Caroline hadn’t even realized she felt fled as she pressed herself as tight against him as was possible. Klaus had always spoke to the monster in her, and she didn’t hesitate to let her fangs out, to graze them against the impossibly full lips that always played a main role in her fantasies about him.

His blood was rich and sweet on her tongue, and she moaned, lapping at the tiny cut, even as it healed.

“You need to feed more, Caroline,” he said against the skin of her neck, his own teeth not breaking her skin, but still giving her a thrill with the dangerous possibility that they could. She shoved a hand down the front of his jeans, her hand finding the hard length of him, and he hissed as she stroked.

“My diet is fine. You just taste good,” she said, her mind glazed over with lust. In her right mind, she never would have admitted that, and Klaus’ expression was smug over the fact that she had.

In response, she spun them in a flash, pressing him against the glass of the display. She wasn’t stupid – she knew she only kept him pinned so long as he allowed – but he seemed content to remain at her mercy, and Caroline happily took full advantage of that. She pressed kisses along the skin of his chest, her hand still stroking him.

“That’s enough of that,” Klaus muttered at last, and then it was Caroline’s turn to be pressed to the display. Her jeans were shoved down, and she kicked them away impatiently as the shreds of her panties tumbled to the ground.

“I liked those,” she told him, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood again, and sucking it between hers.

“I’ll buy you more,” Klaus promised, his fingers stroking her clit, and then checking to see if she was wet.

She was.

She almost sobbed with relief when he thrust into her, his cock hard and long and hitting all of the spots that had been left untouched for far too long.

Her memory didn’t do the feel of him justice.

“Oh, God,” she said, burying her face against his neck. “God.”

“Klaus, Love.”

“Did you seriously just say that?” she demanded, her head snapping back so she could glare at him. Silly clichés did not play a role in this… but then his cock hit her just right, and her glare became a sad attempt at anger, and finally she gave up on the attempt all together, and buried her face against him again.

“You feel even better than I remember,” he said, his breath warm against her damp skin. “Far better.”

Caroline tightened around him, her orgasm rushing over her as she clutched his shoulders. A few more wild thrusts, and Klaus buried himself in her, hiding his groan in her hair.

“I don’t think my legs are going to work,” Caroline admitted, stroking a hand down his back.

“I’ll hold you until they do,” Klaus replied, his voice still muffled against her, but they caused an odd warmth in her chest. Her hand moved from his back, to stroke his hair.

He finally looked up at her, his expression almost boyish.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to turn this French visit into that winter getaway I mentioned?”

To her surprise, Caroline felt true regret as she finally unwound her legs from his waist, and accepted his help to separate their bodies.

“You know I can’t, Klaus,” Caroline replied, her lips curving into a fond, but sad smile.

“Yes,” Klaus agreed. “I suppose I do know that. Still… a nice dream, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Caroline replied, and Klaus actually looked surprised at the comment. “It is a nice dream. And maybe it’ll come true someday, in a century… or two.”

Tension rose between them, her words a callback to the ones he had spoken to her so, so long ago. It was interesting, the ways people could affect your life, without you truly recognizing it at the time.

She had never forgotten the things he had said to her. Any of them.

“Until then, you still have a daughter,” she pointed out, grabbing her pants and setting about pulling them up.

“She’s better off without me,” Klaus replied, his gaze almost distant. “I know what it is to be raised by a monster.”

“You can’t do that,” Caroline snapped. She had picked up her shirt, but now she dropped it again, to rest her hands on her hips and glare at him. “It was, like, a thousand years ago. Mean dad? Newsflash: the guy’s dead.” And, because even when she had been mad at him, she had also been honest, she added, “I know what it’s like, to be a kid missing her father.”

“Caroline-”

“Call her, Klaus, before you lose your daughter, and she loses you.” She grabbed her shirt and pulled it on. When she looked at Klaus again, he was watching her, his expression distant. She didn’t want to leave this at that, so she stepped close and cupped his cheeks. He hesitated a moment, but finally let her pull him down for one more, soft kiss. “I happen to think that you’re someone worth knowing.”

He closed his eyes, and they rested their foreheads against each other for one last moment. Then she pulled back, and gave him a rueful smile.

“See you at the next parent-teacher conference.”

#Klaroline #Klaroline drabbles #Klaroline fic #adelindschade #smut fix #TO spoilers

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blatherkatt · 6 years

Text

Well, Hey, If You Need A Wingman

Summary: In which Rose is a useless lesbian, John is a dirty ice cream stealer, and Kanaya doesn’t actually have any dialogue and may have forgot to take the whites out of the wash. Contains Rosemary, John and Rose friendship, and a good old dose of the Sexuality Panics. [humanstuck fluff]

“—Nope, I’m paying and that’s final!” John’s voice rang into the ice cream shop, nearly drowning out the bell as he swung the door open.

“John, really, it’s not that big of a deal,” Rose insisted, but John shook his head adamantly.

“Nuh-uh! We’re celebrating! I don’t care if fourth place isn’t considered a big winner, you still placed in a national contest, and I thought your entry was really cool! I mean, it was kinda hard to read, sure, but whatever, it’s worth celebrating, so I’m buying!”

“It was hardly my best work, honestly,” said Rose. She’d already had to deal with her mother being somewhat obnoxious about Rose’s modest entry into a national contest for high school works of fiction, but, well, at least John was keeping his own version of commemoration rather quiet. She still hardly felt it was necessary, though. For goodness’ sakes, she’d written the piece long enough ago that she felt hardly any attachment to it, now…

John was already busily looking at the options available. There were some with peanuts, which was a little worrying, but he’d come prepared with a bit of emergency medication if it came to that, and made sure to warn the vendor as he folded the newspaper he’d been reading. He waved Rose over, insistently. Honestly, he really hadn’t understood the story she’d written at all, but it was still cool that she’d placed so high in a competition with so many entries. And, well, more than that, it was a good excuse to get Rose out of the house for something other than school! She’d been so stuck in her own head lately, and he was really hoping some fun out and about would help her relax a little, or at the very least give him a clue as to what was eating her.

With a roll of her eyes, Rose finally caved in and picked out her own dish. When John paid, the worker said, “Have a nice date!” in a perky voice, and Rose surprised John by responding almost too quickly.

“We’re not dating,” she said, her voice flat. She picked up her dish and informed John that she was going to pick out a table, whatever it was that was on her mind lately clearly coming back in full force. John winced, stammered out an apology to the server, and hurried to sit himself next to her in the booth she’d chosen (but not too close! Didn’t wanna make it weird, after all).

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked.

“Perfectly fine,” said Rose. “It’s a lovely day out, and I’m spending it with my very dear friend. What on Earth could I have to be unhappy about.” She sounded just a touch bitter as she said it.

John twirled his spoon around in his bowl, nervous. “I, uh, I’ve noticed you’ve been kinda off lately. Is it, um…Oh, has your mom been doing that thing again where she acts like we’re gonna get married just cuz we grew up together? I know that annoys you—“

“That’s not…exactly it,” she said. “It’s related, technically, I suppose, but…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, John, it’s…It’s very personal. I’m fine, really I am.”

“Is it about wizards?” he grinned, knowing that he was giving her a free pass to change the subject. “Did Gandalf fall down a hole again, is that it?”

She flashed him a grateful look, and took it. Better to waste time shooting the breeze about something meaningless than to spend it talking about her thoughts as of late. “Oh, hardly,” she said. “Please, Lord of the Rings may have been foundational, but we can’t spend all our time dwelling on our founders, Genres move on, John. Honestly, update your references.”

John laughed. “Yeah, sorry, silly of me. I oughtta be talking about your goofy wizards! Like, uh, Zazzlepants?”

“Zazzerpan. John, really, I could’ve done much better than that thing I threw together for this competition, you don’t have to force yourself to bring up something so trite. Anyway, I’ve since moved on to more interesting fictional wizards in my own works.”

“Well, tell me about them!”

Rose sighed, her exasperation mostly pretend. It really had been too long since the two of them had just hung out, and it was nice to have someone to share these things with who didn’t feel the need to mock them for being admittedly deeply self-indulgent. Conversation carried on as she described the rough outline for the grand story she’d begun to envision, coupled with the occasional breaks to eat a bit of their ice cream, or for John to crack a joke (one of which actually inspired some very real plot development, she’d have to scribble it down somewhere before she forgot).

And then, she walked in, and the world ground to a stop.

John was still babbling on about how, in his opinion, the wizards ought to stop trying to beat Calmasis with trials of wits, since Calmasis was obviously a genius, and should instead just prank them so hard they had to give up in shame, but Rose suddenly couldn’t take her eyes away from the new customer who’d just entered the tiny ice cream parlor. This wasn’t the first time their paths had almost crossed, leading Rose to believe the girl lived somewhere in the area, but each time, Rose had felt her breath taken away. So lovely was she, always with her stunningly green eyes and her always elegant clothing, she might have passed for something straight out of a painting—especially after she picked out her ice cream and sat down alone at a table some distance away from Rose and John, perched with her spoon resting temptingly on her lip for just a moment, the light from the window casting her into tones of ethereal beauty, highlighting her wistful gaze at the world beyond…

“What are we looking at?” spoke John in a stage whisper, right next to Rose’s ear, causing her to nearly jump. Realizing her mistake—staring in public, with John right there, God, she’d nearly given everything away!—she tried to pull herself together, fighting the blush that threatened to creep across her cheeks.

John tipped his head, now feeling a little worried. If it’d been Dave, he wouldn’t have thought anything of his friend zoning out all the sudden, but this was Rose! “Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem real distracted all the sudden!”

“No, I’m quite alright,” she said, trying a little too hard to be chipper and fooling no one. She stirred her ice cream, now seeming like she was trying not to look the way she had before. John looked over that way himself again, but he didn’t see anything weird this time, either. Just some girl who’d walked in a few minutes ago, sitting sorta awkwardly by herself and looking maybe a little lonely. Other than that, there was nothing over that way, just empty tables and a big framed black-and-white photo of a historical building. John never got why some places did that, it was sorta weird.

He looked back at Rose again, and caught her sneaking another glance at the girl, before quickly turning back to her ice cream. And just like that, it clicked.

“As to your suggestion, I’ll certainly take the idea into consideration,” she said, “But the trouble with it is that Calmasis is—“

“Oooh, I think I know what’s going on,” John said, grinning.

“Well, of course you do, I’ve just laid out for you the entire rough plot I currently have set down of what may well be my magnum opus.” She was really talking fast, pretty obviously trying to derail him, but John would not be swayed! “I’d feel insulted if you didn’t know what was going on, as it would mean that I’d either failed to explain, or that you’ve not been paying attention.”

He snorted. “Not with that, I mean what’s going on with you! You like her, don’t you?”

Rose dropped her spoon, startled. Bingo. The look she gave him was real scared, though, so he added on quickly, “I’m not gonna be weird about it, promise! I won’t tell anyone!”

Tension drained out of her with a relieved sigh. “I’m…thank you, for that,” she said, picking her spoon up and stirring her ice cream again. “It’s been a rather…recent realization, and I’m still sorting out that I’m…you know, gay.” She looked around nervously as she said the word, fearing someone might be watching, but the shop had only three customers, and the server was quite occupied with the Sunday comics. She let out a breath she’d been unaware she’d been holding. “I’ve no idea how I’m going to tell mother, nevermind the rest of the world, so I’ve been keeping it to myself for now.”

“For what it’s worth,” John said, “I think I only figured it out because of how you’ve been looking at her. I had no idea thats what this was about! Sorry you’ve been dealing with it alone.”

Rose sighed, and nearly cursed herself for how lovelorn it must have sounded. “How can I not stare at her? Look at her, she’s like something straight from some gothic romance, an enchantress here to draw away the unsuspecting into her dark embrace, some unknowable entity full of knowledge mere mortals could understand…”

(John just thought she looked mostly like she’d forgotten something and was trying to remember what it was, but he let Rose keep talking. Gosh, she was adorable right now.)

“—She’s something sublime, in the sense of—oh, Jesus, stop looking, she’s turning this way, stop looking!” Rose turned her face down, suddenly intently focused on her ice cream again. John looked away too, but hazarded a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw that the girl wasn’t looking at them at all, she’d just sorta turned to look at one of the black-and-white photos on the wall.

“You should go talk to her,” said John.

“I-I couldn’t!” Rose hissed.

“Why not?”

“She’s a complete stranger! I’m not—I couldn’t bother her, it’d be, be, be uncouth, I’d be a nuisance!”

John rolled his eyes. “Rose, she wouldn’t mind, I’m sure of it! I mean, when I wanna be left alone while eating, I hunch over and eat fast and stare at my phone, you know? But she looks really bored, and she’s eating super slow—I think she’s taken maybe three bites of her sherbet this whole time? You should totally ask her to come over and sit with us, see if she wants some company!”

“I couldn’t possibly…”

“Sure you could! Go for it!”

Rose bit her lip. “I don’t even know how I’d engage the conversation in the first place…”

John laughed. “Just say you like her shirt or something, I dunno. Rose, c’mon, you’re like, one of the best people with words I know! You can handle one conversation!”

“No one can be eloquent in the face of the very goddess of beauty, John.”

“Oh my God, Rose, she’s just a person. I bet you she’s just been trying to figure out if she turned the lights out at home before she left this whole time, you goof. She’s not gonna bite you just for talking to her! Who knows, maybe she likes girls, too, and you guys’ll hit it off!”

“Let’s not get carried away, now,” Rose said, having to force down a blush that threatened to consume her whole face. Still, she’d be lying if she tried to claim that John wasn’t starting to wear her down—perhaps there was a chance, and if she did invite the girl to sit with them as John had suggested, it wouldn’t be as if she needed to take on the entirety of this first conversation alone…

John nudged Rose with his elbow. “Go on! You got this, and I got your back! Go talk to her!”

She took a deep breath. “Alright,” she said. “Alright, I’m going for it.” She stood up, hardened her resolve…and turned back, just for a moment, to fix John with a long and meaningful look as she said, “Thank you.”

He grinned, flicked her a thumbs up, and, as soon as she started talking to the girl, stole a big spoonful of her ice cream.

#rosekan #rosemary #rose lalonde #kanaya maryam #john egbert #longpost #homestuck #send help i dont know how to tag this pairing #listen this is just like.#2k words of rose being Extremely Gay thats all it is #fanfic #fanfiction #katt does a writing #oneshot

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dunesand · 6 years

Text

bulbapedia categorizes pokemon in their color groups so i made a bunch of trainer cards aka ocs for da future this is a master post for me to look back to in the future when i want to draw/flesh them out lmao!!!

red trainer Oh-sung...delinquent. sort of wishes he could carry cuter pokemon but he's gotta put up a TOUGH ACT. doesnt like battling but good at it. his darumaka is his true bff.

blue trainer Insik doctor/rescue guy! nice dude, doesnt battle. always busy and likes oh-sung a lot. he loves cold drinks and cant stand the heat. loves the beach but loves really cold weather cant stand tropical beach towns. cant swim!

yellow trainer Namki traveling clown!! loves their pokemon a lot!!! is horrible at battling!!! just wants to have a good time. will take your things and their pokemon will also take your things.

green trainer Shingo a mess of a human being depressed as hell. just graduated college and is a station master due to family pressure. would eat nothing but top ramen and never clean if his pokemon didn't help him get up and feel good every morning. super city boy.

charcoal trainer Dowon a NINJA. can tell you which naruto episode is his favorite and why. throws his freakin minior everywhere like a shuriken for practice. likes to collect figmas but always breaks them when he makes them. fake edgy. likes kimoon a lot.

brown trainer Soyi wuvs to bake. gets nervous when pretty ladies come to her bakery, cant help but give out free bread to all the beautiful girls. sort of a perfectionist, beats herself up a lot over silly things. never sleeps. wuvs her pokemon. dislikes battling but GOOD at it.

purple trainer Seigen a SPOOKY SNOWBOARDER. rarely is seen out at day, seeing him is like seeing bigfoot. not actually spooky but accepts this weird title people have given him. likes to camp out with his pokemon a lot. shy.

gray trainer Mija usually seen at the hotsprings. she likes to stay in the salt rooms and drink fresh sikhye while reading. retired, wife passed away but has three good good kids that visit her a lot. loves battling and eating tasty snacks that are bad for her.

white trainer Kimoon monk! but rlly new at it. trying to get rid of wordly desires but finds it very difficult to do. likes reading/watching kamen rider. friends with dowon.

pink trainer Ga-yoon RICH bitch. always on cruises, competes in pokemon contests and hits on other ladies a lot. always has a drink in her hand. very good at pokemon battles but prefers the contest life.

(pink was the last of the colors on the bulbapedia thing but i made more trainers.) trainer Woojin!! friends with shingo, same family issues. real serious around others. nice when talking one on one, wishes he could have been a chef.

trainer Won-chul likes going on late-night walks with his pokemon and early morning walks. never seen in the afternoon. sort of a mystery. likes watching kdramas and crying.

trainer Ye-jun widdle baby. likes to jump around in puddles. his favorite thing is soda. his pelipper tries to make sure he doesnt drink so much.

orange trainer Sanjun maid cafe! brother to Nari. loves chatting with people and all around nice guy. trying to save money for college, but wastes all of his money on nice dresses. surprisingly dislikes sweets.

trainer Nari butler cafe! sister to Sanjun wants to beat all the gyms. trying to get some extra bucks for college. likes helping her brother fuss over this fashion and looking up cool suits to wear. really good at saving money.

trainer Eunah, friends with Sanjun. sort of a gloomy girl. really quiet, gets dragged along to shop with Sanjun constantly. only works on rainy days.

trainer Mi-ran, nurse. clumsy af. tries her damn best and really wants to be a good nurse but is always fucking things up. oversleeps all the time and is always lost in thought. loves napping with her pokemon.

trainer Tae really loves cute pokemon. plays with them all the time when he's not playing football. hold all of his pokemon and carries them around everywhere. loves soft things, scared of bug pokemon.

trainer Hideo, friends with Tae and Choki . takes baseball real seriously. chews too much gum and never shuts up. tries to make everything connect to baseball somehow. everyone usually ignores him.

trainer Choki, friends with hideo and tae super talented, very busy. lives with his younger brother. stern and wishes his brother would take his studies seriously. always wants to train but his friends never want to. paints in his spare time.

trainer Itaru, younger brother to choki, wants to be a contest winner with his pokemon. wishes his brother wasn't so serious all the time. loves summertime and jogging with his pokemon. enjoys ditching school and planting berries/flowers in his garden.

trainer Hirotomo he's kimoon's dad and wishes his son would focus on becoming an enlightened monk. loves the winter time and meditating with his pokemon. smiles a lot but no one can tell cause of his beard

trainer Kyoko and Kuriko GAY!!! they love each other a lot.friends with all the sports buddies. big fans of Ryoko and Choki. they're really loud and full of energy but mean well and supports everyone.

trainer Banri, trans guy. very competitive especially against miu. good friends with seigen. loves all kinds of fruit. dislikes fast food. wants everyone to know how good of a color orange is.

trainer Miu, trans lady. not competitive, just trying her dang hardest. always seems to beat banri in some way. has a crush on ryoko. sister to eita. best skier around, really dislikes the cold. likes to watch scary movies.

trainer Eita soccer player! blunt, nice boy. loves hanging around hideo cause he makes fun of him all the time. brother to miu, loves bragging about his sister. loves going to amusement parks and is the best at winning prizes.

trainer Ryoko super talented, the coolest out of the sports buddies. rlly nice and hard working. gets a bit nervous due to the high expectations set on her. everyone thinks she's cool but she's secretly a big nerd. loves collecting gashapon toys.

trainer Junko loves fashion. likes to dress in historical clothes and dresses her pokemon up the same way. terrible at gardening but wishes she were good at it.

trainer Jubei, brother to junko. also loves fashion, but just always wants to look stylish. recently became a kendo teacher. a bit stubborn, kind of tsundere. is perpetually annoyed that his sister can beat him easily in martial arts.

#personal #this is just for meee #i like making these for fun #potential characters???#you never know #try it its fun!#im going to continue and put more here if i make more #THIS IS LONG BTW

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encomiium · 4 years

Text

Five Thoughts an Archangel Has Throughout His Day 6 July 2020 Quintus

i. Promise you’ll be there to see it?

The thought echoed on the end of a dream. A tall boy with curly black hair smiled sadly, either endeared or pitiful, Quintus would never really know. He opened his mouth to answer, but his words were eclipsed by the blaring honk of an airhorn bellowing in repetitive staccato.

Quin fought to open his eyes through the fog of a sweet dream, staring at the phone on his nightstand screeching repeatedly for a few moments before rallying the fortitude to tap the big orange snooze button. Nine minutes--enough time, he thought, to fall back into such a sweet dream. He focused on flashes of golden lamplight frozen in droplets, clinging to bronze skin, heavy-lidded eyes framed with long, feathery lashes, a laugh like far-away thunder.

Although he made a valiant effort, his eyes opened again before his second alarm sounded. He didn’t dream very often anymore, but the little glimpses into memories he’d thought had long been lost to the haze of time were welcome surprises, albeit jarring and disorienting at times. Dreaming was among the few human habits Quintus actually liked about his fleshly vessel, along with napping and food. Others, he wished he could have gone without when he was chosen for earthly tasks. It’d be nice not to feel sadness or anger--or anything at all--like his brothers who had only ever known the heavenly void.

He stood and, although his body would be preserved in pristine condition for the foreseeable and increasingly uncertain future, everything felt metaphorically heavy. Emotional aging could be as painful as physical aging, if any of the poets had lived long enough to describe it. He pressed his palms to the ceiling, stretching high as he yawned into an orange sunrise peeking through long silver buildings and stretching out over criss-crossing roads already crowding with traffic.

He recalled the dream, once more, only to soothe the ache of his painfully quiet apartment, if just for a little while.

ii. Don’t.

Quin knew it wasn’t fair, but he did think of Isaac. Often. He wondered if he was alright, if he was eating enough, if he was still reading that silly romance book or if he had finished it already. He replayed their last night together over and over in his head, wondering endlessly how any man could be so kind, so generous. He didn’t deserve Isaac’s grace or forgiveness--he didn’t deserve Isaac at all. He worried his lip, knowing that no amount of blessings whispered into Isaac’s skin or clothes could ever be penance enough for the pain he caused.

Quin stared at his phone, a short “How are you?” sitting over his keyboard. With a few taps, he deleted it and closed the app, deciding that it would be unkind--cruel--to force Isaac into shouldering the emotional load of making Quin feel better. He was a selfish prince whose entire existence could be boiled down to endless broken promises. He could at least make a vague effort to keep his promise to Isaac, that when he was ready, Quin would be there.

Wiping his hand over his face, he glanced at the clock hanging over the large bookshelf stuffed with unorganized copies of ancient classics and bins of papers he really needed to get rid of. Ten minutes was just enough time to abuse the faculty keurig in the department office for the third time that morning.

“That tall body needs a lot of caffeine to get started huh?”

Renee, the department secretary, made some variation of that same joke at least twice a week, three years running. At first, Quin thought she was passive-aggressively warning him to stop using up all the K-cups, but he stopped caring shortly after. He didn’t get paid nearly enough to care about his students and the office supply of shitty Starbucks French Roast. Renee would have to pick one or the other.

He gave her a half-hearted smile and a hollow laugh before grabbing his grey hydroflask thermos from under the Keurig.

iii. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the--

“Sorry, Jaxson, but I thought you were writing about the, uh--” Quintus frantically rifled through papers strewn over his desk, all of the students practically boring holes in him with their stare as he interrupted a student’s presentation. After a few moments, his heart beating against his fucking forehead, Quin pulled out his list of student thesis proposals and read from it, “--the ‘Evolution of Queerness Over Different Translations of the Patroclus myth?’”

Jaxson looked surprised, swallowing a nervous lump as he turned towards Quin, “I was, but then I started researching further into potential historical origins for the Achilles and Patroclus story and I really couldn’t find anything--”

“So--” Quin tried to interrupt, panicking.

“Until,” Jaxson continued, his eyes lit up, like they always did when he stumbled upon something marvelous or had a great idea he would hurriedly jot down in his tiny pink moleskine. Some days, Quintus wished all his students had Jaxson’s passion and drive. Today was not one of those days.

Jaxson’s voice filled the room as he confidently sent Quintus into an out-of-body fugue state, “Until I found this really obscure story about a real Roman prince and his lover, dated more than a thousand years before the first recordings of the Achilles and Patroclus story--with striking resemblances--and I decided to write a piece arguing that this historical event could definitely have inspired an iconic myth!” Jaxson looked like he’d just won grand prize at the Putnam County fucking Spelling Bee, before softening just a bit, “I just--couldn’t find any academic papers already written on this topic and wanted to write something original. Is that okay?”

Quintus drew in a breath, wildly calculating some bullshit way to invalidate a proposal that was better than most--if not all--of the class’s work. He looked out over the students, all of whom were suddenly riveted by Jax’s research, and he knew there was no way he could get away with pulling the you-didn’t-clear-this-with-me routine. One girl with pink hair and baby bangs practically dared Quin to say anything that could even be remotely interpreted as homophobic.

With a quiet sigh, Quin threw on his best poker-face and relaxed back into his chair, though his stomach churned and threatened to expel all of Renee’s shitty keurig coffee with a vengeance if he listened to a moment of this presentation. “Sorry, sounds like a great topic,” he fluttered, attempting to sound as encouraging and chipper as humanly possible, “Please continue.”

Jaxson went on to weave a beautiful--and surprisingly accurate--tale about the tragedy of Quintus Aurelius and his lover, Antonius. Truth be told, he had always wondered if Achilles and Patroclus were only coincidentally adjacent to his own story, and Jaxson made a convincing argument in refute, but as stunning as Jaxson was in front of his slideshow, Quin couldn’t stop himself from flickering his attention to his class, watching their reactions to his life, to his story.

Many of the women sighed wistfully, even as Jaxson spared no gory detail, a few of the men watched in earnest, truly amazed that in their many years of study (please), they hadn’t come across this particular story. Quintus had always been thankful for the anonymity, but Jaxson, bless him and his big ol’ brain, seemed hellbent on making sure everyone knew about the day that sentenced two souls to an eternity in purgatory.

Quintus felt ill, his entire body was cold and wracked with shivers every time Jaxson so much as mentioned Antonius. He really did think he might puke. “He was a dedicated and loyal soldier, and even moreso as a lover,” Jaxson mused, flipping through slides with busts and pottery images of the two of them. Quintus couldn’t look at them, instead focusing on swallowing down the bile that kept creeping up his throat, trying desperately to tune out Jaxson and focus on the very interesting grain in the wood of his desk.

“The battle on the Danube with the Marcomanni was supposed to be pretty routine; a defense rally against Germanic invaders to protect Roman colonies,” Jaxson continued, his eyes trained on a rudimentary map of the area. Quintus grit his teeth and swallowed, eyeing the door for an escape, wondering if it would be rude, wondering if he cared at all, but Jaxson was relentless.

“Quintus and Antonius, as his Captain, overpowered the Germans with relative ease,” he switched slides to one of the many paintings of Achilles mourning Patroclus’s death. This one, however, was horrifically and eerily familiar. “Quintus met with the German general to accept surrender, which usually included their beheading, but Quintus is recorded to have been a remarkably kind and merciful leader.”

“Fuck,” Quin breathed, the word sharp and hot on his lips as he leaned forward on his knees, praying with everything he had for someone to draw him out of his body, out of his shame.

“Quintus did not behead the German general, and chose to spare his life, taking his sword as a trophy instead. Just as he turned to order for the man’s arrest, the German grabbed a nearby sword from one of his fallen soldiers and drove it through Quintus’s heart.”

The class fell silent. Quintus was silent. To the class, it looked like their professor took a moment to scratch his beard on his shoulder. Most didn’t even see it. None would see the wetness he left on his button-down shirt.

Jaxson finished his presentation with ease, detailing Antonius’s long life alone on the cliffs. Questions rolled in from the students about why they were left out of history, about the validity of his sources, and maybe more that Quintus wasn’t listening to. He’d completely phased out of the class, staring at his desk, fixated on the memory of watching Antonius sob in his tiny cottage over the sea when he tried to reach out to him and tell him it was okay to move on.

The sound of the class laughing snapped Quin back to attention, looking around for some clue about what was so funny. Maybe if he joined in on the joke, this would all go away.

“I said,” said one of the boys in the back, wearing a faded blue beanie and a shirt that said Why was Oedipus against profanity? Because he kisses his mother with that mouth. “That guy kinda looks like Professor Reilly.” Quin looked up at the last slide in Jaxson’s presentation, which pictured a bust of the late Quintus Aurelius. Quin didn’t have the slightest idea of when that could have been carved.

He laughed along, a little too enthusiastically, because in that moment, he realized he’d always just be Quin Reilly, Professor of Classics to these regrettably short lives.

He stood up, adjusting his pants to sit higher on his waist and shrugging, “Curse of being a white guy, huh? You end up looking like all the other white guys.” The class laughed menially before Quin motioned for Jax to take a seat, “Nice job, Jax, thank you. I’m excited to read your paper,” he lied.

iv. I need a fucking drink.

A very clear and loud thought that occured while he collapsed into his office chair. He turned to look out of his obnoxiously large windows across the quad, watching students filter in and out of the massive antique gothic building--one of the oldest on campus and ironically housing Classics and English. At least his windows were pretty.

He read the same page from a freshman Intro to Classics paper over and over, trying to decipher what this poor child could possibly want to tell him, almost making a game of it in his head as he agonized through the final minutes of his office hours. He just wanted to abandon the facade of a normal human being, flap his wings, and fall into his bed. He deserved it, heavenly duties be damned for just one day.

And then his phone vibrated.

Anything could be more interesting than this probably plagiarized drivel parading as an essay on Homer, so Quin picked up his phone and almost immediately leapt out of his chair with a sudden rush of adrenaline when he read the notification.

“Would you like to go on a walk together?”

He hadn’t even gathered the strength to name the contact yet, but he spent enough time staring at the number to know exactly who it was from. He paced around his office, stopping in the mirror once to look himself over before tapping a quick reply, “Yeah, now?” He deleted that quickly before trying again, “Where should I meet you?” He almost threw his phone against the wall.

“Absolutely.” He hit send before he could second guess himself and amended quickly with a follow-up message, “Any time, just let me know when.”

He stared at the screen for what felt like hours as his pulse hammered in his ears. When he saw the three dots pop up from the other side of the screen, he already started rifling through his office closet for a nicer shirt and his extra bottle of cologne.

v. Kiss him.

The thought was loud and violent and Quintus almost flinched from the sheer force of it. Their walk had been so beautiful, anything with Fér was hauntingly beautiful. Quin found it surprisingly easy to call his Antonius by a new name; from the moment he saw him in that museum, looking around with the eyes of a child, still, Quintus knew he would love this man just as he is. Exactly who he is.

They had settled on the lakeshore together, in the sand, watching the sunset, on a blanket Quin pulled out of thin air. He didn’t do it to show off--maybe a little--but he did want to acclimate Fér to the reality that none of this is normal. Maybe, in a small way, Quin was trying to assure Fér that it was okay to feel a little freakish right now, that it was okay for none of this to make sense, as long as they were doing it together, after so long.

Quin couldn’t help the doubts. He had always been such a thorough thinker, marking his moves a thousand feet in front of him, analyzing every possibility at every turn, so he worried, as he did so often for everyone he was responsible for. He worried most, however, that Fér might not love him in this life. That, despite the memories flooding back in the most catastrophic way, Fér might even hate Quin for everything that’s happened, for everything he caused.

But then Fér looked up at him and smiled gently, the pinks of the sunset catching the silver flecks at his temple, and he breathed, “This is really nice.”

Kiss him.

Quintus forced himself to duck his head and swallow. The sheer want for it was enough to burn at his lashes, a pit forming deep in his gut. He cleared his throat and smiled, nodding, “It is really nice, thank you for this.” And he really meant it. He took a moment to look at Fér and really took in his features. Fér looked the way Quin dreamed of when he was small, when he created tiny hopes in the secret places in his chest, that when all the work was done, he might be able to just stare at his Antonius for a moment, and for the rest of his life.

He remembered that he was thankful, as he breathed his last breath, that the last thing he ever saw were those pretty brown eyes, the color of charcoal stained into fingertips.

“Can I walk you home?” Quin asked, the ferocious heat of his thought dissipating as the Chicago cold began biting with the threat of the setting sun. Almost as if on cue, the two of them irrevocably linked by some cosmic force Johnny might have a sweet chuckle at, Fér shivered.

Standing, Quintus held out a hand to easily lift Fér onto his feet. He hesitated, for a moment, before slipping his hand out of Fér’s, grieving the loss of it and trembling at how incredibly right it felt, how easy and perfect. Instead, he slipped out of his coat and placed it over Fér’s shoulders, barely giving him the opportunity to protest. “You should have worn something warmer if you didn’t want me to fuss over you,” he said with a grin, trying to provoke a laugh, a smile, anything more than awkwardness and overt effort in what they were trying to build.

And Fér did smile. He did accept the coat, with what seemed like a bit of embarrassed resignation. Quintus made another promise that moment, one that he really hoped he would keep. A promise that he wouldn’t stop until Fér believed that Quintus could make him happy, if he had to burn the world down to do it.

#oh im so clumsy #so very clumsy #gen:drabble #d:quintus aurelius #quintus;fér

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