#pinning this untill I get a satisfactory amount of asks

[epithetrequestithets]

Send in an EE character and I’ll use this for them

#because all ee characters are my blorbos #epithet erased #ndr #taggin the ee characters #molly blyndeff #giovanni potage #sylvester ashling #mera salamin #indus tarbella #percival king #ramsey murdoch #zora salazar #howie honeyglow #naven nuknuk #trixie roughouse #pheonica fleecity #rick shades #lorelai blyndeff #pinning this untill I get a satisfactory amount of asks #blorbo bingo

[atlabeth]

nightmares - mike munroe x reader

summary: It was a deal made by two almost-friends in the early hours of the morning after the worst night of their lives, when they realized that all they really had left was each other.

a/n: so this is once again. not my normal content but ive been on an until dawn kick lately and fell in love w the characters all over again. i dont know if anyone still reads or writes for this fandom but. here u go. enjoy

warning(s): lots of cursing, canon typical violence, mentions of graphic violence/death (but nothing too descriptive), mentioned depression, insomnia, and alcoholism, some heavy themes but its hurt/comfort so it ends in fluff

wc: 4.8k

You were running.

You were running, and it was freezing — fuck, it was freezing.

You knew your surroundings; how could you ever forget? Every fucking moment on the goddamn mountain was engraved into your mind for what you assumed would be the rest of your life, an assumption that had since been proven correct.

And now, against your will, you were back. Of course you were back.

A shudder ran through your whole body as that all-too-familiar screech rang out behind you, each second of it like nails on a chalkboard in the worst way. Your lungs burned like all hell but you couldn’t stop — if you stopped, you were as good as dead.

Some part of this fucked up thing was almost funny. Humans were always boasting about how they were the top of the food chain, how they were the height of evolution. There was nothing to keep an ego in check like being hunted by a supernatural creature.

Any thoughts of bullshit philosophy were dashed from your mind as you took a hard right, nearly falling over from the sharp curve of the mountain but just able to catch yourself. Your heart was thundering in your chest, the beats nearly lining up with your sprinting. You felt an intense urge to turn around, try and gauge your chances, but the thought of slowing down for even a second terrified you. It’s not like you needed to anyways — you knew exactly what was after you.

You were nearing the end of your road, both literally and figuratively. You stumbled over a tree root, your hands splayed out in front of yourself at just the right angle to keep your momentum going and, in some feat of luck, stay upright and running.

But your luck had just run out.

Your senses were proven correct as the harrowing cliff edge came into view, and a thousand things screamed in your mind at once as your demise stared you right in the eye. You barely managed to catch yourself, very much aware that the snow falling into the void could’ve just as well been you.

That fucking screech again, even closer than before, and you whipped around as you took an instinctive step back. Your hands patted around everywhere, searching for something to defend yourself, but you had nothing. No gun, knife, even the ground around you was devoid of rocks.

You had nothing. You had nothing to defend yourself from this goddamn nightmare creature, and you were going to die.

Your eyes darted around wildly in an attempt to find something, anything, to save yourself, but there was nothing. You took another step back and felt your foot slip, your breath catching as you barely managed to save yourself with a twist and a lunge away from the edge. The shock of the ground and the cold against your skin was just enough to remind yourself that you were actually alive. Another pile of snow mimicked the fate that seemed imminent as it trickled over the side of the cliff, and you screwed your eyes shut as you tried to shut your mind up.

Think, goddammit, if you wanted to get off of this fucking mountain you had to think—

The screech that pierced through the night sky was far too close for comfort, and as your head snapped back towards the woods you swore that your heart stopped beating.

It had caught up. You were out of time you were going to die but you didn’t have anything and you were going to fucking die—

A flash of white pushed off a tree and lunged towards you, teeth bared as it emitted that horrible screech. You didn’t even have time to scream, completely frozen in place as one clawed hand reached your neck, and you braced for the moment of release.

You shot up in your bed, breathing rapid and unsteady with a barely contained cry on the edge of your lips as your hand instinctively flew to your neck. You heaved an almost strangled sigh of relief to know that your head was still attached to your body (it might’ve seemed obvious, but… your head wasn’t exactly on straight at the moment, all jokes aside) and collapsed against the headboard.

You ran your hands across your face as you tried in vain to calm yourself down, ultimately having to turn on your lamp to ease your troubled mind that there was nothing going thump in the night.

It had been this same routine almost every night — horrible nightmare, wake up crying or screaming or both, and start the day at 3 am because you couldn’t fall back asleep.

It was exhausting. You were exhausted.

You knew you couldn’t go on like this, but what choice did you have? Therapy had been mandated by the police for a certain amount of time after the incident, but… it’s not like it had helped. How could it, when no one truly knew what you had gone through?

Well… that wasn’t completely accurate.

One person knew what you were going through, and you hadn’t said as much as one word to him since that night. You didn’t really… know what to say.

Hey. I know we’re not all that close, but I’m sorry your girlfriend and all your friends were killed by a Wendigo and that I made it instead. Hope you’re not going insane with grief. I’ll send you a card at Christmas!

...yeah. You had no idea what to say to him after months of no contact.

The relationship you had with Mike Munroe was a strange one, to say the least.

None of you were the same after that night on the mountain. The horrors of the mines would be forever entrenched in your head, flashes of the Wendigos appearing every time you closed your eyes. You and Mike were the only ones who made it off, and the guilt you carried everywhere was a burden you knew you couldn’t shoulder. And even after the physical scars had faded, you knew the mental ones never would.

Sometimes you wondered how you had even managed to get involved with the group in the first place — bonds that had been made in your freshman and sophomore years had somehow managed to stay strong enough throughout the rest of high school, strong enough to cement your spot in the friend group and the yearly lodge visits. You liked them all well enough, enough to go up to an isolated mountain with them for a weekend or so, but… yeah. Sometimes you did wonder what the hell you were doing with them.

But now?

Now, you would give almost anything to hear Sam’s laugh or one of her compliments, or tease Ashley and Chris about their very obvious feelings; hell, you found yourself missing Matt’s useless football facts. And even though Emily and Jessica weren’t always the nicest, you still had managed to worm your way into their hearts. Knowing that you would never get Emily’s brutal but helpful advice or get dragged to a football game by Jessica again?

If someone had told you the difference between life-long trauma and a completely normal existence was that blonde girl with the braids in your biology class, you might’ve thought a little harder before accepting that party invite.

The days after you were rescued from the mountain passed in a daze, questions and interrogations from police never sticking for too long. And it didn’t even feel like it mattered, the way none of them seemed to believe you.

They kept you separated from Mike throughout the whole process, and you were only able to catch glances of him when you were being transferred to different rooms throughout the long process. It really was like something out of a horror movie — a group of teens go up to a lodge in the woods, and only two return with a story of unspeakable horrors — and rather than try and work out what had happened, they seemed intent on pinning the deaths on you and Mike.

As if you weren’t dealing with enough after watching your friends get murdered by the monster of another friend, the people that were supposed to be helping you were instead trying to charge you with them. If it wasn’t so fucking infuriating, it would’ve been laughable.

The worst part? You could hardly blame them.

When you took a second to listen to yourself, to what you were spouting to the police, you sounded insane. If you hadn’t witnessed it all first hand, you wouldn’t have believed yourself.

You told them to go down to the mines. That the thing that killed your friends would be down there, and they could see it for themselves.

You didn’t know if that was the right choice. Hell, you might’ve been sending those cops to their deaths. But it was the only way you could think of to get them to believe you.

(You doubted they would go down there anyways. What was the word of two crazy college kids over actual logic? Not much, you imagined.)

You were in that damn interrogation room for what felt like forever until you were finally taken to a hospital to get your wounds treated. But even in the hospital bed, police were by your side asking about what happened every day of your stay. After your discharge, you were forced into custody until they got information that they deemed satisfactory.

By some miracle, you and Mike weren’t charged with anything. The news might’ve gotten hold of your story, but you didn’t know. You didn’t want to know. You didn’t ever look at the news after the tragedy, too afraid that you would see the smiling faces of your friends staring back at you, or pictures of you and Mike with news anchors trying to talk about how involved the two of you were.

If there was one thing worse than going through hell, it was other people trying to make a profit off of your spiral.

Your friends’ families offered their condolences, but not much else. You didn’t hold it against them. Your survivor’s guilt was strong enough to know exactly why they didn’t reach out further.

(You blame yourself for their deaths, after all. Why wouldn’t they?)

It was the same situation with Mike.

Maybe you had purposefully drifted apart from him, trying to build up walls of your own so that he wouldn’t be able to spring it on you first. You assumed he hated you after what had happened, and he had every right to. You might’ve helped each other through the night, but you had no other option. Now, everyone else but you was dead — people he cared about more than you — and you just couldn’t face that.

But as you stared at yourself in your bathroom mirror, you realized that you might have to.

You looked awful.

Weeks of sleepless nights were catching up to you, appearing in the form of

hollow eyes and dark circles, along with a slight discoloration of your skin. The scars from the mountain had mostly healed, but there was a particularly nasty gash on your cheek that was still showing — it wasn’t doing you any favors in the ‘looking completely normal and sane and not severely sleep deprived’ department.

You splashed some water in your face to try and wake up a bit, but the slight drowsiness that followed you everywhere seemed to be a permanent part of you now.

(It was almost funny, in a way. You were so paranoid and alert all the time, unable to fall asleep, and yet it was all you could think about in moments like these. You wondered when irony had become such a staple in your life.)

You had tried talking to therapists, your friends, your family, even searching the internet for advice on what to do after a life changing traumatic event. Nothing had worked.

The simplest solution had come to mind more than once, but you had pushed it aside with the determination to work through this on your own. But now, staring at yourself and seeing how much you had deteriorated…

You had to go talk to the only person who would understand.

~

You had considered turning around more than once on the drive over.

Because, really, what the hell were you doing? Showing up at his doorstep in the middle of o dark thirty because— because what?

Because you had a nightmare?

He had gone through the same thing you had, probably even worse. Losing Jessica right in front of him, having to cut off his fingers to get free, spending countless hours alone, dealing with the nightmare that was the sanatorium, and then…

Well, you had been in the mines with him and Josh when it happened. There was no doubt in your mind that the scene replayed in his head endlessly, just like it did for you.

Showing up… it was going to be a mistake. You knew it was.

For all you knew, Mike had moved on already. He was stronger than you, he always had been. Maybe your presence would send him spiraling once more, or maybe it would just earn you a verbal beating like no other. Mike had always been nice enough, but the trauma you had endured was enough to turn a saint into his own worst enemy.

You didn’t know what would happen. You didn’t know anything, and as you turned down his street you regretted more than ever not keeping in touch with him. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in this situation, scrambling after your last hope for salvation after slowly killing yourself over the past few months.

But there was no chance to turn back now, because before you knew it your knuckles were rapping against his front door.

The pause between your arrival and a response was so long that you considered leaving and pretending like this never happened, but just as you began to step back the door swung open.

You didn’t really know what you were expecting, but… he was there. The only other testament to the horrors of Blackwood Pines, and maybe the only person that could help you through this.

“...hi,” you murmured, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as you looked the personification of your shame in the eye.

Mike blinked a few times, whether to try and wake up a little or out of surprise from his visitor you didn’t know, but it was a few seconds before he responded in kind. “...hey. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around.”

You chuckled dryly as you nodded. “Yeah. Sorry for the sudden arrival. I’m, uh… I’m kind of surprised you even opened the door.”

He huffed out a short breath in a facsimile of a laugh. “Not getting much sleep these days.”

“That’s something we’ve got in common.” You crossed your arms across your chest and let out a loose sigh, eyes wandering around in an attempt to think of what to say next. It should’ve been so easy, but… but for some reason, it just wasn’t.

“Guess so.” That awkward silence stretched out once more, neither of you knowing how to fill it. Thankfully, Mike continued to take the plunge, but it wasn’t without a slight barb. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” you stopped just as you had begun, because you really didn’t know. You had come here for help, but could Mike really do that for you? He was the same as you — a fucked up teenager trying to deal with something so far beyond him.

“I don’t know,” you admitted as you made eye contact once more. “I… I really don’t know. I’m out of options, and… I can’t keep going like this. So I came here to talk, or— or to try and get some help. I don’t know.”

That same silence filled the air once more, the night ambiance the only thing in between the two of you. You missed when that silence used to be comfortable, but… you could only blame yourself for it.

“So— so, what?” he asked, the beginnings of a frown starting to crease his brows. “You just— we go through all that together up there, and then when we get back down you don’t say a word for months. And now— now, out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, you just show up and ask for help?”

“God,” you muttered. When he put it that way, it was true. It was ridiculous, to expect his help after the way you had just left him to deal with it all on his own for a reason borne of your own insecurity. “You’re right. This was— this was stupid. I’m sorry.”

You had already turned to go when you felt a calloused hand on your shoulder, causing you to stop in your tracks.

“No.” His voice was surprisingly soft as he sighed, stepping back with a shake of his head to make room in the doorway. “No, I—” Mike paused for a moment, as if he couldn’t find the right words to say. “I’m sorry. You can come in. Obviously, you can come in.”

Your eyes widened slightly as you tried to hide your shock at the gesture, but you weren’t about to turn it down. You nodded, and he stepped aside to make space for you to walk in. When you did, you were met with a mess not unlike the one back at your apartment, save for the beer bottles. Clothes were strewn about haphazardly on every surface, so you took a seat on a clean spot on the floor, leaning back against a chair and pulling your knees up to your chest. You actually preferred it this way — it was grounding, in a literal sense. Mike pushed aside a laundry basket and did the same, but pulled one leg up and let the other lay extended.

“Why?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had been accumulating once more. “Why did you just…” he gestured around with his hands to try and get his point across but ultimately settled with a sigh. “You didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to text, or call, or write, or— or anything. Hell, I would’ve probably jumped to get a messenger pigeon from you. But it was just… radio silence.”

You picked at the dry skin on your thumbs as you tried to come up with an answer. “I… I don’t know,” you repeated. “It was stupid, and it was horrible of me to leave you alone. I mean… I don’t know why I did it. I know what I’ve been going through, and I know you’ve been going through the same. So I don’t know why I didn’t try to reach out and see how you were doing.”

He chuckled mirthlessly as his eyes swept over the empty bottles that had accumulated on the coffee table. “I’m not the best with alone.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I thought…” you shook your head as you looked at the ceiling. “I thought that you hated me. I know that you cared about them all more, you were closer to all of them, and… and I thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. That I would just always be a reminder of what you lost. And… and, I don’t know. Maybe it was my way of trying to move on. Was a stupid fucking idea, though.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him as he ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I get that. I dunno why I didn’t try to talk to you either. Maybe since you didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to either. This whole thing fucked me up.” His gaze moved to you. “Fucked us both up.”

“You can say that again,” you muttered as you tapped your fingers on your knees. “I can’t look anywhere without seeing them. I mean, I see that fucking…” you grimaced. “I see Josh, and I see what that thing did to him, and I just— I’m right back to step one.”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “...yeah. That was seven layers of fucked up.”

“You can’t just keep saying everything was fucked up,” you said dryly. “It was shitty, too.”

Mike snorted, some kind of slightly masochistic humor going on between the two of you. “Nothing really gets the point across like fucked up.”

“Guess you’re right,” you finally conceded with a small smile. “This is… this is nice. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to… I don’t know, to talk to someone like this.”

“It is,” he murmured.

Another pregnant pause hung in the air, but the silence wasn’t as uncomfortable now. Trickles of what it used to be like, of your old life, were beginning to poke through.

“I never hated you,” he said suddenly. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and it was like his brown eyes were piercing through you as he continued. “I never did. After it happened… yeah, I was mad. I was fucking pissed, but it was never at you. You were my friend too, y’know? Even though we weren’t that close, we were still… we were still something. And I’m glad you made it. I just wish you hadn’t convinced yourself that you had to go through this alone. Maybe things would’ve turned out different, these past few months. For both of us.”

You nodded, choosing to avert eye contact first because you almost couldn’t handle the sincerity. Your heart sank a bit at the sight of all the beer bottles, and you knew that he was right. Maybe things would’ve been different if the two of you had weathered it together from the start. And so you said that.

“I still can’t help but feel like I’m to blame for—” you gestured around at the mess with a sigh, “for this.”

“Look.” His voice was raspy as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, and as he met your eyes once more you were able to see how truly exhausted he was. With dark circles that matched your own, scars that were still healing, and a certain hollowness behind his eyes… It was like looking in a mirror. And it made you realize how fucked up the two of you had really become.

Mike had always been good at holding himself together, putting up his signature egotistical-douchebag-jock act in the face of anything that threatened to tear him down, and more often than not he came out victorious. But not even class presidents were immune to the horrors that they had faced, and it was taking more of a toll on him than you had realized.

“It’s not your fault. You— you did everything you could; I know I’m still alive because of you. Besides, we were idiot teenagers — we still are — and none of them deserved to die because of it. Not Hannah, not Beth, not any of them.” Mike shook his head and sighed. “Not even Josh. Man was fucked up even before all of this, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. He needed help, but instead he got his fucking… god. I can’t even say it. But he didn’t deserve it.”

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, the subconscious process having stopped because of the weight of his words. It was cliche, but you didn’t know how much you needed to hear those four words: it’s not your fault.

“Maybe you should be my therapist,” you joked weakly. But as you let your eyes trail back to Mike you bit your lip. He hadn’t included himself in that statement, and it wasn’t too hard to figure out why.

“Mike… it wasn’t your fault either. You’re not just saying bullshit to try and make yourself feel better, it really wasn’t your fault. What do they say? ‘Getting through your guilt is the first step to recovery’ or some shit? You deserve to be here just as much as I do.”

“But it was,” he insisted. “It’s easy for you to say that. You tried to stop it, I… I just went along with it. Fuck, I started it all. Hannah and Beth went missing because of me, Josh went out of his fuckin’ mind, and if he hadn’t brought us all back up there for his revenge plot then they wouldn’t have died. How is it not my fault? Why do I get to live when all of them died because of me?”

“Mike,” you sighed. “I… I don’t know. I don’t know why we made it back when none of them did, but it’s not your fucking fault, okay? You— yeah, that prank was fucking stupid, but— but how could you know what was going to happen?” You huffed a laugh that was only slightly unhinged. “People pull pranks all the time. Native American legend cannibal spirit things don’t try to kill people all the time. You can’t keep blaming yourself. It’s not going to help them, and it’s not going to help you.”

That silence stretched out once more as he took in your words. You didn’t know if he believed them or not, but you did. That had to be worth something, right?

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he muttered, breaking the silence once more. “And I… I don’t know. I don’t know why it took almost fucking dying from those goddamn things, a— and seeing what happened to all of them...”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, leaning back against the foot of the sofa. “All the shit that happened, all of them dying — I don’t know how long it’ll take until we’re okay again. Hell, I don’t even know if we ever will be okay again. What happened up there was fucked up in the worst way, and the fact that no one believes us makes it a hell of a lot worse.”

You chuckled darkly as you cupped one hand in the other. “You can say that again.”

His lips twitched for a moment as if he wanted to smile but ultimately thought better of it. “I know we aren’t that close anymore, but the truth is we’re the only ones on this fuckin’ planet that know what really happened up there. We’re the only ones that will ever really understand what happened to us, and… and I think we’re the only ones that can really help each other through this shit.”

He met your eyes once more, something resolute in them. “So the next time this happens, because it will, if you don’t want to be alone… you can come here. Any time, any day, no questions asked. Just knock on that door, and I will be there. No more isolation, no more trying to get through this on our own. We gotta be there for each other, because we’re all we have.”

You nodded gratefully, a feeling of warmth slowly creeping through your body with his reassurance. “Thank you, Mike. You… you have no idea what this means to me.”

“I think I have some clue,” he murmured.

As you exchanged weary smiles, you saw a faint twinkle in Mike’s eyes. He was always the kind of person to help others, even if it was for the wrong reasons, and that was one thing that stuck with him after the disaster. And in that moment, a long lost feeling washed over you — safety.

You hadn’t felt safe in… well, it seemed like forever. Adrenaline and pure instinct were responsible for getting you through those twelve hours, along with an overwhelming wave of numbness and denial. But once all of that wore off, the nightmares had begun. Your friends, the Wendigos, the mountain itself — anything and everything that your mind could use against you, it did.

It was a living hell. You could hardly ever sleep anymore, horrific images always jolting you awake after an hour or two and keeping you awake for the rest of the day. It was no wonder Mike had ended up with a drinking problem — it was probably the only way he could sleep, the only way he could bring some form of peace to his mind. By some miracle, you had avoided that fate, but… you would be lying if you said you hadn’t come close.

But somehow, for some reason, you could tell that things were going to be different. Now that you and Mike weren’t avoiding each other anymore in the name of painful memories… you felt like things were going to be okay. Or as close to okay as you could get these days.

You weren’t alone, and neither was he.

He had saved your life on the mountain more than once. Now, he was saving you again. Just in a different way.

-

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77

ud tags: @kwyloz

#mike munroe #mike munroe x reader #mike x reader #until dawn x reader #until dawn #until dawn fic #mike until dawn #sadie writes #i always get so insecure when i post things that arent for atla #then i remember that. this is my blog and i can write what i want #lol

[stupendousconnoisseurpuppy]

The son's warmth

Yandere! Hinata x Reader

Notes: This is my entry for @seijorhi's Deal with the devil collaboration~

Warnings: DARK CONTENT, Violence detail, injury detail, manipulation, kidnap, yandere.

Please refrain from reading if you are uncomfortable with the above!

That said, please enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Generosity. You suppose it could be a bit of a double-edged sword.

Although in hindsight, all you had wanted was to care for the exuberant ball of sunshine you had believed was dealt a bad hand. Parents and younger sister deceased, orphaned at the tender age of 14 and placed in a less than ideal environment - one devoid of love.

You had always been one of a large sympathetic capacity and it had always been a goal of yours, born of the principle’s kindness and compassion, passed on by your parents and sanctioned by your entry into adulthood; allowing you to action your desire to care for a young child struck by tragedy…

You’re not exactly sure, however, how that’d landed you in the basement of your own house with a broken leg and shattered kneecaps.

It was to be expected you'd reasoned at first, you had defied common sense and made a deal with a less than savoury entity.

Too bad you hadn't considered the fact that demons could come in the shape of fair seeming, walking tangerines with an aptitude for overbearing affection.

To his defence (something you’ve now come to consider a very ironic concept) Hinata wasn’t exactly - as far as signatories go - the one you'd even made this... deal with. It had been his orphanage, an institution shrouded in fraud and doused in the bitter aroma of embezzlement that had sealed your fortunes in the form of crisp white adoption papers.

You didn’t mind his clingy nature, the crushing strength of his grip when his hand found - sought - yours… actions that could and would have seemed to untrained eyes like a misplaced and overwhelming sense of desperation, like the shock of betrayal carved upon his features when your focus wasn’t solely trained on him, or the unnerving intensity pooling beneath glittering brown iris’ whenever they met yours during his volleyball matches. Again, this was something you’d chalked down to an amalgamation of a passion for the sport, desire to win and an appreciation for the fact that his beloved mother had come to show him the support he had clearly lacked in the early stages of his teenage years.

After all, what was a guardian without unconditional devotion to their child?

He was the coolness of your eyes whilst paradoxically, providing an all-encompassing warmth (much like the sun) and with an ostensibly boundless supply of energy. Such was the ardour that made your heart swell with pride. It was just a terrible pity – in your case at least - that this energy he had was now being put towards severing your contact with the outside world.

Wanted to go outside? He’d want you to help him practice.

Meeting someone? He’d pout and complain.

How could you refuse? You’d naively attributed such possessiveness to the trauma of losing his family and would excuse such behaviour in consideration of the circumstance. It was only natural. You’d decided to be there for him, accepting the responsibility as soon as you’d inked your name on the dotted line… if he needed a little more attention, that’s what he’d get.

And so, the story progressed until towards the end of his third year of high school, he’d decided the affection you were providing him with, however plentiful, wasn’t nearly as satisfactory as he knew it could be. For you still to be surrounded by others must mean his slice of the pie was diminished in size and a growing boy such as himself needed all the nutrition he could get. He’d reasoned that the entirety of said “pie” belonged to him, anyway. Surely no one could chastise him for exercising a due right over his own property?

He didn’t want to be the occupant of most of your time, he wanted all of it… And it was to be brought to your attention as soon as he arrived home from school.

No sooner had he entered through the front door than he was skipping towards your location (in the kitchen) with a blinding smile on his face, proceeding to grip onto your shoulders with a force that clearly betrayed his cheery demeanour.

“What’s wrong Shoyo?” You queried.

He’d went on to detail how neglected he felt whenever you enjoyed the presence of anyone other than him “It feels like you don’t love me anymore!”, like he’s not good enough, y’know? But it wasn’t your fault, all you needed was the chance to see that he was fully capable of being the only one you needed to depend on.

You were, at first, inclined to think of such proclamations as some silly prank, followed by laughter, declarations of how well and truly you’d been fooled and fabricated in boyish mischievousness. You’d managed to ask as such, but the speed and surety of his response had you becoming increasingly concerned.

“Nope!”

You forced out a nervous puff of laughter, clutching at the rapidly burning straws of denial because surely, he couldn’t be serious, but your dismissal had only served to become the source of his irritation and he squeezed you harder, fixing you with a determined stare that could only have been described as no less than peering into your soul.

You had ignored the red flags and were getting your just rewards.

“Sho- stop that hurts!”

“Reeeeeally Okaa-san?!” He quipped with insincere concern “It hurts more when you don’t care for me…”

It was at this bitter intonation that you’d scrambled back in shock and had prepared your body’s primal function of flight in the direction of the nearest exit.

But were you really going to run away from him? Shoyo, your own child, the coolness of your eyes and springtime in the haggard winter of your life?

Yes, yes you were.

And you would have gotten away with it too, had not the subject of your internal conflict taken advantage of your moment’s irresolution. For in a ginger blur of motion you were on the ground, he had taken a hold of your leg…

SNAP

He roughly covered your mouth to silence the scream, pinning you down with the weight of his own body as hot, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. The pain was excruciating, but you wouldn’t feel it for long, as with a swift hook to the jaw you were out cold. It hurt for him to have to utilize violence on the one he cherished; however, it’d seem a tad counterintuitive for him to give you the opportunity to run away.

You’d forgive him, you’d come around. You always did.

He’d swept you up and carried you to the large basement of the house, gently placing you on a worn settee; sickly ochre in colour - the one you’d been meaning to dispose of for years. His actions were soft and caring and his thoughts clouded almost entirely with his overwhelming love for you.

In passing hours he observed your peaceful state mindfully as his core pulsated in the cosy warmth of his rib cage, imagining what a future found solely in each other’s embrace would hold… eventually you’d stay of your own accord, he reasoned. He’d have no need to harm you or to keep you under the low, flickering lights of the basement. Defiance would become a thing of the past. You’d realise how happy you are he’d made the decisions for you, both of you, together…

“Why?” That was a question you sometimes took to asking yourself; more out of pure, unadulterated boredom than anything else. Something you’d already explored the answer to but thought it better to keep your mind occupied with trivial matters than to succumb to insanity (or the intensifying ache of your battered legs).

On that same note, though, contact with the world outside wasn’t the only thing he’d severed.

At the time, such an observation had very nearly made you laugh (and you could probably blame it on the fact that you’d always been quite partial to the more gruesome forms of satire). It was in an impulsive burst of inappropriate and rather facetious humour that you’d wanted to entertain yourself in the recital of depressing hymns (expected, given the nature of your surroundings), to congratulate your stupidity and wallow deeper into the marshes your own self-pity; only to be met with the simple fact that you didn’t have the option.

Your tongue? Gone.

And it hadn’t been the work of the proverbial cat, but your own son, who – cheery as always – had explained that it was another necessary action to stop you from hurting yourself, done behind the ever-wise teaching that prevention was indeed, better than cure. Could you not see he only wanted what was best for you?

It was then you were sure he’d dangerously distorted his self-awarded role as your protector and had lost his mind.

“Okaa-San, Its aright…” He beamed whilst you’d engaged in silently cursing your weak will “You won’t feel a thing!” - he flashed a guilty smile - after I knock you out…again.

And you didn’t. He’d sutured the wound (with what you really didn’t want to know) and made sure you didn’t choke on your own life juices, patching you up like the loving, doting son that he is… It was your job not to worry about the extremity of his actions, as a mother that should do everything in their power to put their beloved’s mind at ease.

Saved from the fate of Exsanguination… shows how much he adores you right? Not that you'd had half the courage or audacity to end your own life in such a macabre fashion, but even if you hadn’t been relieved of the burden of speech; you weren’t one to shatter another’s fantasies - especially if they were high school athletes with inhuman amounts of strength.

In the passing weeks, your mind had dawned upon the realisation that no one was coming to save you - and did you even need saving? – for your parents were far too busy, friends far too distant and dashing officer that’d do everything in his power far too non-existent. Shoyo was the only one who had cared for you, providing you with physical and emotional sustenance you’d never thought you needed - maybe for the reason that he had made himself the only source.

Another thing you’d come to realise, this time regarding unintelligible murmurs, is that they are very much open to interpretation. So even though his barrage of saccharine words were met with your limited arsenal of what might be considered responses, they been understood as absolute agreement, alongside the reciprocation of his affections. Which, to be honest, wasn’t that far off from the truth, as it was by that point, you’d learned the path of resistance was futile and that you were beginning to get used to (and even bask in) the flattery and praise he showered you with, silently and psychologically solidifying the notion that he was yours and you were his.

“You’ll stay with me forever right, Okaa-San?”

He giggled, placing a soft, lingering kiss upon your lips as if he were certain of your answer. And so were you. However, when he looked at you, tenderly caressing your form there was something amiss, a dormant hunger that hadn’t been there before, one that when coupled with the intensity he’d always regarded you with gave birth to towering waves of nausea and accentuated the persistent throb of your injured legs as if in subtle warning…

But you could deal with that later.

Because, despite the fact that his, short, brilliant orange hair had grown long and luscious with time and his scrawny figure had evolved into a mass of lean muscle, he still looked to you … like he did the first day he entered your care. Young, innocent and without fault. Unfairly dealt a bad hand and with you tasked to be the provider of everything he never had. So, as per the contract signed…

You nodded.

After all, what was a guardian without unconditional devotion to their child?

#deal with the devil collab #yandere #hinata shoyo x reader #hq hinata #hinata shoyuo #yandere hinata #yandere x reader #yandere haikyuu #hinata shoyo x you #haikyuu hinata #yandere hinata shoyo #tw yandere

[taeyongtime]

silver cufflinks

genre: escape artist!taeyong | circus!au

featuring: NCT’s Taeyong

word count: 7,467 words

a/n: an idea of old that i finally managed to execute after 3 years and a culmination of 14 handwritten pages :) 

“Have you heard? Neon Lights is in town!”

You shake your head, never heard the name before.

“You’ve never heard of the Neon Lights Circus?” Your friend’s jaw drops in awe, unbelieving of such a thing. “It’s only the best circus in all of Asia!

“Surely your father has heard of them? Didn't you say he used to perform with a circus?”

“That was a long time ago,” you ponder, recalling all the wild stories from your father’s travels with a wandering circus. “Isn’t this Neon Lights relatively new?”

“Twenty years is hardly new.”

Urged to ask about Neon Lights, you give in and promise to ask your father once you return home. However, the question goes unasked when you see the circle of family surrounding the door to your parents’ bedroom, the upcoming announcement completely unexpected.

“Your father… he’s gone, dear.”

—

You clutch the locked leather-bound volume in hand, following the person in front closely as the line moves slowly towards the ticket booth of the Neon Lights circus. The hype not to be underestimated, what looked to be fifty people are already lined up once the circus’ nighttime hours had been announced one hour prior. Some were new faces who wanted to get a taste of what the acclaimed circus had to offer, others familiar patrons who couldn’t wait to see what was new in store compared to previous shows. All in all, the anticipation for entry is palpable, tingling excitement dancing in the air while the line inched its way up.

Finally, you make it to the booth, handing over the correct amount of money in exchange for an admissions ticket. Green-and-black striped tents greet you once you pass the iron gates, neon lights fitting of the circus’ name dotting the main path. Elaborate signs boasting of acts and other surprises do little to catch your attention, only one goal in mind today as you pass each tent that isn’t the one you wanted. However, you can’t seem to find the tent in question, opting to pop into the next one you see to ask for directions.

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble, bumping paths with the figure dressed in black before the fire breathers’ tent. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No problem,” he dismisses, brushing the sleeves of his black blazer, “You’re good.”

“By the way, do you know where I can find the escape artist?”

He arches an eyebrow. “The escape artist?”

“…Never mind.”

Lifting the curtains, you pass him and enter the tent. Three fire breathers are still in uniform, skipping around the stage with flaming torches in their hands.

“Hey,” you yell at the top of your lungs. “Do any of you know where the escape artist is?”

“Can’t hear you,” hollers the one juggling three torches at once. “Come closer!”

You climb over the rope separating the audience seats from the performers, already halfway up the stage until you feel yourself pulled back down.

“You could’ve died standing so close to the fire breather,” hisses the man you’d bumped into outside, “Follow me.”

“Why should I?”

“I didn’t know you were so desperate to meet me that you’d stick your face into blazing fire to ask my whereabouts.”

“Wait, you’re the escape artist?”

◇

The escape artist’s tent is smaller than expected, a ring of thirty chairs circling the performing space that provides no covers for any sleight of hand. He gestures for you to sit in any of the open chairs and you let out a cry of surprise at hearing the shrill caw overhead.

“My raven won’t bite,” he reassures, reaching a hand to pet the bird that lands on his left arm. “Henry is quite friendly.”

You take a seat and remember the locked journal, extending it to him.

“My father left this for you.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Have you heard of the magician Eriol Kim? That’s my father’s stage name.”

He must know, the downcast glance and dipped head obvious signs that he was familiar with your father.

“Can you open the journal?” you ask, offering the locked volume again. “No one in the family’s been able to open it even though we were left with the key.”

“Let me see.”

He takes the journal and studies the lock, turning the book in his hands before reaching behind his ear and pulling out a bobby pin. Twisting the pin, he sticks the gadget into the lock, fiddling with it a few times before hearing the satisfactory click.

“Old man probably left you guys with a fake key,” he reasons, flipping through the pages. “Had to quench your thirst for answers but still keep his secrets a secret.”

“What kind of secrets?”

The escape artist smiles, placing the lock back in place.

“Secrets.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, you pester him some more but he zips his lips.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for tonight’s show.”

“Hey, you can’t just kick me out, you weirdo!”

“The name’s Taeyong,” he drawls, waving his fingers in a cheery goodbye. “Maybe we can talk more when you come by again tomorrow.”

—

You end up going back to the circus tomorrow and the day after, each night determined to convince Taeyong to let you see your father’s journal. Not once does the escape artist comply, even giggling playfully when he decides he wants your assistance in a performance. Under the pressure of the audience, you find yourself obliging, soon earning yourself an assistant title to the regulars that stop by every night to watch him perform.

“And now my lovely assistant will set fire to the barrel!”

You get up at hearing the cue and extract the lighter from your pocket, eyeing the barrel warily. The speakers overhead crackle, Taeyong assuring the audience he is unable to push open the barrel’s lid.

“If my assistant can prepare—”

Caught off guard by the utterance, you drop the lighter before he can finish, a quick flame growing at the base of the barrel. The prepared sticks of firewood and gasoline catches almost immediately, fear and excitement mixed into the audience’s response.

“Fire, fire…”

Hushed murmurs of fire echo across the circle, and the only thing on your mind is the fire extinguisher—which you run towards and focus the nozzle on the flaming barrel. Puffs of white envelop the on looking audience, your heart thumping erratically as the flames die out. Timing key in pulling off a successful act, you knew full well one mishap like that can shift the entire performance towards failure and ultimately an untimely death.

Please don’t be in there, please tell me you freed yourself before…before…

“Well, that was a close one.”

Taeyong steps out from the cloud, hair tinged white as he brushes his blazer and pants dry with his hands. Everyone cheers, already forgetting the impending risk of his death from the barrel that had been set aflame earlier than arranged.

“Thank you,” he bows, shooting a quick smirk at the crowd. “It is my honor to perform for you tonight!”

Once tonight’s audience leaves his tent, you run towards him and grab him by the shoulders, checking to see if he is still in one piece.

Taeyong laughs at your antics. “What are you doing?”

“You… You’re not dead.”

He scoffs. “Of course not.”

“…Thank goodness, I...” 

Slumping to the ground, you shake your head as you process the prior events once more. Thankfully nothing had gone awry and Taeyong had made it out before the barrel burned to bits and pieces, your mistake passed off as an added measure of suspense for his escape. 

“I have something for you.”

Looking up, your eyes land on the slip of green paper in his hands, bordered in metallic ebony with emerald lettering at the center.

“What is this?”

“Unlimited access pass,” he explains, “So you don’t have to pay to get in.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll come back after nearly killing you tonight.”

He grins, cheekiness rolling off his shoulders. “You’re not going to leave when you still don’t know what your father wrote in his journal.”

You let out a chuckle. “I don’t care about that anymore.”

Now it is his turn to sit down, crossing his legs as he rocks to and fro. 

“You don’t want to know your father’s secrets?”

“Secrets are called secrets for a reason,” you begin, still holding tight to the unlimited access pass. “These things weren’t mine to begin with and I should respect that.”

Taeyong nods, silver earrings glistening in the lamp light. “I respect you for it, Y/N.”

You startle, staring at him wide-eyed. “How do you know my name?”

“Did some research of my own after you told me Eriol was your father. He said he’ll introduce me to you someday when I first started studying under him.”

“Really? He’s never mentioned you to me before.”

A dry laugh tickles his throat. “Probably didn’t bother anymore after I left without telling him.”

You sense there is a deeper story behind the relationship Taeyong had with your father, but don’t bother to ask.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he concludes, extending a hand to help you up after hopping back on his feet. “Come on, I’ll show you around the rest of the circus.”

You take the offered hand and pull yourself up, scowling. “I don’t need you when I’ve been around the rest of the circus before.”

“Have you seen the white tigers in the Wild Cats tent?”

“There’s a separate tent for tigers?”

The disgusted look on his face says it all. “Clearly you still haven’t been to the best tents around here.”

—

The call at 4pm is unexpected, much less the name that appears on caller ID.

Not sure when Taeyong had inputted his phone number into your device or when he had gotten hold of your contact information, you ignore the ringtone and return to enjoying the fresh cup of oolong tea and just baked sugar cookies for the midday snack. Barely having two sips of tea, you grumble when the phone rings again, this time answering and ready to tell him off for interrupting your teatime.

“What do you want, weirdo?”

“Hello, is this Y/N? Mister Lee Taeyong is currently at the police station; he said this is a good number to reach you, his friend?”

“Excuse me?”

You arrive at the police station thirty minutes later, eyes widened at seeing the limp figure slumped over the table.

“Taeyong?”

Taeyong lifts his head up at hearing his name, the officers standing next to him following closely behind.

“What the…”

He giggles, face flushed as he proudly holds up his hands, an officer cuffed to each wrist.

“Mister Lee claims he misplaced the key,” the office on the right begins calmly, “He gave us your name and contact information when we asked if there is anyone else who may know how to unlock his handcuffs.”

“Um… I can try.”

You kneel to meet Taeyong at eye level, doing your best to not get distracted by the puppy-dog eyes and giggly expression on his face. You smell a faint hint of alcohol; how much had he drank to reach such a wasted state that he had managed to handcuff two well-trained police officers to him?

“Weirdo, how much did you drink? Where is your key?”

“Dunno,” he slurs, letting out a hiccup. “Had one bottle, two?”

“Not even that much,” you mutter, reaching your hands into his jacket pockets and coming up empty. “Lightweight.”

“I cuffed two officers, Y/N. You’re under arrest, officers!”

Ignoring the grumbles and displeasure at being cuffed by a mere civilian, you suddenly remember his bobby pin trick. Reaching by his ear, your fingers grab hold of the pin tucked in his hair, easing it out and fiddling it into each cuff.

The officers wring out their hands once freed, and you quickly help a dizzy Taeyong up.

“Sorry for all the trouble,” you apologize on his behalf, “It won’t happen again.”

◇

Taeyong opens his eyes to find himself in a home that isn’t his tent, the surroundings completely unfamiliar until he sees the photo frame on the nightstand by the bed. 

A family photo. He spots his mentor immediately, as stoic as ever posing tight-lipped before the camera.

“I’m sorry for running away, Teacher.”

Sitting up, he eases off the bed and makes a lap around the apartment, taking note of where your things are placed. Not too shabby for someone raised by a magician, although his mentor had also been one to keep a messy desk once he sees the haphazardly scattered papers and uncapped pens on your work table. He starts to reorganize, but pauses midway when he spots the clipped newspaper article.

Impossible. How could he have not realized that was why you’d suddenly appeared in his life?

“Hey, you’re awake.”

He turns at hearing your voice, staring you down.

“Why didn’t you tell me Eriol is dead?”

You manage a soft smile, taking off your sneakers and easing into a pair of purple slippers. “I thought you already knew the moment I gave you his journal.”

“How could I…”

He slams a hand on the table, ignoring the shrill screech at his fingers crushing the small porcelain cup just below his fist. Blood starts to trickle from the shards embedded in his skin, and you hurriedly sit him down before rushing to grab the first-aid kit.

“Idiot... This might hurt, can you withstand it?”

“It’s fine,” he insists, the wince at the first pluck betraying him already. “Don’t… Don’t bother.”

“You owe me a new tea set,” you mutter, plucking out a second and third shard of porcelain. “I’m going to make you buy me an expensive one to make up for it.”

The ramble about tea sets does its job to distract him from the pain. Soon, his hand is porcelain-free and bandaged all the way around, much to his dismay as he twists his wrist and scowls at seeing the mummified right hand.

“This is my good hand you bandaged up.”

“Then don’t perform tonight,” you point out, “You should be resting if you sustained an injury.”

—

He surprisingly follows your lead, not returning to the circus later in the evening. Social media explodes with posts regarding his no-show, but he is not bothered at all. It is rare for him to have a chance to spend time away from the circus, let alone do things other than perform escape tricks.

Tonight, he can live as Lee Taeyong the regular civilian, not Taeyong the escape artist of the Neon Lights circus.

“What is this?”

“A claw machine,” you explain, pointing at the assortment of plush toys kept contained in the red box. “You’ve never played one before?”

“…No.”

Without another word, you pull him inside the arcade. Bright lights and jingling game music greets your ears, the splash of colors across the perimeters enough to send your head spinning with indecision on which machine to play. Not many people besides you and Taeyong, luckily no one recognizes him as a member of the circus.

“Can you get me that one?” you ask, pointing at a pink bunny tucked in the back corner.

“You actually want a toy from here?” he quips, arching an eyebrow. “And me to get it for you?”

“Please,” you pout, batting your eyelashes. “You’re so good with your hands!”

He holds up the bandaged right hand and you gulp.

“I forgot about that.”

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “Step aside and I’ll see what I can do.”

You insert a coin into the slot and he grabs hold of the joystick, angling the claws directly above the bunny. Pushing the button to lower the claw, the prongs are dropped low, opening and closing into empty air before makings its way up again.

“Another one,” Taeyong mutters, eyes fixed on the toy. “We’re not leaving until I get you that bunny.”

It takes him a good two hours and an entire basket of coins to become familiar with the machine, finally maneuvering the claws deftly to pick up the bunny and drop it out. Your excited squeal brings a rare smile to his face, the first of the night. Refusing to take a stab at a different machine, Taeyong pulls you after him to play a shooting game, proving his skill once again when he secures the most kills in all three rounds of killing zombies. Darts, basketball hoops, even a coin toss is easy.

You raise the white flag after he changes his mind about the claw machine, securing almost five more stuffed plush toys under his belt before calling it quits.

“I didn’t think I’d have so much fun,” he admits after stepping out of the arcade under close watch from arcade staff. “The claw is actually not that hard to operate.”

“They were ready to pull you aside for questioning,” you laugh, swinging your stuffed bunny by its ear. “It took you only twenty minutes to get even their bigger toys out of the machines.”

“I gave all those back,” Taeyong drawls, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. “I was only trying hard for the bunny.”

“Thank you,” you grin, waving the bunny’s left paw in thanks. “Bunny is happy to go to her new home.”

“Sure.”

He makes an extra point to escort you home at such a late hour, his mere presence reassuring while you turn the corner and spot your apartment complex amid the single alit streetlight.

“This is it,” you begin, turning to him with a soft smile. “Thank you again for tonight.”

Taeyong returns the smile with an even rarer toothy grin. “I should be thanking you for showing me how fun claw machines are.”

“You must have had a lot on your mind tonight. Drinking and not wanting to perform.”

Your words catch him off guard, hitting a little too close to home. 

“Yeah.”

Conversation quickly slows, neither knowing what to say until he breaks the silence.

“Good night, Y/N. I’d better go before it gets too late.”

“Wait,” you blurt out, “When can I see you again?”

He replies immediately. “Tomorrow morning. You don’t want to miss tomorrow morning’s show.”

The anticipation already has you excited for tomorrow, so much so that you end up taking a quick shower and turning into bed early for the so-called surprise.

—

You wait until the rest of the crowd is gone, running towards Taeyong and cupping his face in your hands.

“Is your mouth okay?”

“Never better,” Taeyong answers, opening and closing his mouth to prove it. “Why?”

“The threaded needles… how did you swallow all of that with just a drink of water?”

His eyes twinkle with a knowing glint that he knew more than he was letting on.

“Practice.”

Not satisfied with his answer, you proceed to snake your hands into his blazer, empty-handed and needle-less once you finish the pat down.

“Where are the needles?”

“I knew you’d search me, so I already put them away.”

The cheeky smile on his face said it all; you punch him lightly in teasing and he pretends to wince from pain. The gesture is feigned, but you stop, concern replacing the playfulness in your eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” you blubber, unable to stop the tremble in your voice. “I… I didn’t mean…”

“I’m fine,” he laughs, tilting his head in confusion. “Just playing with you.”

“O…Oh.”

He picks up on your sudden retreat, taking a step forward and intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Sorry,” he whispers, the soft murmur so unlike the playful and confident persona he possessed on stage. “I won’t do that again.”

Unsure how to react, you quickly look away and wiggle out of his grip. His hand lingers midair before dropping against his sides, equally as awkward after the intimate touch.

“So… amazing show as usual,” you speak up, easing into a new topic. “There’s always something new every night.”

“Thanks.” The response is a heavy one, loaded with more weight than called for. “I appreciate it.”

“You don’t sound happy at the compliment.”  

He sighs, taking a seat on the ground. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I… I’ve been wanting to leave the circus.”

“Leave?” you echo. “And go where?”

“I don’t know. I’ve wanted to leave for a long time now; I feel that there’s more to the world than these green-and-black striped tents.”

“Then go.”

“There’s no way I can leave this circus. There’s a special clause in the contract I signed with the ringmaster:

“Undying loyalty is the price you must pay

“for Death to take a step back on your few remaining days.”

You frown at the cryptic words. “I don’t understand, Taeyong.”

He proceeds to take off his blazer, bare torso and chest decked with scars of multiple lengths. Varying in depth as well, you can see where fatality may have struck if the wound had sunk just a little deeper, been inflicted a few centimeters in one direction or the next. Multiple close calls with Death’s door right in front of your face.

“Don’t cry,” Taeyong groans, tremors underlying the toughness in his tone as he puts the garment back on. “Don’t… Don’t make me feel like shit for making you cry.”

The sniffles and tears are unstoppable. “Did they do that to you? For wanting to leave?”

“No. These were all from natural causes that happened to me after I made clear I wanted to leave.”

He gestures to the left collarbone area, just short of the neck. “I have two here from the knife thrower’s misses, even though their knives never miss.” The guiding finger moves down to the right side of his waist. “Burns from the fire breathers, bites from the wild cats that are usually so docile in front of their trainers, the list goes on.”

You don’t want to hear any more. “I… I can try to put in a good word. Maybe I can use my father’s name to—”

Taeyong shakes his head. “It’s no use. The contract is binding.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It is what it is.” He reaches a hand forward. “Come on, I’ll show you the tents you haven’t been to yet.”  

You slap his hand away. “Don’t try to shift the conversation.”

Any remaining excuses cease, the morning soiled. Without waiting for a response, you exit his tent and start to inquire about the ringmaster and each performer’s contract with the circus, determined to help him gain his freedom from the circus that kept him bound to its paper chains.

—

The impending mention of Neon Lights’ departure to America brings little to be disappointed about, especially when you hadn’t gotten anywhere in discovering how to nullify Taeyong’s contract with the circus. 

No form of records existed besides old articles praising the astounding performances. The lineup hadn’t changed since the founding of the circus: acrobats, magicians, clowns, wild cat tamers, knife throwers, fire breathers, and the escape artist. Your head spun in circles during those weeks of research, frustrated at the inability to find the link that connected these broken pieces of Taeyong’s vague narrative.

“Have you packed all your things?”

Your turn at the sound of your mother’s voice, shaking your head. “Not quite.”

She steps over the opened suitcase on the floor and takes a seat on the bed.

“Are you sure you want to go with me to Hong Kong?”

“Yup. I just need to decide what remaining clothes I want to bring over.”

Not convinced, she takes your hand and squeezes, the touch simultaneously comforting and freezing you in place. You open your mouth, but fail to form words into a cohesive sentence. How were you supposed to tell her about Taeyong? How were you supposed to tell her the reason you readily accepted to leave was to avoid a man who had somehow snaked his way into your heart without you knowing it? 

“If there’s someone you want to stay here for, you can.”

“Mom, I…”

“You’ve been leafing through your father’s things,” she interjects, “I see the name ‘Taeyong’ in your notes often and found that name in one of your father’s pictures with his students.”

“Do you know him?” you ask curiously. 

“Not well,” she admits with a sigh, “Your father was always very excited whenever he mentioned that boy. Said he had finally found an appropriate successor to his work, but then…”

“But then?”

“Taeyong disappeared one day. No note, just gone. Your father was so shocked he wouldn’t leave his study for an entire month.”

“Oh.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

You nod. “Taeyong’s a member of the Neon Lights circus that’s currently in town.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Biting back a snappy retort, you return to packing and soon fill in the remaining space in your suitcase.

“Do you need to say goodbye?” she asks, getting up from the bed and zipping shut the suitcase. “We won’t be back for quite some time.”

“The circus is leaving for America next,” you mumble, “I haven’t spoken to him since he told me they were leaving.”

She doesn’t pry further, excusing herself and leaving to your own devices. The lingering thought of Taeyong is stifling, plaguing both your head and heart about the indecision between letting him know of your departure or not.

“Damn it, that idiot is getting in my head.”

◇

Taeyong sits before the mirror with a scowl on his face, thoughts muddled on why you haven’t shown up since he told you about tonight’s final show in the city before leaving for America. The grand finale performance already halfway in session, it will not be long before it is his turn to go on.

“Taeyong, you’re up!”

Gritting his teeth, he abandons his spot backstage and makes his way onto the main stage, basking in the spotlight and roaring applause at his entrance. One low bow and he frowns, feigning surprise at his already cuffed hands. Two fire breathers juggle torches around him, eventually escorting the escape artist as planned off to the side and into a large box. He listens for the cue to start once another lock is inserted into the hatch, preventing an escape from a mere push from the inside. The handcuff key already extracted from the secret pocket sewn into his blazer, his thoughts return to you and he begins to ponder on why you haven’t answered any of his calls or messages. Had he offended you the night he told you about his contract with the circus?

“Presenting now, the tank!”

The box suddenly lifts into the air, shifting him off balance at the abrupt movement. His fingers lose hold of the key; it is too narrow of a space to kneel to try and retrieve it.

Fuck, there better not be—

His ears pick up the sound of gushing water, confirming his fears once he is set down on a flat surface, presumably the springboard directly above the open tank. Prior rehearsals hadn’t consisted of a filled water tank, much less being encased in a box when the original execution of the trick only required locks by the feet.

“Can Taeyong escape from the locked box while cuffed and submerged in water?” the announce asks the audience.

“Yes!”

No. No, I can’t.

“Do you believe in him?”

No! This wasn’t in the original trick that I had practiced for!

“Yes!!”

The box is pushed off the platform, and Taeyong’s mind goes blank upon spotting the water that starts to seep in while his hands are still locked in cuffs.

—

[four months later, Hong Kong]

Fate catches you off guard when you least expect it, the subway ads for the Neon Lights circus a sight for sore eyes. Not even six months into the stay in Hong Kong and the circus is already snaking its way back into your life, bringing along memories of the escape artist who’d had such close ties to you even before your initial meeting. You had ultimately decided not to tell Taeyong about leaving for Hong Kong, flight of departure coincidentally on the same day as the circus’ finale show before leaving for America. Now, upon seeing the ad, you wonder if you should stop to say hello for old time’s sake. 

Of course, that is assuming he is still performing with them and not…

You hand rummage through your bag, taking out the black wallet and the green slip is still inside as expected. One unlimited access pass granting free admission into the Neon Lights circus with no mention of an expiration date.

“Opening night at 6pm… Surprises galore…”

—

The line outside the circus is twists around two entire blocks, popular no matter where it goes. Clutching the access pass in hand, you take a step forward but pause in your tracks. Were you ready to see Taeyong again? Would he be mad at seeing you here when he’d taken extra care to inform you about the last show in your city? 

What was he to you, even? A friend? Or perhaps something more?

“You’re not going in?”

The masked figure tilts his head in confusion, a gesture you recognize immediately upon hearing his voice.

“Isn’t that the unlimited access pass I gave you? Did it expire?”

“No… It still works, Taeyong.”

He quickly grabs your hand and pulls you aside, away from the turning heads that had heard the escape artist’s name.

“I didn’t tell anyone I’m skipping opening night,” he hisses, “Don’t be so loud next time.”

“Me, loud?” you echo, shaking his head away. “You’re the one who snuck out!”

“Why didn’t you show up during the finale show?”

As expected, he gets straight to the point.

“Family emergency,” you answer. “I had a flight to catch.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Relative on my mom’s side. She’s getting better, but we're staying longer just to make sure.

“Did America treat you well?”

“I was recuperating during the American portion of our travels.”

Concern flickers in your eyes. “H-How did you get hurt?”

He spits bitterly at recalling the incident. “Unexpected variables during one of my escapes. Nearly drowned to death if one of the clowns hadn’t noticed things were too still up on stage.”  

“But you never slip up, not even during the most pressuring circumstances.”

“I was preoccupied in my thoughts.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“…You.”

His answer is not one you’d predicted; you laugh it off and wave a hand over your face in dismissal.

“I’m serious, Y/N.”

“...Oh.”

“Are you going in?” he asks again. “I can get us to the front of the line in a matter of seconds.”

“Do you… Do you actually have some time to grab dinner?”

“Sure.”

An hour of catching up at a local diner later, you exit the establishment with a cup of hot milk tea in hand, Taeyong holding open the door for you since your hands were full. Outside, the night is still young, streets teeming with people and signs brightly alit from cafes, boutiques, and more.

“Can I escort you home?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in the chilly air. “I don’t want to go back to the circus just yet.”

You take in the thin blazer and ripped jeans adorned on his lithe body. “Care for a coffee at my place to warm up before you go?”

“I’d love that.”

Upon arriving at your apartment, you note the blue slippers by the shoe cabinet, your mother still out as scheduled with her friends.

“Take a seat. Coffee will be ready in a bit.”

He follows you to the kitchen instead and snorts at seeing the stick of instant coffee powder in the black mug.

“What,” you grumble, “We don’t have an espresso machine or anything fancy like that here.”

“Instant coffee is fast,” he smiles, holding back a snicker. “I look forward to it.”

It doesn’t even take two minutes to prepare the coffee, but Taeyong takes his time with the drink, so slow that you wonder if he’s stalling to not leave so early.

“Is the coffee not to your liking?” you speak up. “You barely touched it.”

“Oh, it’s great.” He takes a larger sip, giving you thumbs up. “I just wanted to savor it.”

“There’s two more packs in the pantry if you want it.”

“Yes, please.”

You hear the door open by the time you hand off the second cup of coffee, your mother surprised at seeing Taeyong by the sofa.

“You are…?”

He bows low, careful to not drop the mug. “Hello, Ma’am.”

“Mom, this is Taeyong,” you begin, hurrying over to help her with her bags. “Taeyong, this is my mother.”

He nods again when she greets him and you pick to sit next to him, leaving a space for your mother on the other side.

“Have you had dinner?” she asks, addressing both of you.

“Yes,” he speaks up, beating you to it. “Y/N was kind enough to offer coffee since it’s so cold outside.”

“I wonder why,” you mutter under your breath, eyeing the large rips on his black jeans.

You tune out the small talk between your mother and Taeyong, not once taking your eyes off the latter. He seemingly notices, subtly shifting closer until the gap is closed and your shoulders are touching ever so slightly.

“Have you shown him your father’s things, dear? He’d probably like to see them.”

You stand up, shaking your head. “Want to see?”

Taeyong nods, following closely as you show him the way to your father’s study. Once inside, you step back and he approaches the desk first, leafing through the ample notebooks and eyes shifting to and fro at all the new information. None of it had made sense to you, but maybe it was more appropriate to have the right person see it, notably one who also followed the school of magic tricks and the escape arts.

“This is what I was practicing,” he gushes excitedly, beckoning you over. “I didn’t practice with water, but if I start to practice holding my breath...”

You peek over his shoulder, lips turned to a frown. “That looks dangerous.”

“Not if you have the proper equipment.” He continues to scroll past each page, eyes glowing like a child who’s been told Christmas had come early this year. The excitement palpable to grasp, you find your lips widening to a grin each time he makes a noise of delight on a new page, just as happy as he is about your father’s old notes.

The bubble of joy pops, however, with the sound of rain pitter-pattering against the windows, quickly growing into steady sheets of rainwater that pound hard on the glass.

“Have him stay for the night,” your mother’s voice echoes down the hall. “It’s late and raining too hard.”

“You heard her,” you begin, turning to Taeyong with your hands thrown up in defeat. “You’re staying the night.”

A mischievous smirk dances across his lips, briefly before he turns his back on you. “I’m good in here.”

“Are you sure? It’s more comfortable for you to sleep on the couch outside.”

“Who says I’ll be sleeping tonight?”

—

Thunder roars into the night, startling you awake. The clock on the nightstand reads 3am, hardly an hour for a sane person to be alert. You let out a yawn and shuffle out of bed, heading to the kitchen for a drink of water before turning in again.

On your way, you pass your father’s study and notice the slight crack in the door. Pushing it open, you feel your eyes widening at the sight of the empty desk. All your father’s notes and papers recording his life’s work in the escape arts gone, what hits the nail on the head is the absence of the man who had been so excited to see his teacher’s remaining research, gone without a trace.

“Taeyong?”

No words. The only sounds you hear are the rain and the clink of metal against the floorboards, the fallen handcuffs sending chills down your tired back.

—

You wonder why Taeyong is always on your mind, the man nothing more than one of your father’s former students.

Since his uncanny disappearance that one rainy night, you’d been unconsciously keeping an extra eye out whenever you pass by the circus. Fans of the escape artist were just as worried, not hearing any news of him for almost two full weeks now. Circus staff also had surprisingly nothing to say on the matter, sparking outrage at the supposed negligence for the performer’s health and wellbeing. All this hubbub over a man who had simply gone off the grid entirely… a small part of you had considered the possibility that he had planned this all along to hype up whatever trick he had tucked up his sleeves.

“Any news on Taeyong?”

The staff running the ticket booth shakes her head. “We’re trying our best to get more information from the administrators as well.”

Nodding in thanks, you cast an eye to the crowd waiting anxiously on the side and shake your head. Collective sighs echo across the group, but are soon replaced by curious murmurs at the string of ringtones and vibrations simultaneously emitted from everyone’s mobile devices. Your own included, you open the notification and find yourself automatically redirected to what looked to be a stage. The curtains part, revealing a dark-haired Taeyong in his signature fitted black blazer and ripped jeans.

“It’s Taeyong!”

“He’s alive, that’s really him!”

“Welcome!” the escape artist says warmly to the camera, “Thank you for tuning in to my broadcast!”

Why is this idiot livestreaming when he has an entire stage at the circus?

“Today I have a very special trick prepared,” he continues, “So special that I decided to broadcast my performance for everyone in the world to see!”

You immediately rush towards the ticket booth, the other twenty people thinking the same as bodies clamor to reach the entryway and get in to view the escape in person.

◇

The raven perched atop the wooden barrel lets out a shrill caw at seeing its master lock himself in a pair of handcuffs. Spooked by the abrupt noise, the young clown acting as Taeyong’s assistant shuffles backwards, nearly knocking over the stack of books on the table.

“Why are you so scared, little clown? Henry is a very nice bird.”

“A-Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, checking that the camera isn’t recording before continuing. “I-I don’t want to get in trouble if… if…”

Taeyong lets out a laugh, the raven flapping its wings in unison. “You don’t believe I’ll succeed?”

“It’s not that,” the clown replies hastily, “It’s just—”

“I did not spend all this time preparing away from prying eyes for nothing.” He smiles; it is a dangerous gesture that strikes fear in the youth. “This is my ticket to freedom from the shackles that is this stupid circus, you see.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Plus, you know what to do if you think something’s gone wrong.” 

He casts a glance at the sealed envelope at the center of the notes he took from your father’s study, a trace of longing flickering in his dark eyes. “Make sure you deliver that envelope to who it’s addressed for should anything happen to me.”

◇

Taeyong’s tent is empty once you enter the circus, leaving you stumped on his location when you see the water tank entering the frame. The setup for his trick resembled the diagram in your father’s notes: the stick figure hanging upside down into a tank of water, feet locked while in suspension. Not even your father could perform such a trick to an audience, the skill necessary to pull it off beyond his aptitude at his prime.

You’d always known Taeyong loved to push his performances to the limit, but this time it felt like a direct knock on Death’s door rather than a test of his skill in the art of escape.

Not finding him anywhere in the circus, you take a seat on the bench by the acrobats’ tent and reopen the online broadcast, your only link to Taeyong’s whereabouts. The camera pans out on the water tank placed center stage, filled to the brim and Taeyong already handing upside down above it.

You idiot…

“My assistants will begin to count down the seconds before I start,” he announces, grinning while inverted. “10!”

The two clowns below count down the remaining ten seconds, letting go after lowering him into the filled tank. Air bubbles already start to float to the surface, the footage rendering you immobile while gripping the phone with all your strength.

He’ll succeed. He… He has to succeed.

Handcuffs unlocked at last, he shows his freed hands to the front and the curtains draw together, obscuring the view of the tank. Everything is still and seemingly on the projected track for success—at least it is until your ears pick up the faint sound of a strangled cry behind the curtains.

The two clowns pick up on the mishap, rushing to check in on Taeyong. You scoot forward on the bench, heart in your hands while waiting for something—anything—to happen behind the screen. Comments start pouring in, everyone tuned in demanding to see what had happened and if the escape had been successful.

Finally, the curtains pull back, and you nearly faint from shock at seeing the broken tank. Puddles of water and broken shards of glass litter the stage, the clowns slumped unconscious off the side. They come to in the next thirty seconds, shaking their heads and equally as shocked once they spot the remains of the water tank. None of them knew what had happened, the single black feather in the middle of the stage sending a more ominous warning to the audience than cheers for unprecedented success.

“Taeyong, he… he’s gone.”

—

“Are you Y/N?”

You look up, greeted by the darkened sky and curious gaze of a clown half in makeup, a black raven perched on his left shoulder.

“Y..Yes, that's me.”

“Taeyong said to give this to you if anything happens to him.”

He hands over a sealed envelope, bulky in size. The raven takes off from its perch, briefly circling overhead before flying away into the night. Unsure on the purpose behind the delivery, you thank the clown and he bids a quick goodbye, leaving you on your own within the circus.

Taking a deep breath, you tear through the seal and a pair of handcuffs fall out of the envelope, followed by two slips of paper. The first piece is another unlimited access pass to the circus, while the second is ink-stained with scribbles scrawled messily along the lines. You set the handcuffs aside and pick up the second piece of paper, unable to stop the tears flowing down your face upon reading the handwritten letter from the escape artist himself.

◇

If you’re reading this letter, it means I either succeeded in my water chamber escape or died trying. I’m not going to tell you which because a magician never reveals his secrets.

Please forgive me for disappearing without letting you know what I’ve been doing. I wanted to do something no escape artist has ever done before, and I knew this was the greatest challenge yet when I saw the blueprint in your father’s notes. You’ll understand, right? Even if you don’t, even if you hate me for pushing myself to the limit for an escape trick, I’m content that I could perform and leave behind my name as one of the greatest escape artists in the renowned Neon Lights circus.

Are you angry at me for leaving things so messy like this? Don’t be. It’s not pretty when your eyes darken and lips purse into that familiar scowl of yours. I want you to remember me as someone who was very happy to have met you, even during all the times I annoyed you and used your father’s name to get you to come back to the circus to see me.

Now that I’m free, I’ll even tell you something else you’ll likely hate me for—I think I started to like you when I saw you worry about me after the fire extinguisher incident. I should’ve been mad at you for dropping the lighter early, but I couldn’t find it in me to do that. My apologies for not telling you sooner.

Yours, Taeyong.

◇

“Idiot,” you hiss, biting your lips hard enough to draw blood, “You’re an absolute idiot.”

#neowritingsnet #nct scenarios #taeyong scenarios #nct imagines #taeyong imagines #nct fanfic #taeyong fanfic #circus!au

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Weird, “Autograph.”

Wrote this between sporadic bouts of studying because I have the attention span of a flea and the motivation of a blob fish. So This is for those of you asking about what happened after “Movie Star.” 

He watched his shuttle hit altitude and then vanish into a pristine blue sky. The roaring of the engines faded away until there was nothing but the distant thunder of jet engines, so much quieter in comparison to the wild screaming of the spacefaring craft headed on her way back to the Harbinger, and a crew that would be captained by his second in command. It hurt him to think that someone else would be captaining his ship, that she'd be in deep space without him.

He wondered if this is what it felt like for a parent to leave their child for the first time.

It all just made his heart ache, and he had the sudden desire to call and make sure she hadn’t spontaneously combusted as soon as he had entered that shuttle leaving her on the docking port moonside.

“Yep, she totally exploded, the entire crew is dead and their ashes will forever float through space.” He turned his head to glower at Conn floating at his back and staring up into the sky with a grin.

“Shut the hell up Conn.”

“Make me.”

“Do I need to remind you that the only thing between you and a snapped spine is a gravitational chastity belt.” he snarled 

Conn adjusted the gravity field harness around his narrow-protruding hips, “Speaking of chastity belts-”

He held up a hand, “NO-no I am stopping that line of conversation right there.”

A gentle hand rested on one of his shoulders, and he turned to find Sunny standing over him her head tilted slightly to one side. The expression she had on was almost comical for an alien without human facial structures, “They’ll be fine.” Then she slapped him on the back making him stagger forward, “Now stop frowning, You should be excited.”

He straightened himself out adjusting his jacket.

To his side, Krill sighed and looked up at the sky with an almost longing expression.

“What’s your problem?” Sunny wondered 

The Vrul sighed, “The amount of time I spend on a class A death planet is really making me question my sanity.”

“You’re only now beginning to question your sanity?” Adam wondered wryly as he looked around the tarmac. Aside from a couple of baggage carriers, and people in bright orange vests, there was no one here, and no way to tell where they were supposed to go.

“Ha ha, funny ...Where are we going?”

“Guess we sort of just head towards the terminal?” He glanced towards the taxiways between them and the terminal and shook his head. That didn’t seem likely, but also…. There was no one here, “Or not…. I would expect at least someone to be here.”

Sunny crossed her arms in annoyance, “Seems kind of rude they would ask you to come and then just…. Leave you.” 

His eyes scanned over the tarmac once more, baggage carts, buggies, distant buses, a fancy black car, but nothing close by. He adjusted his bag over his shoulder, “May as well walk to those people over there and ask them. I don’t want to get in the way of the planes.”

Adam, followed by his extraterrestrial entourage slowly began heading in that direction. A bus rolled by them going the opposite direction, and the black car from earlier turned onto the same road to roll past. Adam kept walking.

“Commander!..... Commander Vir.” 

The group of them spun in a tight circle turning to face the car, which turned out to be a limousine, the front window rolled down, and a man in a dark suit leaning out.

Adam looked around like there was someone else by that name standing behind him before pointing at himself, “I ur…. Me.”

The man parked the car and stepped out reaching over to open the car door, “Mr. Ellis apologizes that he couldn’t meet you in person, but he hopes that you will find his personal car satisfactory. Adam blinked like a deer in the headlights, “Er… uh… are you sure you’ve got the right person?” He eyed the car.

“You stupid or something?” Conn wondered floating towards the door and vanishing inside the car, much to the driver’s confusion and surprise. He stared after Conn with wide eyes before turning to look at Adam.

“Believe it or not he's actually pretty tame for his species.” The commander sighed stepping forward and thanking the man awkwardly as he slid inside.

He wasn’t entirely sure if satisfaction was the word he’d use to describe how he felt. Everything, and he meant everything was extravagant and eccentric to the extreme. Crystal glasses, with the appropriate liquor, adjustable colored lights, heated seats in a fabric he couldn’t even name, the absolute definition of leg-room so that even Sunny was comfortable. There was a TV just above the far end turned to the news, a snack bar, a sun roof. He folded his hands in his lap afraid to touch anything for fear of damaging it.

Sunny scooted to sit next to him while Conn and Krill took the other side. 

Conn leaned back in his seat, “Not bad.”

“You would say that.” Adam muttered leaning a little closer to Sunny hands pinned between his knees so as not to touch anything.

Sunny had no such qualms sprawling out like she owned the place head resting back onto a fluffy set of cushions just before the window, “Now this, I could get used to.”

Adam disagreed, there was no way that he would ever be able to get used to something like this. In fact, at this moment he was wondering what he was even doing here, hanging out in famous people’s fancy cars with private drivers. He wasn’t special enough for something like that. In fact, he was a soldier, that was it, and arguably not even a very good one. He was just some lucky son of a bitch who had alien friends and a spaceship somehow by coincidence.

He should have been happy, but felt himself wilt internally as he looked around the car at all the fancy things.

Conn watched him from across the car but said nothing.

Unfortunately for him, Sunny caught the tension glancing between him and Conn. 

The were rolling out of the LAX tarmac as she spoke, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Adam interjected over Conn, who continued to speak through Adam.

“Boo hoo, oh woe is me, I’m not special enough enough to be here, I am just an average guy who's not even actually good at anything wa ... was.”

Adam snarled at Conn, “get the hell out of my head Conn.”

“You can’t just leave your mind dangling open for all your thoughts to flop out.”

“Thanks for phrasing the analogy that way Conn, I appreciate it.” he leaned back in his seat arms now crossed, “And yeah, I feel a bit out of place. I should be back up with my men doing something useful but here I am being treated all special by people who barely even know me. If they really did they wouldn’t be half as interesting. If they knew how half the stuff I did was pure dumb luck, or how i spend most of the scared out of my mind. How I’m not some kind of badass.” Sunny hummed deep in her chest, “Yes, the story of the man whose dumb lluck led him to being the most important human in the galaxy is totally boring. Yawn, I am falling asleep already.”

“You don’t even yawn.”

“Why do you think I said yawn instead of actually yawning then?” 

He growled, “My point is, I just feel out of place.”

“Welcome to being a celebrity Adam. Having dumb luck that put you in a position for people to look up to you. You think these people got here because they are ACTUALLY special. No, they got here because their parents were famous, or because they got into good acting schools when they were kids, or because they knew a guy. All of these people got lucky, aren’t actually special, and there are plenty of people out there more talented than they are, but at this point they are so famous no one cares anymore.”

Adam sat in silence contemplating the thought, “II mean…. When you put it like that.”

“You know it's because I am always right.” Sunny said smugly.

He turned his head towards the window watching the city pass by below them. LA was the largest and one of the most ancient cities on the continent. Of course it spoke nothing of a city like Rome or London, but it was still pretty impressive. The entire place was so shiny and white mixed with delicate greenery all built on the bones of the slums. Not only was LA one of the oldest cities on the continent it was also one of the richest. The further they went the nicer the already nice buildings got reaching towards the sky all shiny and white.

Massive mansions dominated the distance with high gates and private shuttle pads. 

The sky above them was dominated by flying cars, private shuttles, and the occasional jet. One mansion they passed by was so big, it seemed  as if the front facade went on for almost a mile intertwined with many decorative fountains and trimmed hedges upkeep exclusively by robots.

They turned down another street heading into the city with expensive outlet malls and large flashy brand names that probably cost as much as the warp core used to power his ship. He was both parts intimidated and stunned leaning towards the window to stare at all the strange people that walked the sidewalks.

He turned his head following a very excessively dressed man in a tailored ball gown that took up most of the sidewalk.

Where he grew up in the suburbs, there had been people who dressed according to plenty of other time periods, but the trend had been early 2000s mostly thanks to his mother who performed the modest almost utilitarian style of their clothing plus they had never been rich enough to afford new fashion. Jeans were cheap, easy to make, a staple of the poor masses. Not that they had been poor poor per say, after the war his father worked as a farmhand for Megafarm producing millions of pounds of produce, while his mother had quit teaching to pursue business in talor-making period accurate clothing for those who were into that sort of thing. As a result, his family had been middle middle class.

But this…. This was for the 1%. A place he had never even dreamed of seeing.

He looked down at himself again, shabby jeans, black T-shirt and a hand me down leather jacket from his older brother David, which had seen better days.

He sunk down in his seat.

They took another corner and pulled up to the gate. He craned his neck to look out the window glancing up to the large sign hanging over the gate which read.

HOLLYWOOD STUDIOS.

Named for the ancient strip of land which produced many of the early movies when film was in its infancy. Once famous for the land and the people who lived there, it was now famous for being the highest grossing film studio EVER. A powerhouse of film that practically monopolized the world of action. While a lot of people demonized the studio for being a monopoly on film, Adam could see why.

They made some good shit.

The gate buzzed open and they were driven inside. He HAD to get a better look rolling open the skylight and standing to look out the top of the car. Hundreds of people dressed in costumes, carrying props, cameras, equipment. Mouth open like an idiot he stared through open warehouse doors and onto virtual projected sets on which actors stood in full costume, or in motion capture suits. Camera men walked around in massive exoskeletons controlling up to ten cameras at once.

A dog trotted past with a handler, a dog that Vir recognized from plenty of movies in which she had starred tail wagging tongue lolling. He dropped back inside the car with wide eyes staring at Sunny who was also looking out the window with wide eyes.

The car came to a stop towards the end of the strip, but then picked up again rolling into one of the giant warehouses and pulling to  a stop. The engine cut, and the doors opened. He stepped out thanking the Driver.

“Commander Vir! Just who I wanted to see!” He turned just in time to catch Director Ellis, or more like be blinded by him, as he skipped up wearing his strange sequin suit and cat-eye glasses. Instead of going for the handshake the man grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, “It’s so exciting to finally have you here. You will be so excited to see what we have done. Just like you said, being as accurate as possible’ it's been a real challenge, but I assure you, you will be so proud. We have done so much research, and I have talked to experts everywhere” 

A mousy little woman scuttled after him holding two cups of coffee looking frazzled and exhausted as she tried to keep up with her boss.

Members of the crew looked up from where they were standing and a few exclamations of awe went up, and he couldn’t blame them, aliens were pretty cool. Despite Conn being a total asshole, he cut an impressive figure of billowing white ribbon and slow ethereal movement.

The man pulled back eyes widening at Conn, “You will be an absolute bitch to animate,”

“Match his personality.” Sunny quipped stepping out of the car.

She was greeted excessively by the director as well as Krill.

A sizable crowd had gathered, and Adam stepped back intending to allow his non-human friends the attention they deserved.

That’s not exactly what ended up happening. Stepping out of the circle he heard a shriek that made him nearly leap out of his skin. He turned to find a young woman with large glasses wearing a grey suit and pencil skirt. There was a pile of papers and a clipboard on the ground at her feet like she had dropped them.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him mouth open.

“Er…… are you ok?” He ventured leaning down to pick up her papers.

When he stood back up she was still frozen her eyes wide. He offered her papers back.

That broke her from her frozen state but beginning with her hands which started to shake frantically in front of her. The shaking grew wider and wider, her expression grew more excited and she began to leap up and down squealing, “No way, no way…. No way no way no way.” That devolved  until she was simply squealing with excitement. 

Adam stepped back in shock and confusion, “It’s really you I can't believe it!”

She rushed forward arms out then paused, “Can I?” Her expression was so innocent and excited, her eyes so wide that he didn’t know how to respond.

“Er ...sure.”

She nearly broke his back wrapping her arms around him and squealing in delight again knocking her glasses askew. He grunted as the breath was crushed from his lungs. Despite being tiny she was surprisingly strong, and he felt his feet lightening upon the ground hands held out to the side still clutching her clipboard.

She stepped back after a moment with a big smile, her glasses canted at an awkward angle, “Can i get a picture with you.” She begged 

He glanced over his shoulder still not convinced that she hadn’t mistaken him for someone, “Um, Are you sure. I Maybe you have the wrong person.”

She shook her head vigorously giggling, “No, I’d know you anywhere. Commander Vir, the first man to meet sentient life, participated in the Drev war, commanding the first fleet of interstellar ships. You are my HERO.” She looked at him with eyes so wide, so innocent and starstruck that he hardly knew what to say.

He wondered if maybe he was dreaming.

“Picture?” She pleaded

“Um ... uh yeah, sure I guess.” She squealed again this time causing him to drop her clipboard as she grabbed him by the arm pulled him in and whipped out her phone snapping at least ten pictures of them before letting him go. “Mr. Vir it is such an honor.” She was saying, “I’ve read everything about you, all the declassified transmissions. Like that time you saved an alien race from extinction, or that time you ran a marathon on a A-1 death planet, or or like the three times you've saved entire planets.”

“Oh I…. really?”

She nodded, “Yes, Mr. Vir.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “You can just call me Adam.”

He was nearly defined in the next moment as she shrieked again and hugged him.

“What’s your name?”

She put her hands over her mouth eyes wide, “S-samantha, but- but my friends call me Sammy…..You can call me Sammy.” He blinked in confused surprise and a bit of self consciousness feeling himself go a bit red.

 She may have been star struck, but he was sort of struck by her being star struck. This had to be some sort of dream, even more confusing when he realized the circle of people he assumed had been there for his alien companions had ll circled themselves around him. 

Men and women, stage crew, and actors in motion capture suits gathered around wide eyed and smiling.

He spun in a slight circle staring around at all the faces.

A man stepped from the crowd, a young guy in a motion capture suit. He held out a hand, “Commander, Ezra Hemming. I Well I guess I’m the stunt double for…. For your stunt double? Keith Jenning.” 

“So? You’ll be doing all the legwork?”

The young man blushed.” I guess you could say that.” 

Did he seriously seem nervous? It seemed so strange, and all these people were looking at him, approaching him, wanting to talk to him. It was insane, he shook so many hands learned so many names in such a short amount of time. At some point there was a hydraulic hiss, and the crowd around him parted.

A woman walked towards them elevated on a set of robotic stilt legs, wearing a motion capture suit, and an exoskeleton that gave her an extra set of arms. Vir felt his mouth drop open. Rita Ortiz… the penultimate action hero casting choice, and someone he had a boyish crush on for…. Well a couple of years now. 

In her exo suit, she was as tall as sunny, which he assumed was the point, “Commander.” She said politely.

“Ms. Ortiz…. Er…. Can I….. get your autograph.” He stammered out feeling stupid almost immediatly, but to his surprse she broke into a wide smile.

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Make it a deal and trade mine for yours.”

He choked with a rather sporadic laugh not believing her in the slightest.

Some of the crowd finally noticed his alien friends and Ms. Ortiz seemed especially interested in sunny, for obvious reasons. The two stepped up to each other examining the other with a critical eye.

Sunny seemed pleased.

Samantha lurked next to him, and he had a feeling she was trying to be discreet, but it wasn’t working. He was still wigging out about this hardly able to believe it. At some point, someone grabbed him and dragged him towards the director's chair where Ellis was was talking to some of the writers.

He turned in his chair, “Adam…. May I call you Adam, Good, the writers and I were just going over the script, and well we have run into a few snags. You gave us a pretty detailed explanation on some of the things that happened, but this part right here, the part where you lose your leg….. It's very vague.”

Adam shuffled his feet awkwardly glancing over to where Sunny was showing the actress how to more properly move like a Drev. A few of the VFX people were there as well examining her armor, its color and debating how best to reproduce that in post. 

“Well I….. It was taken off during the Drev war.”

“I mean, yeah we got that, and not to push but…. Unless you want us to cut that part out.”

He glanced again towards Sunny.

“I…. its hard to talk about.”

A hand on his shoulder, “I understand, I quite understand….”

He mulled it over for a minute while the writers were talking heart hammering in his chest. He had never told Sunny…. Never really explained about his post traumatic stress related to that incident. Never really mentioned how long it took him to trust her, and he never would. 

He'd never fess up to the nightmares.

Because he didn’t want them to matter anymore.

“I can’t explain it to you but…. I can show you.” The group of them turned almost surprised, and he was honestly surprised at himself too. What he was about to do…. It was a bigger deal than any of them might assume.

“Sunny!” he turned, and the bright blue alien trotted over humming happily the way that Drev did. She seemed so happy, nothing like the creature in his dreams, his friend, his best friend.

“Yes?”

“I…. Well I need to show them how I lost my leg, hard to explain, so I thought we might show them.”

He watched Sunny carefully, and was probably the only one who noticed the slight wilt in her shoulders. The guilt flashing in her gold eyes…. Of course the thing in his dreams would never have felt that way, “Oh ... are you sure.”

He cleared his throat waving it off, “Of course, here.” he stepped forward motioning around the room, “I remember the rocks being sort of like this. There was a shallow sort of bowl like a pocket and some rocks here. There were actually a Tesraki and a rundi soldier right there, and I was over here.”

The crew, following his words began moving around the greenscreen landscape creating the sort of space that he was talking about.

“Now I had one of those older models M-23s pieces of shit, and a knife.” He reached out for the prop weapon offered to him, “And the drev had a spear.” He glanced towards Sunny, who was looking very, very uncomfortable, but someone handed her the prop spear. She looked down at it and swivel it in her hand like the thing was an extension of her body.

She didn’t seem particularly satisfied but didn’t say anything. He moved up onto the fake terrain, and she did the same looking over at him with concern. It was almost as if she knew that even though he had never bothered to tell her. 

He came up one side of the set while she came up the other; she had the spear held out ready, and he had the gun up. Of course, he dropped it on it’s sling when it supposedly overheated, 

He remembered this like it had been yesterday, how the rock had felt under his feet, the panic he had felt for the two defenseless soldiers she was stalking. He remembered panicking when the gun malfunctioned, he remembered how he wasn’t thinking straight. He remembered making the decision that cost him his leg.

He didn’t bother trying to go easy on her, catching her around the neck and raising his hand with the collapsable knife.

The world began to spin, and before his eyes he saw the ash and fire.

He heard the gunfire felt his body moving as it once had. Saw the dark shadow, heard the screaming and felt the hot air over his body. He remembered the knife biting into her skin. He remembered being thrown to the ground.

Set lights flashed around him as he slammed into the floor, padded but still painful as he rolled to the side. Sunny’s foot came down right next to his head as he rolled to the side cutting at her heels.

The creature reached down to grab him, but he rolled to his feet cutting at the hand.

He remembered the sweat trickling down his body from the great heat of the volcanoes. He remembered how the ash had coated the stone making things strangely slippery. He remembered the poorly equipped gear and the oversized shoes.

He remembered slipping backwards landing hard on his back as the spear cut downwards.

He remembered bone cracking and flesh splitting in half.

He braced for pain but none came. The fire died, the ash vanished, and he found himself on the ground hands over his face, a spear tip lightly grazing the outer carapace of his prosthetic leg. Sunny stood over him spear held in one of her lower arms. Though her posture was ready for a fight, her eyes….. So much more expressive than that of the creature he remembered from his vision, looked at him in worry and something that looked like pain.

He lay on the ground looking up at her, at her mercy, just like he had been on that day.

And he knew she wouldn’t hurt him.

She withdrew the spear and stepped back offering one hand to him. 

He didn’t hesitate to take it, and she hauled him to his feet.

Together, they turned to look at the spectators who were looking on in awe,and shock.

Quietly sunny began, “Our orders were to remove their limbs…. In our culture Disability IS death. We thought that simply removing their limbs would stop them…. We were wrong.”

Adam tried to keep his voice light, “I don't remember much, but I crawled about ….50 feet down that hill before someone managed to find me and stabilize me. The leg was completely gone, no hope of reattaching something that’s just gone.”

“That was….. Intense.” Ellis finally cut in, “We should have had some cameras rolling dammit. Can we recreate that!” He began ordering his men around, and for a moment, the two of them were forgotten in the crowd. He stood there quietly noticing on the instant as two pairs of arms wrapped themselves around him. Enveloping him in an armored hug that almost completely encased him…. Safe.

A voice at his ear.

“Don’t EVER make me do that again.”

He placed a hand over hers, “Never, I promise.” 

[lifeisntafantasy]

Useless

TW: Cursing, insults, crying, worrying, shouting.

3rd person p.o.v.

"Why do you keep shutting down everything I come up with?" Roman all but shouted at Logan.

The four main sides were all gathered in Thomas's living room after being summoned by their host to come up with something for his channel. They were already working on a Sanders Sides video, but Thomas wanted to post a video in between to satisfy his viewers until they finish the Sanders Sides video.

"I don't shut down everything, but I'm shutting down these ideas because they're delusional," Logan sighed loudly. "Thomas cannot make a video about buying a mansion, seeing as he doesn't have enough money to afford it. The same thing applies to buying a private jet, a sports car, and all other frivolous items you've suggested. Thomas being able to afford such things is improbable, and therefore useless."

Roman was fed up with Logan constantly shooting down his ideas that be worked hard to come up with. It was quite infuriating, and Roman was not going to deal with it anymore. So he shouted the first thing that came to his head.

"You're the useless one!" Roman growled, and almost immediately regretted it as he saw the look of hurt slip over Logan's face. He knew Logan already doubted how much Thomas needed him, but his pride would not let him back down. "All you do is shoot down Thomas's ideas! You're not beneficial in any way to him! You're not letting him achieve anything he dreams of doing, and you're only hurting him! Thomas doesn't need you!" Roman was panting from the amount of emotions he was feeling.

Logan's eyes shone with tears as he sunk out into his room, unable to endure the insults directed at him anymore.

Roman looked at the other males in the room, at staring at him in anger and horror. He took a deep breath and looked at his hands clenched at his sides, thinking about what he said.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit," Roman mumbled then looked back at the others. "I just fucked up really bad, didn't I?"

To Roman's surprise, Thomas responded first, his voice shaking in anger and sound more enraged than the creative side had ever heard from the usually cheerful man.

"Roman, how dare you say that to him?! You are all important and needed parts of me! You better go fucking apologize to him! What you said was just awful, and I never, ever want to find out you said something like that to any of the sides ever again, especially Logan! You know how useless he feels already! Go apologize!" Thomas shouted, his face red with fury. He turned to Patton and Virgil and took a deep breath. "Can you two go with him please? Make sure Logan is okay. Once you make sure he's okay bring him back here, please."

All three of the sides nodded, Roman rushing to leave, the other two following behind. Roman rushed to the dark blue door that was across the hallway from his own bedroom entrance.

"Logan? Are you okay? I'm sorry about what I said. I'm so fucking sorry. None of it was true. I was just angry. I'm so, so sorry." Roman knocked on the door after not hearing anything. "Logan, are you okay?"

There was still not response, and the other two sides that were standing there were also getting nervous.

Roman sigh and grabbed a bobby pin from his hair. The door was locked and the quickest way to get it to open was to pick the lock. As soon as he heard the lock click, he pushed the door open, quickly scanning the room for Logan.

Apparently Virgil found Logan first. The latter was curled up under his desk, legs folded against his chest in the fetal position, head resting on his knees, and the quiet sobs were heard.

Virgil motioned for Roman to go sit next to Logan.

Roman tentatively sat next to Logan and put a hand on his shoulder. Logan jumped and glared at the fanciful man next to him.

"Go away, Roman. I do not need to hear you telling me how useless and not needed I am," Logan said, sniffling and putting his head back in his knees, his next words coming out muffled. "I know it is true, but I do not wish to have it figuratively rubbed in my face."

Roman took a deep breath, "Logan, I did not mean a single word I said. You are so important to help Thomas function. He wouldn't be who he is without you. I deeply regret what I said to you while I was angry. I hope you know that we all think you're incredibly important and needed. I sincerely apologize for making you think otherwise."

Logan didn't move. For a moment all the sides heard were small sniffles coming from the logical trait.

Roman sighed, "I understand if you don't forgive me. What I did was truly awful. But I do hope you know that I really didn't mean all those crude things, and I mean this apology with all of my heart. I'll leave you with Virgil and Patton, so they can hopefully cheer you up better then I can."

Roman took a deep breath and left the room. He let a few tears slip from beneath his eyelids, then stopped himself. He didn't deserve to cry. He's the one who caused Logan pain, and if Logan didn't end up forgiving Roman, he understood completely.

Roman rose up into Thomas's living room once again, this time to find Thomas sitting on the sofa simply waiting for his logical side's return.

Thomas looked Roman straight in the eyes.

"I assume you've apologized to Logan for the awful things you said?" The host questioned.

Roman nodded, "I did. I don't think he forgives me, and that's fine. What I did was terrible, and if I were him I wouldn't forgive me either."

Thomas sighed patted the seat next to him for Roman to sit, and Roman quietly obliged.

"Is Logan okay?" Thomas asked softly.

"I hope so. Patton and Virgil are there trying to cheer him up," Roman sighed and placed his head in his hands. "I truly feel terrible for what I did."

"I know you do, Bud. Do you want to help me set up a blanket fort for when the others come back? Then we can all have a movie night and, hopefully, calm everyone down from what happened."

Roman nodded and they set off to work.

They finished their blanket fort just in time for when Logan, Patton, and Virgil arrived.

Thomas smiled at Logan softly.

"How are you feelin', Buddy?" He asked kindly.

Logan sighed, "Tired, but slightly better than before, I suppose."

"I'm glad. Are you down with watching some movies in this blanket fort with us? We can watch whatever you would like, and this fort is pretty awesome, if I do say so myself," Thomas smiled wider.

Logan chucked and nodded, "Watching movies does sound satisfactory. May we watch Big Hero 6?"

Thomas nodded and quickly went to set up the movie.

Logan turned to look at Roman, who hadn't spoken since Logan arrived. Logan sighed when he saw how guilty Roman was feeling.

"Roman, as much as I hate what you said to me, I accept your apology. Although I do not forgive you yet, I am glad you realize what you did was wrong and I am willing to try to forgive you with some time," Logan said.

Roman smiled, "I am so glad you accept my apology!"

Logan nodded with a small smile and went to sit down in the blanket fort with the other sides. Usually he would find such things childish and not needed, but right now he was tired and it looked comfortable. He was also happy Thomas and Roman went through the trouble to make this for him, to make him feel better.

Roman sat down outside the blanket fort. He didn't want to hurt Logan more. Logan said he accepts Roman's apology, but Roman wasn't forgiven. And he understood why he wasn't forgiven. So Roman decided to stay outside the fort.

Logan frowned when he saw Roman sit down outside the fort. He didn't want Roman to exclude himself for Logan's sake. Although Roman didn't say why he sat outside the fort, Logan knew it was because he still felt bad and didn't want to upset Logan, and Logan didn't accept that. Logan was fine, and Roman deserved to be in the fort, which was super comfortable.

Logan sighed and crawled next to Roman. As he got next to Roman he sat down, crossing his legs.

Roman looked at him, confusion written all over his face, and he said, "What are you doing? Why aren't you in the fort? We made it for you to sit in."

Logan smiled a small bit and said, "If you are not going in the fort, neither am I."

Roman only looked more confused now.

"Why?"

"Because you helped make the fort, and you shouldn't have to sit next to it. It is extremely comfortable, and out here is not nearly as nice. You should come in the fort," Logan said quietly as the movie started.

Roman sighed, "Fine. If I go in the fort, you will, too?"

Logan nodded, and Roman sighed once again as he crawled into the fort. Logan smiled and crawled in after him, settling down next to the imaginative trait, and watching the movie.

Um that's the end. Was this good? No. Am I proud of it? Also no. Will I ever be proud of my writing? Also probably no.

Anyways, here you go! Hope you enjoyed!

#i forgot how to do the keep reading thingy lol #logan sanders #logan angst #ts logan #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ts patton #ts sanders sides #ts roman #ts sides #thomas sanders sides #thomas sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides

[gayovwimagines]

Hi!! How would you feel about a dub con request for Y!Moira finally cornering her smol!obsession and getting them worked up and flustered before just having her way with them?? I just... Oh goodness I want that woman to pin me down and do terrible things to me and leave me overestimated and just craving her constant touch. Unnff 🤤

Notable tags! Dubious Consent and Yandere!Moria. Dubious consent is due to sex mist. Oh, and Blackwatch!Moira. 

“Hello there~ Do come in.” Moira spins around on her stool. Nonchalant. As if she had naturally noticed you walk in. Not eagerly watching the door, both her hands curled into a fist on the counter. Work in front of her, work all around her. Moira can’t pay any of it any due attention. Absolutely was not carefully monitoring the surveillance cameras on her personal holopad, clearance she isn’t authorized to have. Watching you walk down the halls, stopping to chat here and there. Moira made spiteful mental notes of the people daring to keep you from reaching her at the agreed upon time.  

“Hey!” You greet her back with a nervous grin. “You need me for some testing?”

“Yes, that is what my voice message conveyed.” Moira motions you over to her station with one elegant swoop of her hand, her slender fingers curling in elegantly, one after the other. She points to the stool to her left. “Have a seat.”

You plop down on the seat, as commanded, and patiently wait for Moira to tell you why she has called you here. You joined Overwatch a few months back. Agreed to test some of Moira’s… tamer creations and experimentations. In exchange for a more than just a decent amount of extra cash.

Moira has no problems with prolonged silence. Almost never feels the need to rush anything. She takes her sweet time poking and swiping at her holopad. Making doubly sure the doors to her lab are locked, and her work status is set to ‘do not disturb’, for any of her fellow peers who may feel the pressing need to bother her while she’s in the middle of snaring the only thing she’s been able to think about lately.

Moira’s cool, collected. It takes a lot to make the woman sweat. You, however, are already squirming around in your seat. Her vibe is palpable, you can’t make heads nor tails of it. Your gaze darts to her lap when she cocks her head to the side, assessing you unlike any other specimen she has gotten her hands on. It’s a look that makes your spine tingle. Gives you an abysmal feeling, like you’re about to be taken down by a predator peeking from the tall grass.

“Alright.” Moira puts her holopad away. Her tall, slender legs easily allow her to stand gracefully from her stool. “Allow me to check your vitals first, then we’ll get started.”

Moira’s no medical professional, though she could be one if she found any real interest in the practice. Smart enough and educated enough as she is.

She takes an old-fashioned stethoscope from one of her many neatly organized drawers, an ear thermometer, and a blood pressure cuff.

“Why am I here today?” you ask nervously, such an easily spooked girl you are.  

…Because I want you here. I desire you unlike any other. Because my fantasies of you have kept me up at night. I can’t stand it any longer. I need to know how soft you are, what you smell like during the throws of passion, what your lips taste of.

“I have a mist that needs testing.” She walks over to you with the blood pressure cuff in hand. Gestures to your arm and you offer it up to her.

“Oh…” Moira catches the visible lump and hears your audible gulp.

“Never fear.” She rubs your thigh assuredly, lingering longer than what is appropriate. Goes back to gingerly wrapping the cuff around your arm. Presses a button and it begins to tighten. “It’s simply a new version of an already existing and thriving product.” She rolls her ‘r’ and it sends a cascade of tingles down your spine, causing you to shiver like a cold gust of wind had run through you.  

“Oh, okay.” Nothing about your tone says that you trust her reassurance. “Was it developed by you?”

Dumb question. Coming from you, Moira answers nicely. “Of course, who else?”

You shrug. Moira carries on. Noting that your blood pressure is a bit higher than it should be. It doesn’t take much to understand why. She stands close. And holds onto the back of your neck firmly in her hand, while she takes your temperature. Finds it to be satisfactory. She moves onto your heartbeat. By far her favorite part. Getting that near to your chest, makes her feel young again. Like a horny, immature teenager getting so very close to something that is titillating and intimate and secret. You’re obviously a person who feels your body is something to be covered, and not something that is shared with everyone. You refuse to even change in front of fellow agents in the locker rooms…

…It’s maddening.  

She’d know. On a day, about a month back, she looked forward to casually finishing her workout at the exact same time you finished yours. Casually she followed you into the locker room, hoping. Hoping to get a glimpse of the body she’s been building up in her dreams. Only for you to remove your things from your locker and head into a curtained shower to change. Leaving Moira disappointed and heartbroken, robbed of her chance to take in you in all your bared glory.

Moira slips into the neck of your t-shirt. Presses the cold round hearing piece against your equally as chilly skin. Goosebumps rise on her arms before she even hears your heartbeat, added icing on the cake. It’s hypnotizing, the steady drumbeat of your heart. She closes her eyes feeling her own heartbeat rise just as yours too picks up its pace.

“Moira?” you whisper, alarm apparent in your tone.

When she opens her eyes, she finds that she’s leaning for forehead against your temple. Her hand and slender fingers dancing along the line of your spine. The air in the room has become thick and stagnant. And the listening piece has drifted downwards, along with her hand that is still holding it. Her pinky grazes across your nipple, Moira’s core jumps at the contact.

You gaze up at her with glassy, fearful eyes. Cheeks painted a rich hue of red. Heart hammering away at your ribcage.  

Moira removes the stethoscope. “My apologies, my head took a sudden leave.”

Giggling nervously, you shift. Squeeze your thighs together and readjust your t-shirt attempting and failing to hide how hard your nipples are now. “That’s okay, it happens.”  

You’re perfect, despite the high blood pressure, and ready to get started. So is Moira, she softly claps her hands together. “Up on the examination table.” She points toward the usual room.  

You hop up. Follow Moira to a separated examination room within the lab. The walls are made of smart glass; will darken and make the room private upon request. Not something that should be necessary today. But most definitely has been helpful, and will continue to be so in the future.  

As you climb onto the examination table, you trip over the stirrups. Moira adjusts the back until it’s just shy of a ninety-degree angle.

“Comfortable?” Moira drawls.

You nod. “Yes, thank you.”

Moira leaves the room momentarily to retrieve the aforementioned mist from a securely locked holding cabinet. She may have told you a small fib. The mist is not new, nor recently re-engineered. No need to fix what isn’t broken. It’d be illegal, if it were to ever get to the government. The public’s opinion would be sour on it. Moira supplies it to clients mostly by word of mouth that runs rapid in the type of social groups this kind of mist is most popular in, with a substantial price tag.  

“Alright,” Moira says as she reenters the room. She pushes down on the cap, twists and the cap is released. “Take a few breaths in through your nose,” she commands, enjoying the way your chest rises as you breathe. Her adrenaline drip switches on as she hovers the bottle over your face. Heart racing. Can’t wait to witness the effects. She may be starting to sweat. “On a count of 3, take a big breath… 1… 2… 3…”

She pushes down on the nozzle. A dense mist escapes, blanketing your face as you inhale through your nose. Moira’s whisks her face away. Realizing that, in her excitement, she forgot to be thorough. With no mask on her face, she risks encountering some second-hand side effects.  

With the knowledge that the mist should be taking its course quickly, she recaps the bottle and stashes it away inside her lab coat pocket. She grips each of your legs individually, rolling her shoulders as she goes, fingers digging. Gradually she leans into your personal space, pupils blown. “Tell me,” she croons. “How are you feeling?”

You gulp, darling eyelashes fluttering as you try and remember how to speak. “Ah, um.” You lick your lips and now they’re shiny, and all Moira can stare at. “Hot… I feel hot…”  

Moira hums so low it sounds like a purr. “Tell me more. Be descriptive.”

“I—I… um…” You look down your body but struggle to get past the embarrassment of what’s happening to you there.  

“Don’t be shy.” She leans in more. Her hips wedge between your legs. The closer she gets, the farther your legs spread. “Remember, I’m a professional.”

You grasp onto her coat as she aligns her crotch with your own and presses firmly. You throw your head back, gasping for air. Hips rolling into her own. Not even aware of it. “Oh God, I’m so hot,” you whine pitifully.  

“Allow me to help you with that.” Moira snakes her hands under your shirt. Follows the unique curve of your hips all the way up into your waist, eventually pulling your t-shirt over your head. All with you mewling with every inch of skin that she caressed. She steps back, in order to rid you of your shoes and leggings. Stumbles over her own foot, the misstep making her realize just how much her head is spinning. Just…

…Look at you. Already living up to and far beyond her fantasies. Cold sweat trickling down your temples. Looking at Moira with two of the prettiest fuck-me eyes she’s ever seen. You can’t seem to stop biting your lips, so they’re starting to swell; two puffy kissable buds. Dainty hands opening and closing, searching for anything they can cling to. Hips, on the constant move.

“Exquisite,” she purrs.  

Your underwear is nothing special. A run of the mill bra with sensible multicolored cotton panties. But oh– are those panties soaked and is that bra just a tug away from revealing the heaving breasts beneath it.

Nestled back in between your legs, Moira throws off her lab coat, and drapes herself over your smaller stature, completely engulfing you. You cling to her, desperately wanting her weight and her warmth to envelop you. Thinks on saying something that will keep up the façade, but decides that the situation is well beyond pretending now. Instead, Moira decides to give that busy mouth some attention. Licking, biting, gasping, leaving it wide open— baby girl clearly has an oral fixation.

Slowly she feeds you her fingers. You close your lips around them, sucking while Moira moves them in and out languidly. She dives in a little deeper, causing you to gag. But with the gag, comes a full body moan. So, Moira keeps on doing it. You close your eyes, really getting into it. Cradling and curling your tongue around her fingers. Eagerly take another finger into your mouth. It stretches your mouth open in a lewd way and gives Moira’s core something more to get jumpy about.    

The sight is lovely and the sounds you’re making are musical, but she needs to taste that slutty mouth. She slowly removes her fingers, trailing lines of saliva down your chin and down into your neck where she holds you down. When she kisses you, it’s consuming and a lot all at once. But it is just what you need right now. Tender pecks wouldn’t be satisfactory to you, something she can heap upon you later. Here and now, she invades your mouth with both her own moans of pleasure and her long, skilled tongue. Sucking and nipping at your lips that are so clearly unused to having so much devotion.

Still holding your neck firmly, Moira slips her other arm between you. Down into your underwear, flooded with your arousal. You stop kissing her, but that doesn’t mean she stops kissing you. Your breath stolen away by how relieving Moira’s touch is, simply resting on top your engorged clit. Your eyes glaze over with an impeccable stupefied sheen. She rolls her fingers over your highly sensitive nub, as you seize up, latching onto her shirt dangerously tight. Seems pop, she swears she hears something tear.

When you finally get your breath back, your ministrations are weak to the ears but consistent. A small choked whimper with every breath. A few curses sprinkled in between your attempts to keep kissing her back. The overwhelming sensations take you away every time, and even manage to steal your lips away from her. You throw your head back, hands lurching to grasp onto the sides of the examination chair, back arching more than it ever has.

A problem, with a simple solution. She’ll just have to ravish your neck then.

“I’m gonna—” You stop to catch your breath. “I’m gonna cum!”

“Go on then,” she states coolly. Moira latches onto your neck, treating the soft skin there just as rudely as she did your delicate lips, and rubs your clit with new vigor.

You go silent for a moment before it all hits you at once. An orgasm that you feel all the way from the top of your head to your curling toes. Unable to comprehend that you are experiencing the best orgasm you’ve ever had. All consuming pleasure that leaves your body weak. Complete satisfaction takes over for a blissful, precious few moments where you can catch your breath and maybe have a chance to think a little clearer. But it’s gone in a flash, all that agonizing want and desire comes back full force. And your body is in desperate carnal need once again.        

Once your body stops writhing, Moira rears back. Somewhere amidst all the commotion, your bra straps fell to the wayside. She grabs it at the middle and gives it a good tug. It slips down with no problem, exposing your breasts to Moira’s mercy. You will be leaving this room with both your nipples thoroughly abused and your breasts marked. She must know, if, in your current state, she can make you cum, simply by overstimulating them. But… for now… she has other curiosities that are pressing.

Moira leaves you for a moment. Having a destination, a… drawer in mind. But needs to take a moment just to fall back against the counter, housing said drawer, so she can shove her hand into her own underwear, and give her throbbing clit some of the attention it’s been urgently screaming out for. You pout when you see it, jealous of the attention you’re not getting.    

Moira nods towards your crotch. “Don’t leave yourself wanting.”

Your eyes light up, suddenly remembering that touching yourself is a thing. Immediately you dive between your thighs. Rub your clit and grasp onto a breast. Groping the meat of it and tweaking your nipple rudely.

“Look at me,” Moira demands. The way you snap to her attention does something to make her weak in the knees. Your eyes were trained on your own nipple rolling between your fingers. As nice as that is, she wants to look you in your eyes while she gets herself off.

It happens for her faster than it typically would. It must either be you, or she got a small dose of that mist. She clings to the counter for purchase, leans all her weight back into it as her knees threaten to buckle. She moans lowly, falling silent in the moment when the pleasure crashing through her is too much for her to be able to breathe at the same time. “Yess,” she hisses, as the intensity in her body starts to dissipate. She milks her orgasm of every last little pang and shock it had left, softly rubbing until she was finally satisfied. Removing her hand for her underwear, she spins around, leaving her pants undone and hooks a finger under the handle of the drawer she had in mind.      

“How long does this… this…” You gasp, struggling to find a word to describe what is happening to you. Sex mist, plain and simple. The best on the market. “…Mist usually last?”

Moira’s taken aback. You managed to form a coherent sentence. Shocking. “The effects typically wear off within 4 to 6 hours.”

“Oh my God,” you gasp.

“Don’t worry,” Moira assures as she pulls open the drawer she had in mind, it slides open smoothly. Neatly lined from front to back with medical grade dildoes of various sizes. She ponders on which one she should use on you. Looks back and once again lays eyes upon your dripping cunt, turns her attention back to the drawer and grabs, not the biggest one, but one that would still be described as “huge”. She grasps it at the base, takes it out, and shoves her hips against the drawer to shut it. Showing you what she has in store for you she croons, “I’m here for you, acushla~”

#moira x reader #yandere!moira #yandere overwatch #dubious consent #overwatch fanfic

[luminous-grace]

for the trope mashup: 11. Fantasy/Magic + 34. Hurt/Comfort :D

Eep. This is over two months late but I did get to it so like. Better late than never, right? Thank you @casbeanwrites, for your endless patience even though I’m almost 100% sure you forgot about this because, like I said, it’s two months late. Anyways, here you go. Please enjoy… whatever this is.

Panting, Dean weaves through the forest.

Cas? Could use a little help here, buddy.

I will be there momentarily. Please do try your best not to get killed.

“No promises,” Dean mutters darkly, narrowly ducking under a wayward branch. The shouting behind him grows closer, and Dean swears. Catching sight of a break in the trees, he be-lines for it, bursting out in the open air with a rush of relief. It’s short lived, however, as he comes face to face with a wide open clearing and exactly nowhere to hide.

“Well. Shit.” Dean spins around, one hand drifting to the knife in his belt and the other dropping his bag protectively behind him.

After a moment, his three pursuers burst out of the woods, looking mean and very pissed off. Slowly, they advance towards him, and Dean sends another urgent message Castiel’s way. His response comes in the form of exasperated concern blasting through their mental link, and Dean winces, shaking his head to clear it.

Stalling it is.

“Alright, fellas.” Dean says, raising his free hand placatingly. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

One of bandits, Dean’ll call him Baldy, snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” He turns to elbow the guy next to him. “Grab the bag.”

His buddy steps forward, snatching the bag from where Dean had dropped it. As he retreats back to his friends, he shoots a foot out at the back of Dean’s knees, knocking his legs out from under him. With a grunt, Dean stumbles to the ground before glaring up at them.

“I said,” Dean says, a little louder this time, craning his head skyward. “That we can do this the easy way or the hard-”

With a sound like a thunder crash, a creature the size of a house barrels out of the clouds above them. Terrified, the three men grasp for their weapons but they couldn’t have hoped to be fast enough. Before they can even blink, a massive foot shoots out, effortlessly pinning all three of the bandits to the ground.

Wings buffeting the ground as he steadies himself, Castiel glowers down at them. His eyes are a bright, otherworldly blue, the only source of light against a sea of black scales. Those in turn are a dark, polished obsidian, seeming to blur together despite the bright afternoon light and making it impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Dean grins.

“Fellas”, he says amiably, climbing to his feet. “Meet the hard way“

You’re ridiculous. Castiel grumbles, for Dean’s ears only. And for future, if you intend to end up two-hundred paces south of where we had originally planned, I would appreciate an advanced notice.

“Fine, okay.” Dean mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “May have miscalculated a bit, that’s my bad. Can we focus here?”

Your bad, huh? That’s a novel sentiment. Glowing blue eyes swivel back towards the terrified bandits. Castiel cocks his head, something like amusement coloring his voice. Widening his thoughts to include the men in question, he asks: Should I eat them?

Dean watches in satisfaction as the men visibly pale, seeming to shrink under Castiel’s penetrating gaze.

Dean considers for a minute. “Nah,” he says, finally. “They can run home back to their families, talk about the big scary dragon roaming around, like anyone’ll believe ‘em. Maybe make them piss their pants a little. The usual.”

Fine. Castiel rumbles, and this thought Dean knows is just for him. But I’ll have you know that I’ve had considerably less fun since you showed up.

“Love you too, babe.” Dean says, just to see the split second of utter confusion on the bandits’ faces, their eyes shooting between him and Castiel as if they can’t decide which of them is more terrifying.

As if to help answer their question, Castiel leans down until his snout is inches from the leader, the man going cross eyed trying to keep him in focus. Slowly, Castiel starts to growl, the rumble of it quickly building to a crescendo that drowns out everything around them. His lips curl back to reveal blue flames that spill out of the side of his mouth, curling along his jaw.

I would run now, little ones. Castiel says, raising his foot just slightly.

They don’t need telling twice.

Dean doubles over laughing at the sight of three grown men stumbling over themselves to get as far away as possible. Castiel huffs a breath through his nose, tail flicking in amusement as he watches the bandits disappear over the horizon.

“Think that scared ‘em off for the next decade or so?” Dean asks, brushing dirt of his pants walking over to retrieve the bag Baldy had conveniently left behind.

You’re being too conservative. I’d say twenty is more than likely. Castiel butts him gently with the side of his head. Need a lift?

“Hell yes,” Dean enthuses, scrambling up into the hollow space where Castiel’s neck meets his back.

With a rush of air that buffets all the trees around them, Castiel pushes off from the ground. Once airborne, Dean sighs, stretching out to press his face to the warms scales of Castiel’s neck.

“Missed you,” he murmurs. The sound is lost to beating of Castiel’s wings, but Dean knows from the contended rumble in Castiel’s chest that he heard him.

—

They make it home in record time, Dean somehow managing not to fall asleep and slip off mid-flight. Sliding down from Castiel’s neck, Dean regards their little home fondly, tucked away in the side of a conveniently secluded mountain. It’s small, most rooms consisting of caves Castiel had hollowed out himself, and it’s filled with a collection of odds and ends that Castiel fell in love with and acquired through years. (Himself included, Dean thinks with more than a little amusement.)

To one side there’s a library, complete with the fruits of centuries of Castiel’s labors. Adjoined to it is a kitchen, added later to Dean’s delight and Castiel’s trepidation. Finally, tucked further inside is the bedroom, or what passes for a bedroom when its original owner is a centuries old mythical creature. When Dean had first arrived it was just a pile of soft mosses and other flora that Castiel had seemed content to lounge around on. Then Dean had started sneezing within ten feet of it, and adjustments had to be made. It’s since been converted to a real king size bed, acquired from somewhere Dean really doesn’t want to think too hard about, and the nest of blankets, pillows, and other soft fabrics Castiel managed to procure makes it a fair compromise. All things considered, it’s not a bad place to spend the rest of your life.

There’s a rustling sound behind him, like a thousand wings flapping all at once, and Dean snaps out of his daydream, turning to face his husband.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, as he takes him in. Even after all this time, the fact that this is his life still renders him somewhat breathless. Castiel might be two stories tall with the power to scare entire kingdoms into submission, but it’s Cas who has the perpetual bed-head and quiet smile, the piercing blue eyes that never manage to quite lose that otherworldly blue. Currently, he’s also very naked, so that doesn’t hurt either.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at the blatant once over.

“Hello, Dean,” he rumbles, leaning in for a kiss that Dean returns eagerly.

“Missed me too, huh?” Dean says when he pulls back, grinning.

“I should think that would be obvious,” Castiel says, like that’s not something he could or should be embarrassed about.

Dean smiles at him fondly for a moment, before abruptly remembering the point of the entire ordeal. “Wait,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Before we get side-tracked. I got your stuff back.”

Reaching behind him, he passes the bag to Castiel, who visibly brightens.

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel says, the unfiltered joy in his voice never failing to make Dean blush.

“Yeah, sure thing.” Dean scratches at the back of his neck self-consciously. “Don’t think I was able to get all of ‘em, but I figured some were better than none.”

“This is perfect.” Opening the bag, Castiel carefully removes the contents to reveal several black, glittering scales. Individually, he turns each one over in his hands, examining them closely for damage. Presumably deeming them satisfactory, he brushes past Dean, heading over to a box near the corner where he reverently deposits each one.

Dean frowns slightly, watching the entire process. “I gotta say I don’t know what the big deal is. It’s not like we aren’t tripping over those every three feet in here. What’s it matter if some goons want to make off with a few?”

“It’s difficult to explain.” Castiel says, closing the lid of the box carefully and making his way back over. “These scales come from me and by extension they are a part of me. They contain trace amounts of my power which, in the wrong hands, could prove disastrous. Also,” he adds as an afterthought, “I don’t care for anyone but you touching them. It feels…” he frowns, searching for the word before finally settling on: “Wrong.”

Dean grins. “Shucks, Cas. You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

Castiel shoots him an dry look. “My apologies. I didn’t intend for my basic physiological explanation to be misconstrued as a compliment.”

Dean snickers, reaching up to begin the process of shedding his travel gear. When he raises his arms above his head to shrug off his coat, however, a sudden burst of pain has him gasping. Bringing a hand to his side, he grimaces when it comes away bloody.

Castiel is on him in a flash.

“They hurt you.” With a noise that can only be classified as a growl, Castiel drops to his knees, jerking Dean’s coat out of the way in an attempt to locate the issue.

“It’s fine,” Dean lies, wincing as Castiel’s gentle prodding proves fruitful. “The bleeding’s mostly stopped. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Quickly and efficiently, Castiel tugs off Dean’s outer coat before divesting him of his shirt and undershirt in rapid succession. Carefully, he peels off Dean’s slipshod bandage job and stills at the sight of what lies beneath.

“That bad, huh?” Dean asks, weakly.

He’d caught a glance of it earlier, having ducked behind a tree to hastily place a field dressing. It’s a long cut, starting near the top of his ribcage and traveling to end somewhere above his navel. It had seemed fairly shallow at the time, although- Dean supposes- being hopped up on adrenaline likely hadn’t helped with accuracy. But if Castiel’s continued silence is any answer, apparently it’s a lot worse than it he’d thought.

Using the small basin of water they usually keep in the kitchen (and when did that get there?) Castiel carefully dabs at the wound, cleaning it up to the best of his ability.

Despite himself, Dean flinches, and the look Castiel levels him with could make armies run screaming. The only thing keeping Dean standing is knowing that the rage isn’t directed at him.

“Don’t move.” Castiel orders. “I’m going to get more bandages.” Dutifully, Dean stays as still as he can, and it’s not until Castiel is once again kneeling in front of him that he finds his voice.

“Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not worth it.”

“I disagree.” Castiel says, voice still dangerously calm, but Dean sees his eyes start to glow in that familiar way that means he’s about to start shifting forms and wreaking havoc. “I think the look on their faces as I tear their limbs off one by one will be very worth it.”

“Look, Cas. I’m sorry-“

“Don’t-” Castiel cuts himself off, gritting his teeth. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“Okay, but… I could have been more careful.” Tentatively, Dean brings a hand down to rest carefully against the side of Castiel’s cheek, relieved when he turns his face into it.

“You’ve never been careful in your life.” Castiel sighs, somewhat ruefully. “It would be foolish of us both to assume you’d start now.”

Dean smiles softly, and after a moment Castiel returns it. “Sounds about right.”

The silence that falls is gentler now, less fraught with worry. Dean watches idly as Castiel works, meticulously stitching up the wound and applying more bandages with the experience of someone who’s done it many times before.

“You know that, out of all humanity, yours is the only opinion I care about,” Castiel says, abruptly, and Dean blinks at the sudden change in subject. “And you also know that I would happily raze entire kingdoms in your name.”

Uncertain as to where this is headed, Dean nods quietly, shifting to card his fingers gently through Castiel’s hair.

”Therefore,” Castiel continues, “if it would make you feel better to let those-”, he breaks off, growling out a world Dean doesn’t understand but assumes form the tone is the highest of insults, “-go, then I shall defer to your judgement.”

“Thanks, babe.” Dean says, eventually, struggling to keep his smile in check and missing by half a mile. “I appreciate you not smiting the entire rest of my species because they were mean to me.”

Castiel nods seriously. “However,” he warns, voice severe again. “If they come back I reserve the right to deal with them as I please.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Dean agrees. Sliding his hand down, he taps Castiel on the cheek. “Alright, babe: how’s it looking?”

“I am almost finished.” Carefully, Castiel tapes the last bandage in place, smoothing it out with his thumb so it rests flat. Rocking back on his heels, he takes a moment to appraise his work. After a moment he nods, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Dean’s side. A quick burst of otherworldly magic shoots out at the touch, jumpstarting the healing process, and Dean shivers for reasons definitely (mostly) medically related. Seemingly satisfied, Castiel rises to his feet with a grunt, drifting comfortably back into Dean’s space until his face is only inches away.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Dean hears himself ask, voice surprisingly hoarse.

Castiel tilts his head. “You’ll live,” he says, solemnly, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

“However,” Castiel continues. “I regret to say you will be horribly disfigured. I am afraid I’ll have to leave you for a more appealing mate.”

Gaping, Dean can only stare at him. After a moment, he catches sight of the slight uptick of Castiel’s mouth and everything clicks into place. Cackling, he reaches up to drop his arms around Castiel’s neck.

“Was that a joke?” Dean asks, unable to keep the delight out of his voice. “A genuine human interaction? You’re getting better at this.”

Castiel brightens, his entire demeanor shifting as he moves to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist. “Was it adequate?” He asks, somewhat shyly. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Your expertise is astounding.” Dean says. “Let me give it a test run.”

Leaning forward, Dean noses at the side of Castiel’s jaw, sliding up until his mouth is ghosting across his ear.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” Dean breathes, watching in satisfaction as Castiel shivers. “Would you be willing to let me make it up to you?”

Castiel smirks at him, eyes dark. This, at least, is a human interaction in which he’s very well-versed. Dean lets himself be tugged into the bedroom, and he’s still snickering up until the moment Castiel pushes him (gently) down onto the edge of the bed before unceremoniously crawling into his lap.

Dean lets out a sigh, hands coming up to settle firmly on Castiel’s hips, tugging him in closer. Any lingering amusement fading to be replaced with something slow and warm that builds low in his gut and spreads its way through the rest of him.

Reaching forward, Castiel fits his hand around Dean’s jaw, thumbing distracting at the corner of his mouth. Then, he leans in close, knocking their foreheads together:

“I’m sure I could be persuaded.”

.

.

.

.

.

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed!): @mishtho, @sudo-apt-get-destiel, @charmedbycastiel, @feraladoration

#casbeanwrites #casbean #my fic #deancas fic #prompts #prompt fic

[woo-svt]

Figure It Out - [FOUR]

You really don’t understand how you’re supposed to find your soulmate.

  ⤳ Jaebum x Reader (Soulmate!AU)   ⤳ Fluff, Angst

☞   [ONE] [TWO] [THREE] [FIVE]

The next week following your intimate encounter with Jaebum left you feeling anxious, to say the least.

After your abrupt exit that fateful morning, you made your way home feeling extremely thankful Jaebum had no way to contact you other than through BamBam. From the moment you saw BamBam’s name light up on the phone, your own emotions were too much to deal with, but above all, you were confused. 

The very first time you met Jaebum something about him had been off-putting, you, of course, pinning it down to his cold gaze from across the room. Your next encounter with him, at the club along with his friends, was less than ideal for two people who had already found their soulmates. Your excuse? The alcohol, of course. So that leaves your third and last encounter, at Jaebum’s apartment. Your actions there were completely unacceptable and you were left thinking for an excuse. Was it the wine? You would like to think so, but you knew well enough you did not drink enough to fog your brain of thinking. 

Not finding a logical reason for what has happened between you both, you simply tried to move on. Trying to push the thoughts as far away from the boy as you possibly could. Unfortunately, you found it harder than expected. 

With BamBam still doing the bare minimum to talk to you, you found your distractions in your friends. Spending almost all your free time with them, it was a great way to forget your whole predicament- mostly. 

You currently sit with Mark, cozying up on his couch watching a boring sitcom as you waited for Ji Hyun to return from work so you all could go out to meet up with some other friends. 

The show displaying across the tv comes to an intimate scene between the two characters and at the thought, you can’t help but have your mind wander in the sleepy haze you're in. You groggily voice your questions to Mark who sits beside you, lazily scrolling through his phone, “What’s your first time like? With your soulmate, I mean.” At your tired, quiet voice Mark looks at you to make sure you were actually speaking to him, “Like, sleeping with them?” He asks, taking in the scene on the tv to guess what you were referring to. You nod, he looks at you for a second, “Have you...not slept with BamBam yet?” He asks cautiously. “I mean it’s okay if you haven’t,” he rushes, scared he’s made you feel bad, “It’s just most people rush to be with their soulmates by the time they find them.”

You don’t even feel embarrassed or ashamed of his question, you shake your head, “We’ve only hung out twice if you could even call it that. I don’t even talk to him.” Your friend lets out a grunt averting his eyes from you, “So, what is it like?” you ask again. 

Mark laughs, taking a breath before beginning his explanation. “Well, with other people, you know, it’s good...” he chuckles almost bashfully and rubs the back of his neck. “But when it’s with your soulmate,” he pauses licking his lips “It’s amazing.”

He snorts at his own less than satisfactory explanation, “I mean, everything feels good. It feels right. And not just the physical aspect of sex, but it’s everything. Every emotion inside of you is absolutely blissful. The first moment you become one with the soul that was matched for your own, it’s beautiful and more than you could ever imagine. The bond you and your soulmate share is indescribable, so being so intimate with them, especially for the first time is...just mind blowing really.” You both slightly laugh at his lame ending, though during his entire explanation you feel your heart racing more than it should, you ignore the reason why. 

“Also, both people tend not to last long at all during the first time, it’s so overwhelming. But don’t worry, it definitely gets better afterward.” He laughs again.

You feel sick to your stomach.

Only a couple days after your conversation with Mark, you go to your apartment after work only to find a big surprise. 

“Hey,” he says softly, almost awkwardly. 

“BamBam,” you say trying to refrain yourself from sounding too caught off guard, “Hey, come in.” you invite him, moving to unlock your door letting you both inside. 

The two of you remove your shoes and move to the living room in silence, “Do you want anything to drink?” you ask politely. He takes a seat on your couch, politely declining, “I actually can’t stay long, I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you since I got back from Thailand and before I leave again.” You nod at him, moving to sit next to him but making sure to keep a safe distance. “I, um,” BamBam chuckles pulling out a small wrapped package from his jacket pocket, “I told my mom about meeting you when I was home. She insisted on giving this to you.” he hands it over and you cautiously take it. 

Carefully removing the packaging, you’re met with a small, delicate snow globe. It reads “Thailand” and has a cute elephant inside. The small gift leaves a smile on your face as you carefully shake the “snow” around. “I’m sorry it’s not much, but it’s a small something from my home. My mom wanted you to have a piece of Thailand until you can actually come yourself and meet everyone.” He smiles softly, taking in how you observe the globe. 

Your stomach tightens at his comment but you brush it off, “No, it’s perfect. I love it, thank you so much. And your mom” You laugh slightly, BamBam’s own joining yours. 

“It’s funny,” he speaks up from beside you again, “My mom always claimed that she thought for sure my soulmate would be from Thailand even when I moved here.” You look at him, “Oh, I’m sorry...” you say not sure what exactly to comment. “No, no,” he laughs “It’s not bad, of course. Your soulmate is your soulmate, you can’t change who you're meant to be with.” 

You nod in silence, drawing your attention to the small gift again. After a moment of silence, BamBam talks, “You should be lucky you got that, my mom made me bring Jaebum a bag of Rod Duan.” he laughs, “Those are cooked bamboo worms.” You can’t help but join his laughter, feeling relieved yourself with your gift. 

“Speaking of Jaebum,” he says and suddenly your stomach drops as your brain fills with the worst thoughts, could Jaebum have told him about the two of you?

“He told me to give you his number, apparently your friends with an old friend of his and he wants you to reconnect them.” You lick your lips relieved at his comment but you knew better than to take his number, it would be too risky. 

“Oh yeah, Jinyoung. I”ll just give you Jinyoung’s number to give to him, he would love to hear from him.” You smile at BamBam.

Just a few nights after your short encounter with BamBam, you found yourself at Do Min’s apartment making dinner and enjoying a night in while Jinyoung was out with his own friends. 

Standing off to the side while your friend cut the vegetables and sang loudly (and rather bad) to the songs playing from the speaker, you were paying more attention to your phone where BamBam was messaging you. He was leaving for Thailand again in a few days and wanted to try to meet up beforehand. You two had originally intended to grab drinks and see a movie after dinner tonight, but not to your surprise at all, he is currently texting you having to cancel. 

Though by now you knew your soulmate to be a busy man who has a hard time making plans due to his work. The reason for his cancellation this time leaves you speechless. 

From Bam:

Srry, have to raincheck  Something came up Jaebum called it off w Seo Jin Trying to talk w him Talk to u later

Reading over the message a few times, the nauseous feeling in your stomach only seems to grow. The voice in the back of your mind is telling you exactly why Jaebum had done this. But like you’ve been doing since the night you spent with him, you ignore it pushing it further away from your thoughts. 

You quickly reply to him, telling him you hope everything is okay and you hope you’re still able to see him before his trip. 

Tonight, sitting with Do Min, the voice in your head was nagging you more than usual. Your head began to hurt with the amount of thinking you were doing about your situation. At this point, you were paying no attention to your friend and her rant about how she wanted a cat but Jinyoung insisted the couple adopt a dog instead. 

“Do Min,” you say interrupting her. She hums in response, looking at your over her cup of tea, “Oh no,” she starts “Please don’t say you want us to get a dog too! You’re supposed to be on my side!” 

Despite your messy thoughts, you chuckle at your friend, “No, no. I just wanted to ask you about something.” The small girl chuckles too, nodding at you to continue. “Have you ever heard of soulmates breaking up?”  

Her eyebrows immediately furrow and you watch as her lips open and close frantically, having a hard time processing what you were saying. “Well, no. Soulmates don’t break up. They’re soulmates...they are literally made to be together forever.” She speaks slowly and suddenly you feel like your seven years old again when your parents tried to answer all your questions about soulmates over dinner. 

At your lack of response, her eyes widen, “BamBam...” she starts and you urgently sit up straighter shaking your head, “No! No, it’s not him.” Your friend's shoulders become more relaxed and she leans back in the couch, seemingly relieved whatever it was your asking didn’t have to do with you. 

Well, she had another thing coming. 

“His roommate, and best friend. He and his soulmate were called into the room with us but they were kind of an item throughout college too. BamBam texted today and canceled our plans because his roommate called it off with her.” 

“There had to have been a mistake then. Soulmates are together forever.” You withhold eye contact with her, “Well, maybe he just is having doubts right now.” But your friend laughs at you, “There are no doubts in soulmates. None at all, your meant to be with someone and you always know it. No doubt about it.” 

It seems suddenly that all of the emotions you’ve been withholding make their way out of you, “Do Min,” you choke out, a soft sob following quickly after. With that, your friend quickly puts her drink down moving closer, ready to comfort you. “I’ve been having nothing but doubts since the left the soulmate room.” You finally say, your chest feeling lighter at finally admitting your feelings to someone. You hadn’t even taken the time to let yourself realize it on your own. 

You confide in your best friend, letting her hug you as she stays silent, letting you cry all the tears and emotions you’ve built up the past couple of weeks. Once the tears ceased, you take your time to voice your thoughts to your friend. You tell her about Seo Jin taking charge and placing you and BamBam together, you explain what happened when you danced with Jaebum on the night when you when out with BamBam. And finally, you tell her about the night you spent in bed with him, feeling all too intimate with someone who wasn’t your soulmate. 

Do Min doesn’t say anything the whole time, letting you tell your story as she rubs your arms in a comforting manner, a quiet hum leaving her lips once in awhile telling you she was still paying attention. 

Sometime after you finish, she speaks in a whisper, “You know now, don’t you?” 

Your lip begins to wobble again at her words, you definitely were not ready to admit what she was hinting at, but at the same time, you knew she was right. When you fail to acknowledge her, she laughs softly, “I remember in high school when you were so stressed about finding your soulmate. You were terrified that you didn’t know what it would be like.” You wanted to speak up and say it wasn’t just in high school you had that dear, but that fear was still in your mind to the very day. 

She speaks up again, “When I see Jinyoung, it’s as if no matter what mood I was in before, I’m suddenly as happy as could be. When I look at him, all I want to do is smile. There's a strong feeling, a pull in my chest that when being with him I feel such an overwhelming sense of happiness and love that I don’t know what to do with myself.” You can hear the smile in her voice, “And that feeling is always there, it always will be. Even when we have an argument, the feeling allows us to talk and work things out. We give each other strength, undying love, and happiness. And this sensation only grows the longer you’re together. When we met in high school, the feeling was faint, but there. And as time goes on our bond only grows stronger, the bond that connects us together. Everything about being with your soulmate is pure bliss, physically and emotionally. If you let yourself feel it, that is.” 

Now it’s time for you to stay silent, carefully taking in every word and description she has to offer. You find yourself wishing she would have given this explanation to you years ago. 

“Now, let me ask you something,” she says, “Who were you thinking about when I described the feeling?”

On Monday, you sluggishly make your way to your apartment after a long day of work. Your eyes tired and puffy from all the crying you did over the weekend, a faint headache still bothering you from the amount of thinking you had been doing. 

Making your way out of the elevator you heart rate begins to pick up, glancing up towards your door you notice him leaning against it. 

Jaebum immediately stands up straight, hands in the pockets of his black jeans as he watches you approach him. You whine quietly, just seeing him there was overwhelming enough, you didn’t even want to think about why he may be here. 

You move to unlock your door, a raspy, “How did you get my address?” leaving your lips. Jaebum clears his throat, “Jinyoung gave it to me.” You wonder if Do Min had anything to do with the matter. You don’t say anything, but leave the door open behind you giving him the chance to follow you inside. 

“I think you know why I’m here,” he says as you place your stuff on the table beside you. Your head pounds at his question and you sigh, “No Jaebum, why are you here.” you finally turn towards him, taking in the slight panic in his eyes.  He chuckles, “What do you mean you don’t know? How could you not know?” you heart is now pounding as much as your head, “Jaebum, stop. Just, what-what are you doing here? What are you doing?” You ask and your voice is weak, feeling so overwhelmed that you grab onto the chair to keep yourself steady. 

His face looks almost angry now, but the hurt is evident in his eyes, “Don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about. You know just as much as I do that we’re soulmates.” His voice cracks at the end of the sentence, and you feel the sudden urge to throw up at his sudden confrontation. When you don’t answer he speaks louder, “How could you not know?!” 

You bring your hands up to cover your temples, “I don’t know! How was I supposed to know!” He takes a step closer, “How could you not have! I knew from the second you walked through that door that you were mine! The second I laid eyes on you I had no doubt I was yours! And what do you do?! Go with BamBam?!” You start to cry, “Stop! Stop yelling at me! This is not my fault you already had someone! And she told me he was mine! How would I ever even consider it was you?!” 

You know notice the tears welling up in his own eyes and the crack in his voice when he raises his voice again, “You didn’t feel it?” 

You look at him, a soft sob escaping your lips, “All my life I’ve been going crazy trying to figure out what I was supposed to feel when I met my soulmate. No one could ever explain to me what to expect and I was always so frightened, so worried that I would never know what the feeling was. And I didn’t. I had no idea what to expect when I entered that room and I wasn’t even given the chance to experience or figure it out for myself before I was being pushed onto someone and having them slap a soulmate label on us!” 

Jaebum stays quiet, studying you, tears still in his eyes. His eyes show so much hurt that you swear you could feel their pain. He finally breaks eye contact, looking towards the door.

“I’ll just leave you to think about what that could mean then.” he turns, walking to the exit. 

“Jaebum!” you whine going to follow him. Your feelings were all over the place but if you knew one thing, it was that you didn’t want him to leave like this. But you don’t have much say in the matter as he closes the door loudly behind him. 

You’re left alone with your messy thoughts, an urge to throw up and a strong pull in your chest. You wonder if this is what it’s like to be heartbroken. 

-   -   -   

©

☞ [feedback is appreciated]

#mine #jaebum #got7 #jaebum smut #jaebum scenarios #jaebum fanfic #jaebum scenario #jaebum x reader #jaebum imagine #got fanfic #got7 smut #got7 fluff #got7 scenarios #got7 angst #jaebum angst #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop scenarios #got7 imagines

[mcarfield]

5 times Andrew and James were totally platonic boyfriends (and the first time they weren’t)

(#1) (#2)

3) 

The final night of the NT production the signing line outside the theatre is exhausting, and it’s only adrenalin that keeps Andrew on his feet.

That’s probably why he doesn’t really think about what he’s doing when he feels James’s hand sliding lightly over his back — and how he knows it’s James he couldn’t say, only that somewhere over the last nine months they’ve become imprinted on one another, apparently even down to the slightest touch. Andrew, tired and triumphant and giddy and more than a little punch-drunk, thinks, “Oh, it’s James,” and turns away from the line of fans and wordlessly asks for a kiss, as though it’s something they do every day.

And in a way, it is, but there’s a moment of startled hesitation in James’s face when he realizes what Andrew wants. It recalls Andrew to his senses, to the practical reality of where they are; but by then it’s too late to back out, of course, and James is leaning forward with a look of bemused befuddlement on his face, dear and gorgeous and the best... best. They kiss, and it’s oddly perfunctory: the kiss of two straight men kissing and being all hetero about it, not the kiss of two lovers who’ve been bound up in each other day after day for month after month, and... Andrew’s so tired, god.

James teases him and deflects, because that’s what James tends to do when Andrew gets too close to, to, whatever weird nebulous line he sometimes puts down between them. Andrew, because he can, because it’s the last night, because they won’t see each other for four months after tonight, pushes it a little anyway.

“I’m going to ask for a redo on that kiss later,” Andrew tells him saucily. “That was terrible.”

James swats at him. “I needed prep time, it was an ambush,” he says.

“Fine,” Andrew says. “Here’s your advance notice.” He leers, and James snorts. He’s only shown up to give Andrew directions to the impromptu meetup before the cast party, but Andrew doesn’t miss the way his smile lingers, bright and sweet, after the kiss.

They don’t really have a chance to talk or even to really interact until much later in the night. There’s too much activity, too much energy, too many people to hug and kiss and say goodbye to and get drunk with one last time, and every time Andrew finds James in the crowd he’s surrounded by a bevy of eager girls and looking as strung-out as Andrew feels, like he’s one bob away from keeling over where he stands. At one point Andrew gives up and texts him from across a giant living room full of people at Marianne’s house.

Would that I were a bird so that I could fly to you across this great divide, he writes, and hits send with an aggressive feeling of smug rebellion.

He watches James dig his phone out and smirk at the text, then look up and find Andrew’s face in the crowd. He blows Andrew a kiss, and Andrew, on cue and out of habit, catches it and deposits it in his breast pocket.

James doesn’t answer right away, but a short while later, as Andrew is listening to Nathan Lane tell an anecdote about Matthew Broderick that he’s told at least three times before, and trying to keep his eyes open, his phone vibrates.

You can barely stand, much less fly, big bird, do u need a lift back to your place?

Big Bird doesn’t fly, pick a better avian, Andrew sends back, unable to mask a yawn.

Whatever, swan princess, I’m taking you home

Promises, promises, Andrew texts. 

He looks over to where James has been crowded for half the night near the door, but he’s vanished. A moment later he materializes next to Andrew, wobbly on his feet. Andrew pats the empty space on the sofa where he’s been curled up for the last half hour or so, mostly immobile. James swings his feet over the back like a hoodlum, and Andrew pulls him down on the cushions next to him. For a moment they sort of collapse against one another. Andrew’s already leaning against the corner and James wraps his arms around Andrew’s waist and scoots in close so he can use Andrew’s side for a pillow. Andrew cards his fingers through James’s hair. Like his own, it’s drenched through with sweat, and James shifts and sighs pleasantly, arching into the touch.

“Baby, this was a mistake,” Andrew murmurs. “You’ve trapped me.”

“Mmm,” James agrees. “I’m not moving until December.”

“Good,” Andrew says nonsensically, and then his eyes flutter shut, and the next thing he knows is the intrusive glare of a camera flash going off above his head. He cracks an eye groggily open, sleep-hazy and annoyed, and finds an angel looming above him.

“Sorry,” Amanda says, with Denise giggling at her side.

“Not sorry at all,” says Denise.

“You two just looked so adorable,” Amanda says. Andrew cracks the other eye open and realizes he’s somehow managed to wind both arms around James, who is firmly tucked along his side and stubbornly refusing to open his eyes. He turns his head into Andrew’s shoulder, and Andrew obligingly shifts to make him more comfortable.

“You’re both sadists,” he mutters.

“Wake up,” Denise says, poking him. “It’s a party, you can’t sleep through it. I need to get four months’ worth of teasing you both into the next half hour or so.”

“No,” Andrew grouses. “Go away, this is torture.” Above him, James flings a hand out and shoos Denise away, then wraps his arms around Andrew again, all without opening his eyes.

“Ha, we’ve got you awake now,” Amanda says. “You might as well get up and rejoin the party.”

“But my pillow,” James says, muffled against Andrew’s shirt. Andrew sighs and relaxes beneath him. “I thought you were a bird,” James insists, tightening his hold. “Let’s fly away.”

“Where to, poppycake?” Andrew says, kissing the top of James’s head.

“Glasgow,” James mumbles. “Or Bethesda. Or the universe. Don’t care.”

“A trip to the moon on gossamer wings,” Andrew murmurs. “Get up, Pal Joey, your adoring public needs you.”

“Has anyone ever suggested to you that you know far too many obscure musical references to be straight,” James says, reluctantly releasing Andrew and sitting up.

“And yet you recognize all my obscure musical references,” Andrew says, unable to repress a smile.

“What can I say? I am what I am,” James says, coming fully to life at last and sending him a wink.

“I’ll take that kiss now, by the way,” Andrew says. “I ordered a do-over.”

“No,” James says, waving him aside.

“No?”

James shrugs. “Too many people, and —” he eyes Denise. “Too many cameras.”

“That was Amanda’s camera!” Denise says.

“And I sent you both copies,” Amanda says, unrepentant.

“You’re zealots,” Andrew says. He ruffles James’s hair. “Are you really going to deny me my rights as your temporary life partner?”

“You know I won’t,” James says, yawning. “Just need a bit of privacy to do it properly.”

“Ooh,” says Andrew. “If no one is around you, say, ‘baby, I love you?’”

“Something like that,” says James, sliding off him and pulling Andrew to his feet. Andrew sways and wobbles into him.

“Seriously, we should get you home,” James says.

“No, not yet, I want selfies of all of us,” says Denise, tickling Andrew and snapping a picture of the three of them.

“I am putting a moratorium on selfies,” James says, “you woke us up, don’t ask us to smile, too.”

“You two suck at this,” Denise says, examining the photo. Andrew is smiling groggily against her shoulder; James has his arms looped around Andrew and is side-eying the camera.

“I’ll wake up, I promise,” Andrew insists, stifling a yawn. “Just.. need some air, is all.”

“Right,” says James. “Same.”

“Whatever, the selfie train is leaving without you,” Denise says. James flips her off and tugs Andrew by the hand past the crowd and out onto Marianne’s oddly deserted patio, which opens onto a tiny cultivated garden and then the street a few steps beyond.

“Hullo, here’s that privacy you wanted,” Andrew says. James comes forward and tucks an arm around Andrew’s waist, propping him upright.

Andrew sways into him. “I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. McArdle.”

James rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you, you’re very dramatic?”

“Hmm.” Andrew leans into him. “No, but they did leave me orphaned on a theatre doorstep with a sign around my neck saying, ‘he belongs here, raise him well.’”

James considers this. “I’d’ve pegged you as having been raised by pixie sprites.”

“Oh, I was,” Andrew says, “but we all lived in the theatre.”

“Under the boards?”

“Right, exactly,” Andrew laughs. “I came out at night and stole trinkets from the prop tables and the dressing rooms.”

“And you still have a small hoard of hat pins and lapel mics hidden away somewhere.”

“To remind me of my origins.” He giggles. James’s hand tightens around his waist.

“You’re delirious,” James says. “Honestly, you should cry off and go sleep. God knows I should, too.”

“Can’t, there’s too many people to say goodbye to,” Andrew says. He looks at James. “I’m going to miss you terribly.”

James makes a face. “You’ll see me again before you know it. And then you’ll be sick of me before you know it.”

“Are you sick of me?” Andrew asks, and James flinches.

“No,” he says, abruptly breathless. “No. Never.”

Andrew smiles at him. “This is your last chance until December to have a confusing sexual tryst with me that we never talk about again,” he says.

James laughs. “Come here,” he says, and he cups Andrew’s face and kisses him, lingering and slow, with just the right amount of tongue, deepening the kiss on cue when Andrew sighs and smiles against his lips. Andrew takes a moment to marvel at how easy this is, at how easy it is to have intimacy with someone when neither of you have anything to lose.

He pulls back at last, taking a mental snapshot of James’s eyes, glittering and fine in the lamplight.

“Was that kiss better?” James asks him mildly, smiling a little.

“Quite satisfactory,” Andrew says, running his hand over James’s stubble, thinking about how familiar it is, how strange it will be not to touch it for months.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve not had many fake boyfriends, but you’re by far my favorite.”

James flushes, pleased and pink. “Really,” he says. “Because I’m the best?”

Andrew grins and laces his arms around James’s neck. “Because you’ve lasted the longest,” he says. “You’ve gone and Stockholmed me.”

“Ruined you for all other comers, have I?” James’s smile is soft and fond, and god, Andrew is really, really going to miss him.

“You may have ruined me for all other actors,” Andrew admits. James blinks. Andrew sighs and leans against him. “You’re such a fucking game changer, I can’t believe you’re only 28, Jesus,” he says, smoothing James’s shirtfront. “How is that even — god, and I can’t believe you lost the Olivier to Bertie fucking Carvel.”

“Rubbish, you’re just, you’re being dramatic again,” James says, ruffling his hair.

“No one who sees you onstage can stop talking about it,” Andrew says. “I’d’ve burned down the theatre if they didn’t let you transfer.”

“Andrew,” says James, and then he looks as if he doesn’t know what to say.

“Don’t throw me over for Lee Pace,” Andrew says. “I want to be your number one fake boyfriend.”

James reaches up and drags his thumb over Andrew’s cheekbone, which Andrew has to admit is a good, smooth move. “If it helps,” he says, “I’ve never kissed any of my other stage boyfriends like that.”

“Like how?” Andrew says. “I’ve already forgotten, I think I need a reminder.”

James chuckles. “You just want everyone to love you,” he murmurs, reeling Andrew in.

“Guilty,” Andrew admits, “but I play favorites,” and then they’re kissing again, and James’s arms are tight around him, and Andrew is flush against his chest, and he can feel James’s warmth bleeding into his skin, and he drags his lips against James’s stubble and slides his tongue against James’s, suddenly wanting him to remember this for months, to really, really think of this moment as theirs, to make it count.

He feels a strangely intense thrill at the idea, and just as he’s wondering at it, James cups Andrew’s chin and shifts against him and deepens the kiss, making the most of their fractional height difference so he can possess Andrew’s mouth, and Andrew lets out a tiny appreciative gasp and arches up into him. He winds his hand into James’s hair and savors the way he tastes, the way he smells, his sweat and his heat and all those rum cocktails and the goodness of him, and he takes James’s lower lip and draws it into his mouth, and James shudders and Andrew thinks, yes, and somehow by mutual assent Andrew tilts his head back at the exact moment James moves to kiss his throat, and he ends up tugging James closer just as James reaches Andrew’s collarbone and nips it with his teeth before he finally pulls back.

Andrew follows him, feeling bereft of his mouth and his stubble and his closeness and not wanting any of it to end. He leans up and brushes his lips against James’s, and it’s meant to be something light and teasing, but the moment they touch it’s another open-mouthed kiss, firm and deep and seeking. James reaches up and laces their fingers together and sighs into Andrew’s mouth, and Andrew responds with an answering moan, curling his tongue against James’s.

And they’re both very good kissers who are very good by now at kissing each other, but they’ve never just explored one another like this, and Andrew is just wondering how long James would be willing to stay here like this, just enjoying each other, when James issues one final sweep of his tongue against Andrew’s and pulls away.

Andrew breathes in, breathes out. James tilts his forehead against Andrew’s and doesn’t speak, just looks at him. Andrew brushes James’s nose with his own. James flexes his fingers between Andrew’s where their hands are still laced together, and kisses the tip of Andrew’s nose, then kisses Andrew’s lips softly.

“Baby, I love you,” James whispers, and suddenly Andrew’s stomach feels like it’s made of jello.

“You know I love you, too,” he answers, and he thinks that if James were to kiss him again, now, he might — that they might —

But James is stepping away, raising Andrew’s hand to his lips and kissing it like a proper gentleman.

“I know,” he says, and Andrew isn’t going to cry, he’s already cried earlier today. Don’t be ridiculous, he orders himself.

“And you’re properly awake now?” James asks.

“Oh,” Andrew says, dazed. “Oh. Yes.”

“Good,” says James gently. “I’m going to go catch Denise’s selfie train. You coming?”

Andrew looks at him searchingly. He thinks for a moment that if he sees anything like hunger in James’s face that he might actually do this, that he might actually take James home with him and unpeel that ridiculous blue shirt and see what happens and fuck what it all might mean.

But he only sees James’s typical expression when he looks at Andrew: affectionate and pleasant, but opaque, too, and ever so slightly withdrawn. Andrew wants to be frustrated with him for that, but he can’t be, because James just made out with him like a teenager, solely because he wanted to share in some kind of intimacy with him, as much as he could.

He let Andrew through for a moment, Andrew realizes. But that was all: it wasn’t an invitation to more.

How could it be? They’re both straight.

He laughs a little — mostly at himself. “I am going to make my own selfie train. No, I want a selfie conga line.”

“I think a conga line might make the quality of the selfies a bit suspect,” James says.

“Let me show you how wrong you are,” Andrew says, taking his hand and leading him back inside. James is warm at his back, and it’s still a tight crush of people when they re-enter, but James keeps his hand tucked in Andrew’s until it’s time for him to walk the selfie conga line.

And for the next four months, when he thinks about James, that’s what he thinks of first: not the actual moment when they say goodbye, or the way James’s mouth felt against his, or the way his stubble felt against Andrew’s cheek; it’s just this: the two of them, standing in that crowd, holding hands for no reason — fingers laced together, bodies curving towards each other, like partners drawn together by instinct.

He’s not sure whether he’s being ironic or teasing or facetious or entirely sincere when he texts James one late night in November: I can’t wait to kiss you again.

James writes back, a few moments later: Cocktease.

And Andrew doesn’t overthink the flash of real arousal he gets at that, nor does he overthink what he says in response, because they’re going to be back together soon, and they’ll have the next six months to unpack what it all means.

But for now, there’s just Andrew’s text, hanging between them like a possibility, if not a promise:

I hope so.

#mcarfield #mcarfield fic #fake boyfriends #long post #oh my god this is so self-indulgent #queer andrew garfield is the only true andrew garfield #accept no substitutes

[wonkrusecretsanta]

All I Want for Christmas...

Secret Santa Gift for Kat / @tracylorde !

All Clarke Griffin wanted for Christmas was a shower and a nap. Clarke normally went all out on the holidays, flying out to see her parents every year and participating in all the festive traditions and activities. However, this year Clarke’s residency at the hospital had her working nonstop, even the morning of Christmas Eve. Abby also had a fairly tight work schedule and her parents couldn’t find the time to fly out to spend the holidays with her. They were all devastated at first but always the optimist, her father, Jake, decided not to let a little scheduling problem ruin the Griffin family holidays. He decided they could just meet up over New Year’s and celebrate Christmas then, cookies and all.

By the time her shift ended on the 24th Clarke was feeling anything but festive. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to stay in her apartment, watch a Christmas movie or two, and call it a night. As soon as she came into the apartment she was hit by a wave of heat. The heating in her building must have been malfunctioning because she was fairly certain it wasn’t normally 80 degrees in the middle of December. She knew she should’ve called her landlord but she was so exhausted she decided to throw open the windows instead. After she got cold air flowing she dropped down on the couch and felt her eyelids start to droop. She would’ve probably fallen asleep on the spot if not for her roommate Octavia’s dog. He immediately started woofing excitedly and running circles around the couch, his wagging tail leaving a small trail of destruction behind.

“Ajax! Calm down buddy,” Clarke shouted at the rambunctious dog. As much as she loved the pup, she held a bit of resentment towards Octavia for leaving her on dog duty. Up until two weeks earlier, Octavia had planned on spending Christmas in town with Clarke, her brother Bellamy, and her fiancé Lincoln. Clarke was looking forward to it, Octavia knew how to turn any situation into a good time and the two had been making plans for almost a month. But one day Octavia came home with the news that Lincoln had surprised her with tickets to visit his parents for the first time. Clarke was excited for her roommate but it meant that she would only have Ajax to keep her company on Christmas.

After a few minutes Clarke seemed to have soothed the dog with a satisfactory amount of belly scratches. She was finally starting to settle in again for a quick nap when her phone buzzed. She checked the screen and saw a stream of texts from Octavia. They were all practically the same, Octavia begging her to go check on Bellamy. Clarke was acquaintances at best with Bellamy Blake. Their relationship got off to a rocky start but over months of spending time with him through Octavia she had started to come around to him. She still didn’t consider him close enough to feel the need to spend Christmas with him like Octavia was insisting.

She understood why Octavia was worried, the Blakes were two of the closest people she knew. They spent every Christmas together and Bellamy had been talking about this year’s festivities since Thanksgiving. Although he pretended to be excited for Octavia, Clarke knew spending the holidays apart must be crushing Bellamy. However upset he may be Clarke decided it was none of her business. That’s why she chose to ignore the barrage of texts from Octavia. She would call him later to see how he was doing, maybe even drop by on Christmas Day for a minute or two. All she really wanted at the time was to catch up on some much needed sleep. She didn’t even manage to change out of her scrubs before crashing into bed.

When Clarke finally opened her eyes again hours had passed and the clock on her bedside table read 5:15. She got up and stretched, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed but deciding when Octavia returned Clarke would need a better Christmas story than working and sleeping. She was making her way back to the couch when a wisp of cold air sent shivers down her back. She glanced around the room to find the window still open, sending cold air and snowflakes into the apartment. Clarke cursed under her breath, running to the window. She was  pushing the window closed when she saw a trail of paw prints through the snow of the fire escape outside the window.

“Shit, shit, shit,” the cursing was no longer under her breath as Clarke followed the trail with her eyes, as it lead all the way down the stairs. Clarke pulled on her coat and raced out onto the street. She walked up and down shouting for Ajax. If Octavia ever found out she would kill Clarke, she was pretty sure Octavia loved the dog more than 95 percent of the human race. Luckily, the snow was fresh and not many people were out so she was able to follow the prints down the road, darting through alleys and sidewalks. She followed them for ten minutes until she lost track of them in front of an apartment complex. She collapsed on the stone steps, snow soaking the pants of her scrubs and tears of frustration starting to prick in her eyes. She was mentally practicing how to tell Octavia she lost her dog when she heard a bark from up above. Her head shot up and she saw Ajax’s head playfully sticking out of a third story window.

“Ajax? How did you get all the way up there?” Clarke shouted up at the dog. Out of the window next to Ajax a second head popped out. This time it was Octavia’s brother Bellamy. Clarke let out a huge sigh, she got so caught up in the chase she hadn’t even noticed her path brought her straight to Bellamy’s apartment.

“I think you lost someone,” Bellamy teased. Even from three floors down she could see the playful grin on his face and the snowflakes settling in his dark curls. “Come on up,” he called, Ajax barking as if in agreement.

Bellamy buzzed her in and Clarke starting making her way up the stairs. About halfway up the first flight Clarke became aware of how she must look, running through the city chasing a dog in slippers and soaking wet scrubs. As soon as Bellamy opened the door she realized he was just as much of a mess as she was. He wore a festive apron and he was covered in a mixture of flour, sprinkles, and frosting. He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and stared down at Ajax who was running excited circles around their feet.

“I was making Christmas cookies,” he explained. He opened the door and went into the apartment, seeming to ask her to follow him. When she entered the room the delicious smell of the cookies filled her nose. Bellamy’s apartment looked like a festive warzone. There was a tree a bit too big towering in the corner and various decorations hung from every wall and sat on every table. But by far the most noticeable part of it all was the small dinner table. Every inch of it was covered with bowls of frosting, piles of sprinkles, flour, cookie cutters, rolling pins, and cookies everywhere many of which had been broken into piles of crumbs.

“Were you making cookies or trying to destroy them?” Clarke teased. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he grabbed a plate from the wreckage.

“They actually taste good, I guess Octavia just usually does most of the decorating.” He said offering her a sloppy sugar cookie. He was right, the cookies tasted heavenly and she devoured two more as Bellamy poured her a glass of milk.

“Sorry about Ajax,” Clarke said, a few cookie crumbs flying from her lips. “I was so tired I couldn’t think straight and he snuck away from me.”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy replied. “Octavia walks him over here all the time so he’s memorized the route to my house. He must have decided he wanted to wish me a Merry Christmas.”

After they finished off the plate of cookies Clarke helped Bellamy clean up the table. It took almost an hour to scrub the frosting out of every crevice of the table and by the time they finished she was even more exhausted than she had been before.

“I should probably get home,” she said. Although looking out the window, the last thing Clarke wanted was a ten-minute walk home in the falling snow.

“You can stay if you want,” Bellamy offered, “I have plenty of Christmas movies and it’s nice and warm. Besides, no one should have to spend Christmas alone.”

A warm smile was spreading across his face again and Clarke felt her heart have the tiniest flutter.

“Alright, but only if you promise no more frosting!” she chuckled. Bellamy snorted, nodding in agreement. The two of them settled down on the couch with Ajax snuggled in between. They flipped through a few movies before settling on Home Alone. Kevin’s parents had barely left the house before Clarke’s eyes starting getting heavy. She tried to stay awake but her exhaustion had finally caught up. She didn’t open her eyes until the credits were rolling. Her face got hot as she realized her head was resting on his shoulder and had most likely been there for hours now.

“Bellamy, can I ask you a question?” she whispered, hesitant to disturb the peaceful silence that filled the room.

“Of course.”

“You said no one should spend Christmas alone, but you were all ready to celebrate alone. Why?”

Bellamy laughed and she could feel it rattle in his chest where their shoulders pressed together.

“I guess I just wanted to keep the traditions alive. I’ve never spent Christmas alone before,” he paused for a moment glancing down at Clarke before adding, “I’m glad I won’t have to.”

As she settled her head back on his shoulder her hand found his and she sleepily whispered “Me too Bellamy, me too.”

#all gifts #kat #bellarke

[revolutionary-pirate]

Tell us about the connection between Sons of Liberty and the navy please!

Gladly, anon!! (Sorry this took so long, some unexpected circumstances came up that occupied my time for a few days and I also had a lot of information and context to cover in order to complete this ask. It’s probably more information than necessary, but I got excited [it’s long so I put it in a read more]. Also, I didn’t source as I went like I usually do and didn’t want to go back through and individually source all of my points so I dumped all my sources at the end. A lot of the information is tangled and it’s kinda a bitch when you have to source each part of the sentence with something different and I just took a final and didn’t want to do it. So anyway, Here you go:  )Congress was very hesitant about creating a Continental Navy, thinking it complete and utter madness to do so. Britain had the greatest Navy in the world and the Colonies had not a ship to call their own because the colonies had been completely reliant on the British Navy until then. John Adams was the loudest supporter of the creation of a navy in Congress, fighting hard to convince them all of how able the colonists were to undergo such a herculean task and how vital any sort of maritime effort would be to the defense of the Colonies, but Congress wasn’t having any of it. They did not think that there was even a slim chance that it would do the colonies any good in any way shape or form and would only serve to deepen a conflict with Britain that they weren’t ready to commit to yet. The people had no such qualms.

The very first, official, naval battle of the American Revolution began on June 11, 1775, almost two months after the first shot had been fired at Lexington and just days before the formation of the Continental Army. Since Lexington, the British had become completely pinned down in Boston with very limited supplies and a heavy reliance on merchants at sea in order to survive the Patriot’s Seige of Boston. As more troops were set to arrive in the city, General Thomas Gage and Vice Admiral Samuel Graves knew that they had to build more barracks for their soldiers and that, in order to do that, they needed lumber. Gage and Graves turned to a Loyalist, Boston merchant by the name of Ichabod Jones and tasked him with sailing to Machias, Massachusettes (now Maine) in order to acquire lumber from them in exchange for flour, pork, salt, and other supplies.Machias was an isolated, frontier settlement that was almost entirely dependent upon trading its lumber and firewood to Boston for supplies necessary to their survival. When the Continental Congress resolved that no one trade their lumber with Boston because it would aid the besieged British Army, Machias was crippled. They were eventually forced to petition the Massachusetts Congress in May for relief when their population was facing potential starvation because they hardly had three week’s supply of food left in storage. Gage and Graves felt that they could take advantage of this situation by sending in Jones.

On June 2, 1775, Jones arrived in Machias with his two ships, the Unity and the Polly. Jones had held frequent business in Machias for the last ten years and even owned a house there because he did dealings there so often. As a result, Jones was well aware that there were Patriots in Machias that would not take kindly to his visit nor to his mission because tensions had been running high ever since Lexington. Concerns about Patriot interference with the mission from all along the Massachusetts coast were great enough that Graves was informed that “some of the inhabitants of the Eastern parts of this Province have threatened to intercept and destroy the Vessels of Mr. Ichabod Jones … ” Graves acknowledged the fear but did not cancel the trip because acquiring the lumber was very important for the British Army. Instead, Graves arranged an escort for Jones in the form of the H.M.S. Margaretta, captained by James Moore. When Jones arrived at Machias with his armed escort, it had only served to fuel tensions amongst the colonists who were suspicious of Jones’ intentions for seeking business with them. 

On June 3rd, Jones, in an effort to curb tensions and ensure the carrying out of the trade deal, distributed a petition amongst the citizens asking for their support in “carrying Lumber to Boston, & to protect him and his property, at all events” in exchange for the town’s much-needed provisions he’d brought aboard the Unity to trade. Jones did not, however, receive a satisfactory amount of signatures to content him, so he called upon his nephew, Stephen Jones, who was an influential resident of Machias, to arrange a meeting with the citizens of the town on June 6th in order to vote on the matter. At this meeting, Jones claimed that the only way that he could get Vice Admiral Graves to permit him to leave Boston with provisions for Machias was if he’d promised him that he’d return with a cargo full of lumber and that Graves had sent the Margaretta with him in order to ensure that he fulfilled his part of the bargain. Much of the citizens, with little reason to doubt him, voted in favor of the proposition because they were in dire need of those supplies, because they were nervous about the fact that the Margaretta was within firing range of the town and might attack them if they said no, and because it was only conjectured that the lumber requested was for supplying the British Army. The townspeople had no way of knowing at the time if it was true or not, but a minority group of citizens wasn’t buying “Jones’s Scheme” and voted no.After the vote, Jones brought his two sloops, the Unity and the Polly, to the wharf and began unloading and distributing the supplies to the citizens. Jones, however, made a grave mistake when he refused to grant supplies to everyone who had voted in opposition to him because among them were Benjamin Foster, leader of the Local Militia, and Jeremiah O’Brien, one of the village leaders, both of whom were also leading members of the local chapter of the Sons of Liberty. Jones wanted to avoid conflict, but, instead, his pride had been a spark. Another spark came at the expense of Captain Moore of the Margaretta. There was a liberty pole, or, rather, liberty tree in this case, that had been erected by O’Brien and his brothers after a unanimous vote from the townspeople to do so immediately after learning of what had transpired at Lexington and Concord back in April. The liberty tree was Machias’ pledge and declaration to the world that they were dedicated to resisting the British Empire’s tyranny and that they would sacrifice their lives in defense of their colony. Machias’ liberty tree was made from the trunk of the tallest tree that the O’Brien family could find and it stood in one of the highest points of the town, overlooking the river, and was one of the most conspicuous sights in the village. Moore, anchored in that river, was incredibly irritated by the sight of it. In The Liberty Pole, a Tale of Machias, it was written that:

Observing the Liberty Pole, Captain Moore landed, and demanded of a group who had collected around the landing-place, who had erected it. “That pole, sir,” Answered John O’Brien [one of Jeremiah’s brothers], “was erected by the unanimous approval of the people of Machias.”

“Well, sir,” rejoined the officer, “with or without their approval, it is my duty to declare it must come down.”“Must come down!” repeated O’Brien, with some warmth; “those words are very easily spoken, my friend. You will find, I apprehend, that it is easier to make than it will be to enforce a demand of this kind.”“What! Am I to understand that resistance will be made? Will the people of Machias dare to disregard an order, not originating with me, gentlemen, but with the government whose officer I am?”“The People of Machias,” replied O’Brien, “will dare do anything in maintenance of their principles and rights.”“It is useless to bandy words,” rejoined the officer, a little nettled at the determined spirit manifested around him; “My orders are peremptory and must be obeyed. That Liberty Pole must be taken down, or it will be my painful duty to fire upon the town.”

Stephen Jones, Ichabod Jones’ nephew, intervened and convinced Moore not to follow through with his threat and said that if he could arrange another town vote they might vote in favor of taking it down. A meeting was called, and it was voted that the pole remain. Captain Moore, fearful that he might lose the respect of his crew should his threat go unexecuted, decided to pick a day upon which they would fire at the town. Jeremiah O’Brien, Foster, and others began to secretly formulate a plan of defense in the event that an attack actually comes and sent word to the surrounding villages and areas calling for aid. Stephen stepped in again and said that the townspeople hadn’t all come to the meeting and that a second meeting should take place so that all of the citizens would have the opportunity to express their vote. It was voted almost unanimously by the whole town that the pole remain where it had been erected until it rotted. Moore retaliated with another threat to burn the village to the ground for their insolence in one hour if that pole still remained and had to be, once again, restrained from carrying it out when Stephen called to have a third meeting take place on June 12th while also reminding Moore that Vice Admiral Graves had told the Captain not to provoke the townspeople, but it was far too late for that.According to The Life of Captain Jeremiah O’Brien, Benjamin Foster and a group of his militiamen met two miles south of town on the Saturday afternoon of June 10th to concoct a two-pronged plan to seize both Ichabod, Stephen, Moore, and the other officer of the Margaretta while they were attending church the next afternoon and to then seize the British ships in the bay. They sent a few men to the home of the O’Briens to get their thoughts on the plan. The father, Morris O’Brien, tried to dissuade Foster and his party from carrying out their plan because Machias relied completely on the sea for survival, they were very far away from any sort of help, and carrying out their plan would no doubt bring about the immediate destruction of their village. Foster would not be dissuaded and Jeremiah O’Brien with his five younger brothers (Gideon, John, William, Dennis, and Joseph), despite their father’s concern, all decided to join forces with Foster, Jeremiah taking charge of the plan alongside him.At around 10 o’clock the next morning, a group of men gathered together once more for a secret meeting where they discussed the agreement by the surrounding villages to provide aid and the full plan in detail with everyone: seize the officers of the Margaretta and Jones while they were at church then capture the British Vessels, hopefully avoiding any and all bloodshed in the process. Opinions of the plan were divided, many not sure that the plan was feasible and what attacking the British might mean in the grand scheme of things. Foster reminded them all that they were already at war with Britain, that blood had already been shed at Lexington and Concord, and that the sooner they joined in the war efforts the better. This convinced many of them, but some voices were still a little hesitant about a plan that sounded so dangerous. Foster then boldly stepped forward, crossed the brook by which they were meeting, and said “Let all who are willing to strike for Freedom, follow me. Those who are in favor of British tyranny, and think it right to send lumber to Boston wherewith to build barracks for our oppressors, may stay where they are.” Jeremiah was right on Foster’s heels and was followed quickly by his brothers, then soon the entire party was crossing after them in unanimous support of the plan. They had just made their own Declaration of War, deciding to fight the British on their own terms.They split into two groups, one would attend the church service and, at the signal of a whistle, seize the targets. Another party would surround the meeting house and, in the event that any of their targets escape the building, be there to prevent their further escape and capture them outside. As the plan was moving into action and everyone was taking their positions outside, the pastor’s slave glanced out the window and spotted a small group of men crossing the river on log rafts with muskets in hand and thought they might be British soldiers. He cried out and then leaped out a window, booking it for the forest, and throwing the congregation into turmoil in the process. Moore and Jones both quickly realized what was happening and escaped from the meeting house before the people in position within the congregation could catch them, Moore leaping through a window and gunning for his ship while followed by his officer and Jones sprinting for the woods into which he’d vanish for a couple days. Moore and his man reached the landing and the two of them clamored into a boat sent from the Margaretta and began rowing back to the ship, followed to the shore closely by several pursuers. Jones’ nephew, Stephen, was not so lucky and was successfully captured by the villagers and held prisoner.Moore, upon returning to the Margaretta, weighed anchor and fired a few shots over the town as a threat to anyone considering pursuit and then moved down river a short way. The people, more determined than before, followed in all manner of small boats and canoes, firing upon the retreating ship with their muskets for several minutes. Moore dropped anchor again and sent word to the citizens that if Ichabod Jones or either of the sloops, the Unity or the Polly, were harmed, then he would burn the village to the ground. The message only served to further rally the citizens of Machias and it’s leaders against him. The whole town decided then and there that Jones was not going to be returning to Boston with the lumber and the Margaretta was going to be theirs. A group of Foster and O’Brien’s men, armed with muskets, were dispatched to where the Margaretta had anchored itself and began to open fire upon her from their elevated position, demanding that the British “Strike to the Sons of Liberty!” The British ship was unable to fire back at them because the guns of the ship could not be angled high enough to reach them. The citizens once more commanded that Moore “Strike to the Sons of Liberty or Die” to which Moore replied that he was “not yet ready” and gunfire resumed. This went on for about fifteen minutes before Moore was forced to retreat from the shore, the main boom snapping in the harsh winds and crippling the ship’s maneuverability in the process. Moore sailed his ship out of range and the gunfire petered out, the townspeople dispersing as night began to fall. That night, a group of men set out in canoes and small boats, attempting to board the Margaretta but were ultimately repelled.The next morning, on the 12th, Moore began to plan his escape to the sea, an eye on the shore to monitor the town’s movements. Jeremiah O’Brien, all his brothers, and around thirty men armed with muskets, knives, pistols, axes, pitchforks or whatever sharp weapons they could get their hands on, commandeered the Unity, which had been brought to the wharf by his second youngest Brother, Dennis, and three other young men. They then built a breastwork upon the deck with the lumber that had been loaded on the ship so far and then loaded it up with supplies to prepare it for battle before setting a course for the Margaretta. Seeing all of this through his spyglass, Moore cut the Margaretta from a ship in the harbour he had latched onto and plundered for supplies and then weighed anchor, starting down the river and towards the bay where he’d take another ship in order to replace his broken main boom and to seize the captain of the ship to act as a pilot for his. Foster, in the meantime, unable to take the Polly because it had been stripped of its sails and rigging, commandeered a sloop from a nearby village of Falmouth called the Falmouth Packet with twenty men and sailed to meet O’Brien and the Unity. Unfortunately, however, The Falmouth Packet ran aground in the morning’s low tide and they were unable to dislodge the ship, meaning they were stuck until the mid-day tide rolled back in. He sent a messenger ahead to O’Brien to inform him of what had happened and when the news reached the Unity, the men on board determined that they would seize the Margaretta without them and set a determined course for the British schooner once more. The Unity was the fastest of the three ships that had come into the Machias harbor with Jones and was quickly gaining water on the fleeing Margaretta. It was at this time that the citizens suddenly realized they didn’t have a captain. They had set out to sea on an impulse to take on a Britsh Warship and hadn’t even considered how they were going to go about it. By unanimous vote, they elected Jeremiah O’Brien to be their captain. The first thing O’Brien did as captain was to offer the chance to any person on board having second thoughts to go back ashore. Three men took him up on that and were given a small boat in which they could row back to the village. Captain O’Brien then turned back to the rest of the men and reportedly said: “Now, my brave fellows, having got rid of those white livered cowards, our first business will be to get along side of the schooner yonder; and the first man who boards her shall be entitled to the palm of honor.” Captain Moore, seeing the Unity gaining on him, cut all of the small boats trailing from their stern loose into the bay, but the Unity was still gaining on him fast despite Moore’s hour-long headstart. Captain Moore, now convinced that he was going to be overtaken, shouted back to the Unity “Sloop ahoy! keep off or I’ll fire!” Captain O’Brien, not at all deterred, called back, “In America’s name I demand your surrender!” Moore threatened again to fire upon the Unity and one of the other men onboard the sloop shouted back “Fire away and be damned!” And so Moore opened fire on the Unity with his canons.In the first volley, one of the men on board the Unity was killed and another wounded. Another man stepped up in the dead man’s place and took aim, killing the Margaretta’s helmsmen with a bullet through the skull. This shot drove everyone on board the Margaretta off the quarterdeck and into hiding as a volley of musket fire from the Unity rained down upon them. Without a helmsman to steer the Margaretta, the ship shifted in its course and the two ships collided. The bowsprit of the Unity tore the mainsail of the Margaretta and tangled the two ships together momentarily. In that moment Jeremiah’s brother, John, leaped from the bowsprit of the Unity and onto the Margaretta before the two ships parted, leaving him alone on the deck of the enemy ship. John was fired upon by seven British sailors but was unharmed, then the British charged at him with their bayonets and he dived overboard amid another volley of musket fire and swam back to the Unity where he was promptly helped back aboard to face Jeremiah, who shook his brother’s hand and told him that he won the palm of honor as promised but that he should get back in position and be ready to properly board the enemy ship, damn it.With his brother back on board, Captain O’Brien ordered that the Unity be brought alongside the Margaretta and the two ships lashed together with grappling hooks. Twenty armed men from the Unity were appointed to board the Margaretta and the two opposing crews began to engage in hand to hand combat at the railings, struggling to gain the upper hand one way or the other. Moore climbed onto the railing of his quarterdeck and brandished his sword, encouraging his men, but the fight was not going in his favor. Moore ordered that the hand grenades be brought up and he immediately began to lob them at the Unity. Upon recognizing that Captain O’Brien was undoubtedly their leader, he decided that killing him would probably demoralize the Americans and started lobbing several directly at him. O’Brien, probably by sheer luck, was unharmed by any of these attempts. Two bullets were buried into Moore’s chest by a sharpshooting moose-hunter on the Unity and Moore fell to the deck, mortally wounded. O’Brien, seeing this, called out to his men “To your feet, lads! The schooner is ours! Follow me! Board!” and everyone mobilized, following their captain over the railings and onto the Margaretta where they began to engage the British in direct hand-to-hand combat. The second in command of the Margaretta fled below deck as the Americans poured onto their ship and the British, realizing they no longer had anyone to lead them and that the Americans were winning the fight, surrendered. The whole battle had lasted for an hour and Captain Jeremiah O’Brien gained the honor of securing the first American victory of the Revolutionary War as the British flag and the captain’s sword were both surrendered to him. All in all, four British sailors, including Moore who died from his wounds within the next two days, and three Machias citizens were killed in the fighting as well as the Captain that Moore and forced to serve him that day. Some eight or nine citizens were wounded in all. The Americans took the British sailors captive and then repaired their ships before returning to Machias that afternoon to great celebrations on all sides for their victory. Ichabod Jones would emerge from the woods two days after the fighting and would be captured as well. The people of Machias then had to ask themselves “What now?” because they hadn’t thought that far ahead yet and had no idea what to do with their prisoners and the looming threat of British retaliation upon their small town. They began to fortify their town, outfitted a number of ships for a new career in authorized Privateering, and received supplies from the Massachusettes Congress. On June 26th, 1775 the Massachusetts Congress resolved that O’Brien and Foster be allowed to keep the three ships and all of their cargo that they had taken and that they be authorized to improve the ships and use them as they see appropriate for the defense of their colony.The Unity was outfitted with the arms of the Margaretta and was renamed the Machias Liberty and remained under O’Brien’s command. It became the first armed cruiser employed in the American Revolution. Following the Battle of Machias, increasingly more and more local ships and shipowners throughout the colonies began to take on the role of a quasi-navy. All of this began to support John Adams’ argument to Congress that the colonists would and could take on the Royal Navy themselves under the right circumstances and succeed because of how ferociously the colonists believed in the cause of their war.O’Brien and Foster captured two more British ships sent to punish O’Brien for taking the Margaretta and added them to their growing fleet exactly one month later on July 12th, 1775. On July 18th, the Continental Congress finally resolved that each colony should be allowed to be responsible for protecting its own coast. Both Foster and O’Brien were then sent to address the Massachusets Congress and met George Washington, who had just recently assumed command of the army, along the way and were invited to dine with him before moving on. The Massachusetts Congress greeted them both warmly upon their arrival and celebrated the news of their latest prizes. O’Brien was then appointed Captain of the Marine of the Massachusetts Colony and charged with defending the Massachusettes Coast and intercepting supply vessels coming in to support the British Army.Rhode Island became the first state to establish an actual Navy in August 1775, and began to petition Congress about the formation of a Continental Navy in October, but did not convince the Continental Congress to do so. George Washington also began to form his own makeshift Navy in August-September, tasking his aide-de-camp, Joseph Reed, with organizing efforts to snag unescorted British Merchant ships alongside shipowner/soldier, John Glover, and Shipping Businessman/future Aide, Stephen Moylan. The three of them outfitted several ships and created what’s known today as “Washington’s Navy” that successfully privateered along the coast.The final push to creating a Continental Navy would come soon after with a letter from John Barry, who would later become the first commissioned officer of the Continental Navy, that stated two English Brigs were sailing towards Quebec with Ammunition for the Canadian forces. A committee consisting of John Adams, Silas Deane, and John Langdon was formed to come up with a solution. They quickly proposed the formation of a group of ships to intercept them. Congress was not thrilled. They still did not think it entirely doable and was convinced that forming a navy would corrupt the morals of their sailors. Adams assured them that the benefits outweighed their concerns and on October 13, 1775, the Continental Navy, consisting of ten ships, was ordered to be formed. While waiting for the warships to be built, Washington’s Navy would succeed in taking one of the two unarmed Brigs mentioned by Barry that were sailing for Canada, acquiring enough arms and ammunition to supply 2,000 men.And to think, it all began when a small village so far north it was practically in Canada and had only heard rumors that war had begun, looked at the British and decided “Not today” then proceeded to successfully capture three Royal Navy ships out on the water and began to convince everyone that, you know what? Maybe we can do this.Sources: 1. Life of Captain Jeremiah O’Brien by Andrew M. Sherman2. The Liberty Pole, a Tale of Machias3. Rebels Under Sail by William Fowler Jr.4. The Struggle for Sea Power by Sam Willis5. John Adams by David McCullough6. The Village of Machias Confronts The Royal Navy by Michael Cecere7. The First Naval Battle of The American Revolution 8. George Washington’s Indispensable Men by Arthur C. Lefkowitz

#asks #anon #Battle of Machias #Jeremiah O'Brien #Benjamin Foster #James Moore #Ichabod Jones #John Adams #Naval History #continental navy #privateers #I'm not tagging everyone #but i think that's all the key stuff #I really need to just make a post about Jeremiah O'Brien in general #long post #American Privateers

[anghraine]

so in your rogue one au, how did the proposal happen? what's their marriage like?

Their marriage is basically … two troubled and uncommunicative people who love each other very much. 

So there’s a certain amount of confused flailing and a lot of emotional dependency (they could probably count on one hand the number of other people they trust), and when things go wrong between them they go really wrong. But there’s a deep bedrock of affinity and trust that keeps their relationship on a pretty even keel. Jyn, Cassian, and the Rebellion are all far better off for them being together.

As for the proposal:

“I think we should get married,” Jyn announced.

She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it. She felt matter-of-fact about it. And a little nervous, maybe—that was why she blurted it out as soon as she barged into Ice Chamber Exactly-the-Fuck-Like-All-the-Other-Ones, where Cassian was repairing Kaytoo.

Cassian’s hydrospanner didn’t drop, of course. But it went completely still in his grip. “What?”

“All of us?” said Kaytoo. “No. I might consider Cassian, but not you.”

She’d thought him still powered down. Or she would have, if she’d thought about him at all. It was almost a relief to fold her arms and scowl in his direction.

Maybe she was more than a little nervous.

“Do you even know what marriage is?” she demanded.

“The establishment and formalization of permanent association between individuals,” he said promptly, “which is legally binding and widely acknowledged. Often, but not always, the intended result is reproduction, though that is obviously untenable in this case.”

“All right, you know.” She squinted up at him. “But don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve cobbled droids together before. I could build a bunch of tiny KX units and Cassian could program them and you’d correct all the mistakes.”

“What is the purpose of a small KX unit?”

“Metaphorically tiny,” said Jyn. “They’d have to be around your size to properly terrorize stormtroopers.”

“Yes,” he said, mulling it over. “That would be satisfactory. However, I still do not wish to marry you, Jyn Erso.”

“But you’ll marry Cassian?”

“No,” decided Kaytoo. “I just find that prospect somewhat less distasteful.”

Very carefully, Cassian set down the hydrospanner. Jyn’s pulse, already thrumming a quick, shallow beat, pounded in her head and throat. Even her ears rang, and her chest hurt. She was going to deck anyone who called it romantic.

“What’s wrong with you, anyway?” she asked Kaytoo. “You just had an update.”

“I was deactivated for repairs after our last mission, if you recall.”

She did recall. In fact, she might never forget, though she hadn’t been there herself. Jyn and Cassian worked together more often than not, but not when it came to delicate negotiations with informants. Instead, she’d been training some of their recruits in hand-to-hand combat, something vastly more suited to her tastes and skills. It seemed a fairly routine operation by Cassian standards, in any case, but he went MIA for ten days and came back with ruptured organs, half his bones broken, and Kay barely functional.

Jyn was not informed. Not officially. Not unofficially, either, until Luke Skywalker—convinced of their relationship before they were themselves—took it upon himself to pass the news. Jyn, did you know that Commander Andor’s back? Pretty rough shape, but it looks like he’s going to make it. I probably shouldn’t be saying anything, but I figured you’d want to know.

He definitely shouldn’t have mentioned it, as far as regulations went. Luke had the news from Princess Leia, who had it from General Rieekan, who had it from Draven himself, concerned in a Draven sort of way over the near-loss of his best agent. Jyn didn’t care. By then, Cassian was out of bacta and healing, though near insensible with exhaustion and painkillers. Jyn and Bodhi only got to see him at all by shamelessly exploiting the memory of the Death Star.

He was too sleepy to say much, but they’d long since figured out what the droids and doctors never did, for all the countless times they patched him up. Cassian, himself quiet when not silent, liked to hear people talking around him. All the more when he was injured. So Bodhi and Jyn chatted about the small accomplishments and squabbles on the base for well over an hour, until Bodhi got called off.

Without him, without Kaytoo, everything wrong seemed to swell up in her, beyond any containing. She wanted … she didn’t even know.

The longer she stayed with the Rebellion, the more her feet itched, yet the more determined she felt to stay. Even beyond the fight, the Rebellion gave her more than she’d had in years: family, in the remnants of Rogue One, and friends, and a sanctuary of trust. But more to lose, too—fear ate at her, sometimes, with the Empire’s net closing and their forces spread thin. Missions grew more desperate and often more solitary, particularly Cassian’s unofficial ones.

Honestly, she couldn’t even keep track of those. It was easier to guess by his state when he returned: injured, or merely tired, or bleak-eyed and toneless for hours afterwards.

Jyn herself came back from her rougher missions restless and eager for fighting, drinking, anything. Once, Cassian took her flying after a single glance at her; somehow he managed to sneak them both away, and they flew through obscenely narrow, jagged passages in the ice until she felt human again. But when it came to him, she didn’t really know what to do, except stick around. It seemed enough; he’d hold her with his face pressed against her shoulder or neck, and either returned to something like himself or managed to sleep. But she still felt useless and furious at herself for it—herself and Draven and the Empire and the nameless clonetroopers who had driven him into the Rebellion.

(Whenever she tried to imagine them, Krennic’s troopers flashed through her mind. A village of Lyra Ersos dropped to the ground, right before Cassian-Jyn’s eyes, and they fled into the darkness.)

Sometimes she longed for nothing so much as an end to it all. Cassian never talked of a future after the war. Jyn didn’t know if he even considered it. But she did. She didn’t pin anything on the hope, but hoped nonetheless, clinging to the dream of something beyond this. At least for awhile. Bodhi, he’d like to go legit again. Maybe Han would figure out how to stop tripping over his own tongue around the princess. Jyn and Cassian and Kay could go fight crime or something. Anything but this.

“We might live,” she whispered. Cassian was awake, though out of it. “After. What would you even want?”

He turned his head towards her, blinking. More alert than she’d thought, but not by much. Despite the dim light, his eyes were almost uninterrupted brown, each pupil a small black point.

He mumbled, “What everyone wants.”

“And what do you think everyone wants?”

His eyes closed again. “Peace, family, marriage.”

Jyn started.

“Democracy,” added Cassian, because of course he did.

Her mouth twitched. “Everyone wants democracy, huh?”

“They should.”

She didn’t quite laugh at him. But if the Jyn of two years ago had known that she’d end up loving a man who babbled about democracy while higher than the stratosphere—well.

The bay was empty. She leaned down to kiss him.

“Go to sleep, Cassian.”

When he woke again, he didn’t remember any of it. But Jyn’s mind kept winding back, to laughing as they careened through some hellish ice canyon, and I figured you’d want to know; to family, marriage, and Cassian hiding his face in her neck. To how much she wanted to claw out of this life, and how much she wanted to stay.

“Of course you don’t recall,” Kaytoo was saying. “You weren’t there. But I took sufficient damage to require a shift to low power, and during my repairs, some incompetent lifeform put a restraining bolt on me.”

“What an idiot,” said Jyn.

He studied her. “Your comprehension of the situation is surprisingly accurate.”

“I’m not much for shackles, myself.”

Cassian pulled the bolt off. “There you are, Kay. A free droid again.”

“Thank you,” he said, the robotic tones somehow carrying a wealth of intensity. Then he added, “I am still not marrying you, however.”

“I should hope not. You can leave,” said Cassian. He looked at Jyn, irritatingly neutral. Among others, that would mean nothing; it had long since become his resting expression. With her, though … with her, it meant he was either concealing his real thoughts or confused. Either seemed probable enough at the moment. “Jyn, I—”

“Don’t answer yet,” she said quickly. “I have reasons. Hear me out.”

Cassian glanced back at Kaytoo, who had not budged beyond turning his head to examine Jyn.

“Kay. Go.”

“How am I to evaluate her reasoning if I am not here?” he demanded.

“I can evaluate on my own,” said Cassian.

“Yes,” Kaytoo allowed, “but with far less accuracy, and certainly less efficiency.”

Well, she definitely wasn’t going to have to deck anyone. But while she’d intended to wait until one or both of them managed to kick Kay out, some vague instinct reminded her that divided attention could be an advantage.

“First of all,” said Jyn, raising a finger, “officers’ spouses have full access to their quarters at all times, and a commander’s quarters are much warmer and more comfortable than a lieutenant’s.”

“A valid reason,” Kaytoo said, with cool approval, “but inadequate.”

“You already have access to my quarters,” said Cassian, and now she felt certain that his blank expression was one of genuine bewilderment.

“Someone”—she shot a meaningful look at Kaytoo—“keeps changing your passcodes.”

“There is a fourteen percent chance that Cassian’s security could be compromised, while the likelihood of your death by hypothermia in your own quarters is less than two percent.”

Cassian rubbed his temples. “You want to marry me for my passcodes?”

Not dignifying either with a response, she ticked off a second finger. “Also, spouses are entitled to disclosure about serious injury, death, imprisonment, and so on. You have the clearance for my status, but I don’t have it for yours, and I’m tired of finding out on someone’s whim, if at all. And even with the clearance, you’re not automatically informed—you have to know enough to check.”

“Yes,” Cassian said quietly, a faint but familiar softness touching his mouth and eyes. He studied her face, as she’d seen him study so many faces, searching for answers. Not for the first time, she wished that hers expressed more; she couldn’t switch her guard on and off at will, and reserve had sunk deep in her bones.

“Another valid consideration,” said Kaytoo. “You surprise me. However, you could simply list each other as emergency contacts, if you were not so foolishly intent on subterfuge.”

Still skittish, Jyn stiffened her spine. “Thirdly, you already want to get married.” Before Cassian (or, more likely, Kay) could question that, she added, “You said so in the infirmary.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Picking his words, Cassian said, “I do not remember, but I would not have meant … have expected—”

“You never expect anything,” she said dismissively. “And you’re not denying it, are you?”

“That is not proof,” said Kaytoo. “Nor is it proof that he referred to a marriage with you, specifically.”

“Of course he did,” she said.

Had she ever thought about anything like this, in those years before the Rebellion caught her in its net, she would have expected to doubt. She always doubted people; she always had to, if she didn’t want to get robbed or betrayed at every turn. Cassian himself had come within a hair of betraying her, too—reluctant tool of the Rebellion’s betrayal, but still. He was a spy and an assassin and a liar who’d regarded her with the same suspicion she did him, yet a month from meeting, they trusted each other with their lives. By the time the Death Star exploded above Yavin, they clung together as neither had done since childhood. And they never so much as considered the possibility of betrayal afterwards.

“I’m sure I meant you,” said Cassian.

Kaytoo made an irritable metallic sound. “If you don’t remember, then you can’t be sure of anything.”

“Kay,” he said, eyes unwavering from Jyn’s face, “you definitely need to go away now.”

The droid, truculent as ever, demanded, “Why?”

Jyn rolled her eyes, but sobered the instant that Cassian took one of her hands. She’d felt ungainly about them, unsure whether to leave them dangling awkwardly by her sides or fold her arms, but—this was okay. This was good.

“We’re going to be sentimental,” he told Kay. “You won’t want to witness it.”

“Oh.” With another indecipherable droid sound, Kay stalked off. Even the clatter of his limbs managed to sound judgmental.

As soon as the door sealed shut behind them, Jyn raised her brows. “Sentimental, are we?”

With a hint of a smile around his mouth and rather more than a hint around his eyes, Cassian said, “I assume you have real reasons.”

She lifted her chin. “I assume you do.”

They both looked down at their linked hands. For herself, Jyn felt rather martyred. They could and did read each other at a glance, all the time—during missions, debriefs, everything. It seemed decidedly unfair that the ability should desert them now. It also seemed unfair that her thoughts scattered as Cassian’s thumb traced absent circles, her entire body warm, even though they regularly did far more than hold hands.

“I’m not used to us needing explanations,” she said at last, torn between exasperation and assurance.

“Neither am I,” said Cassian, his voice milder, but with the same edge of frustration.

Their hands tightened. After another long pause, he said,

“Marriage is … safer.”

“Safer?” Jyn repeated. If she didn’t perfectly understand her own reasons, she felt sure that safety hadn’t entered into it.

“It is not that I distrust you, Jyn.” She heard him took a deep breath, exhale through his teeth. “You know how I am. I always prefer stability, where I can get it.”

“You want to marry me for stability?” Jyn nearly laughed. “Me?”

“No, I—” Cassian made an inarticulate noise that perfectly expressed her own feelings. “Marriage has protections. Laws and customs and rights. Wherever we go, whatever we do, our oath would go with us.”

The idea of an oath alarmed her, a bit. She hadn’t really thought of it that way. But, of course, marriage would be an oath, that was the whole point of it. Not unspoken understanding, not ready promises, but a contract, sworn and inscribed. Others might not honour it, but they could never take it from them.

Jyn could see why that would appeal to Cassian. On consideration, it appealed to her, too, little as she cared for laws and rules in general. She still didn’t care about them for their own sake. But if he preferred stability, the formalities that made order out of nothing, she preferred security, things nailed down every way that she could think of, signed and sealed and backed by as much force and legitimacy as possible.

“And you?” he asked.

At that, they both looked up, both flushed. He’d gone solemn, while Jyn felt a smile trembling on her mouth. Even as she succumbed to the smile, she hung onto her composure.

“I believe in this war,” she said, trying to strand her thoughts into some sort of sense. “In fighting the Empire with all we have. You know I believe it.”

Bewilderment blanked out Cassian’s expression again. “Yes.”

“But I’m not you.” Jyn had to be cutting off the blood in his fingertips. She couldn’t bring herself to care. “I can understand and fight for a cause. I do, everyday. Just—”

Not as Cassian did, not as the fire that animated her life. She would risk her life for the galaxy, but that was something she chose, not who she was.

“I fight hardest for myself. I live for myself, me and mine. I don’t care if it’s selfish.”

Jyn searched his face. His eyes, she thought, looked soft again. Maybe. He was frowning.

“I don’t follow.” At her sigh, blowing her fringe out of her face, Cassian said quickly, “That is, I understand. I know you. I simply don’t see how it … relates.”

She relaxed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she told him, squashing the urge to drop her eyes again, “but you’re mine, all right?”

To her relief, his confusion faded into a slow smile. It was a familiar one, by now, a mix of delighted and unsteady. Who cared that neither of them went in for endearments or chatter about love, when Cassian looked at her like that? And Jyn suspected her own expression did … something, at these moments. They were the only times her guard really cracked; she’d feel that instinctive, irrepressible something heating her cheeks and curving her mouth, though nobody seemed to notice but Luke and Cassian. The former smugly insisted that she went all bright and surprised, Jyn, it’s nice. The latter caught his breath, which honestly said more.

She felt pretty sure her face was doing the same thing now.

With his free hand, Cassian reached out and tucked her hair behind her ears. “What is the wrong way, exactly?”

His voice had dropped several registers, his thumb lingering at her cheekbone. Jyn laughed in her throat.

“It’s not that I distrust you, Cassian,” she said, smiling back. “I don’t suppose you’ll disappear without—shackles, say.” Jyn thought of Draven and nearly wrinkled her nose. “I never think that. But you know how I am. Verbal agreements are … they’re broken all the time.”

I’ll always protect you.

Stay in the bunker until daylight. I’ll be back then.

“I know you won’t,” Jyn added hastily. Cassian didn’t look offended or hurt, just thoughtful, eyes studying her and fingers resting lightly against her jaw. But with him, she never knew what would sail past and what he’d torment himself over for weeks.

Cassian did keep his word, with her. Jyn trusted him to keep it. But a more general wariness lingered in her.

She fumbled for words. “It’s just …”

“Safer?”

“Oh, fine.” Jyn scowled. “Safer. You were right. Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes,” Cassian said readily. In one of the great injustices of the universe, he had dimples, when he was happy enough to show them. Like now.

As always, though, he quickly turned grave.

“I try not to think of the future,” he said, each word slow and careful. 

She narrowed her eyes. As she did, Jyn realized that if they stood another inch closer, they’d be colliding. She wasn’t sure when that had happened, which one had moved. Probably both; they’d done that from the first. Cassian seemed to notice at the same time, his eyes very dark as he searched for words.

“We have cheated death so many times, but I—” He shook his head. “But sometimes I imagine, anyway. Jyn, I never picture a life without you in it.”

Her mood flashed to absurdly cheerful. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jyn,” he murmured, only just audible, his entire body tilted to her. They’d be kissing already if she were taller. But she straightened up as he leaned that bit down, and he was whispering against her lips, “Jyn, Jyn.”

They pressed together, accustomed enough that it was easy, natural: a familiar language in the slide of his fingers down her throat and her hands in his hair, the parting of their lips and uneven breaths. Not enough for it to feel ordinary, for her to think anything for a few long seconds beyond Cassian and I want, I want—

When they separated, breathless, she collected herself enough to remember her one reservation.

“We’d give up our secrecy, though,” she admitted. “And Command wouldn’t let us serve together.”

Cassian hesitated, then looked into her face and said, “They don’t have to know.”

“What about all those rights?” said Jyn, putting his hair back into order with the ease of long habit.

“Leia,” he said instantly.

It took a moment to follow that particular leap of thought. Only a moment, though.

“You think she’d help hide this?”

“I think she already is,” said Cassian. “One way or another.”

Luke, of course. He told her everything. And odds were good that Leia had figured it out on her own, anyway. She had the same sort of uncanny sense about people. Though she never said a word, she’d always treated them as a package arrangement, you and Erso need to embedded into every order she gave.

Jyn grinned as Cassian straightened her vest. “She does owe us a favour.”

“I don’t imagine that will be necessary. But if it is …” He gave an eminently Cassian shrug, then touched his thumb to her bottom lip. Another repair: the thumb came away smeared with a drop of blood.

Is that a yes? she almost asked, but she had some pride.

“You need to drink more water, Jyn.”

She decided it was.

#anon replies #respuestas #jyn erso #cassian andor #kaytoo #otp: welcome home #luke skywalker #star wars #fic talk #esb au #the instant i got this (months ago sorry anon) i thought ... omg it would be terrible. amazingly terribad. i love my failboat children

[equalmeasurefiction]

What are your thoughts on Tarrlok's character development?

So, I’m going to assume you mean his character arc and his development during the course of the series.  Mostly because character arc questions are fun to answer…

Woooo… where do I even start? There is so much to talk about when it comes to characters and character arcs in Legend of Korra.  I guess I’ll start by saying that Tarrlok’s arc is actually one of the stronger ones–it’s a solid downward spiral from the top a la That Scottish Play.  But Korra’s an interesting show… it’s full of ideas that aren’t fully developed, themes that are introduced only to be phased out, and moments of character development that have nothing to do with the story itself.

But I think the core of the question here is whether or not Tarrlok’s development/arc is ‘good.’  In order to establish the relative quality of any given character arc, I believe it’s important to work from the ground up–or in this case, from the base-structure up.

So, a character arc is a plot-line, but for a specific character.  Ergo, any good character arc should follow the same beats as any given plot.  That means that the character should be introduced, they should be given action, they should experience a turning point (a moment when they make a choice that changes the direction of their narrative drastically), which should lead them to make a series of choices… before they reach a satisfying, logical conclusion.

And Tarrlok’s character arc hits every single one of these points:

We are introduced to him and we get a sense of his goals and general direction.  He’s an arrogant, manipulative, power hungry politician, who wants to use the Avatar to his advantage.

He acts upon/affects the main character.  He asks Korra to join his task force, and when she refuses he manipulates her.  They work together until she leaves the task force.  After she leaves, he clearly wants her to return.

His character experiences a clear turning point.  Korra confronts him, they fight, she goes in for the kill and he blood bends her.  This choice changes the course of his narrative and initiates the series of choices… the spiral.

Tarrlok makes a series of choices that gradually push him further into a corner. He kidnaps Korra, he tries to frame the Equalists, he blood bends a group of people, he tries to take Korra and run… each one of these decisions digs him deeper into the hole he’s already built for himself.

Finally, in the climax, Tarrlok comes clean to Korra about his past, giving her vital information and he commits murder-suicide (so sayeth the creators).

So yes, it’s a solid character arc, it hits every point it needs to hit. There’s even a delightful emotional angle to it–watching a great man fall is always good drama.  But it’s also very choppy.

What do I mean by choppy?  I mean that Tarrlok’s character arc, his development, is very uneven.  We get a little of it in the beginning, but he phases in and out of the series, right up until the series hits it own turning point.  And as a result, the information the audience is given about his character falls more toward the end of the series, which makes him seem less developed than he actually is.

The problem with info-dumping is that it often requires the audience to accept a huge amount of information very quickly.  This works great for games, where that large quantity of information may provide vital pieces of a puzzle or important instructions, but it does not work in writing or media.  And it really falls flat when the information is being given by a character that has been shown to be untrustworthy.

And the first four beats of Tarrlok’s character arc show him to be a manipulative, cruel, secretive, liar who will do whatever he has to in order to achieve his ends.

Audiences aren’t dumb.  They pay attention to cues and, when a character is shown to be ‘bad’ or untrustworthy, they usually don’t want to trust them.  The only way to get an audience to trust an ‘untrustworthy’ character is to redeem them and there was no redemption arc for Councilman Tarrlok.

So, that big information dump really hurts Tarrlok’s character development more than it helps it.  And when you factor in how important Tarrlok’s character is to the actual plot and thematic direction of the series (intentional or otherwise), the fact that the viewer doesn’t see much of him early in the series is a big problem.

I say this, because Tarrlok’s character arc is tied to his relationship with Yakone and Amon–the major antagonists of the series.  And we don’t get any interaction or sense of connection between these three characters until episode 9, and the interaction we do get is too little too late.

Think about that for a minute.  Tarrlok’s connection to Yakone–the lynch pin of the series, which facilitates the reveal of Amon’s true history–is only revealed in Episode 9.  There are only three episodes left after that to wrap things up, and that’s not enough time to really dig into the implications of the connection or to let that connection sink in.

Worse still, we don’t get anything about about Tarrlok’s connection to Amon before that flashback sequence.  And while that was a beautiful flashback, it wasn’t really satisfying.  Instead of answering questions and letting the audience make connections, it served up a narrative and expected audience buy-in on the spot.

In order for Tarrlok’s arc to be satisfactory, we needed to see more of Tarrlok, more of Amon, and much more of Yakone.  And that didn’t happen in the series.

Sure, Yakone comes up before that point (and Amon is an ever menacing threat), but his legacy is never openly discussed.  And, really, this entire first season is actually about Yakone, his relationship with the Avatar, and how that relationship is perpetuated through their respective legacies (Yakone’s sons and Korra).

The show barely discusses these themes, instead it focuses on subplots and fake-outs.  Characters are underdeveloped or aspects of development are pushed aside to make room for pro-bending and romance (the pro-bending was kind of excessive, the romance was awful).  Even the Equalist Revolution, as compelling as it was, is kind of a fake out, because let’s face it, we never actually see the lives of non-benders explored in the course of this series.  It was never a priority.

What I’m saying is that Season 1, though awesome in its way, lacked focus and didn’t build momentum toward the finale.  It did a lot of “awesome things”, but those “awesome things” didn’t come together into a coherent whole in a way that satisfied the viewer.

Now, criticism is great, but it doesn’t offer solutions.  So, here’s something I’ve learned in the course of reading and writing:

Never sneak up on your reader/viewer.

Yes, people say they love surprises, but that’s not really true.  People like the anticipation that leads up to a reveal, not the reveal itself.  They like to pick up the clues with the main character, study them, think about them, and come to conclusions.

Tarrlok’s arc, from a structural perspective, was fine.  Like I said, he has a strong character arc and decent development.  But, in order for the dramatic reveal in Episode 11 to work, we needed a lot more clues and hints about Tarrlok’s background.  

Maybe those hints could come from the triads–they’d remember Yakone.  I imagine there would be thugs who hold up Yakone’s legacy as a means of earning respect and power.

Having some triad members claim: “I was trained by Yakone!”  Or that they were: “Yakone’s son!” (even though they weren’t) would have introduced the idea that Yakone might have a legacy and, if these were powerful benders, it would have helped cement Yakone as a menacing and threatening figure in Republic City, instead of just an odd piece of the past that keeps coming up.  I mean, really a blood bender that terrorized a major city?  A man who escaped incarceration?  He’d be a local legend!

I think getting more interactions between Tarrlok and Amon would have also helped.  If we’d had scenes from Korra’s time on the task force where they confronted Amon and Amon refused to attack Tarrlok… that would have raised some questions and helped the audience come to terms with the narrative direction long before the end of the series.

Maybe we could have had more scenes were Tarrlok compared himself to Aang and Amon to Yakone.  An obsession with that narrative would have provided a bit more context for Tarrlok’s relationship with Yakone, but also his interest in Korra.

#Tarrlok #Structure #Character arc #avatar: legend of korra #a:lok #Writing #Technical Writing #Structural Analysis #Long-ass answer #yakone #Amon

[cleopatraas]

Byrne: Part Four

A/N: This is my favorite chapter I’ve written so far. 

I, II, III

He had spent at least twenty minutes scrubbing Ciel’s blue blood off his palm. It stained his skin, like a permanent taunt. Byrne eventually gave up, but at least the blood was gone. He ran his hands through his hair, staring at the long scar on his cheek.

It ran from his temple, down the side of his face, continuing down his neck. Byrne swallowed and it stood stark white against his tanned skin. He looked away from the mirror and walked out back in Abraxi’s room.

“Get out!” The witch screeched. Byrne raised his eyebrows and hesitantly lifted his hands over his eyes. There was a pause and a snort before Byrne grumbled, pulling his hands down. She wasn’t even bare. Though she was standing in front of him now. Byrne smiled at her shortness again.

“You look…” Byrne trailed off and he lifted his hands when Abraxi angled the her dagger at his abdomen. He sighed and took the necessary amount of steps back, until she lowered her dagger.

“I was going to say you look-” “I don’t care,” Abraxi said flatly. She slid her blade in her thigh holster, turning away from him. Byrne swallowed heavily and he nodded to himself, a small sigh escaping past his lips. 

He bowed his head slightly and settled himself in his chair again, watching her. The dark purple dress looked exquisite on her. The straps were thin and it pooled around her feet. Her back was entirely bare. He pursed his lips and leaned back, watching as she looked at herself in the mirror. “Your hair looks better down,” Byrne commented off-handedly, as he tried to give her a small smile.

She scowled and his smile fell immediately. Instead her pursed his lips. Abraxi turned her face up slightly and Byrne pulled his shoulders in, setting his face to neutral. “Why were you in my bathroom? How did you get there?”

“Nothing here is yours, Abraxi. I’m just renting the place out for you,” Byrne shrugged, holding his tongue. He slowly leaned back in his chair, his legs stretching out. His shadows rose from his shoulders and his ravens appeared again.

“What are they? Pets?” Abraxi looked at her hair in the mirror again and she scowled at her reflection. A small tick worked in her cheek and he wondered if she was thinking about her hair. He chuckled and leaned forward.

“No. They’re not my pets. I can normally summon them, but they like to appear whenever they choose,” Byrne paused and he narrowed his eyes, as if he were trying to convince himself to shut up. “Shadows are apart of me. It’s like an extension”

“Like my father?”

Byrne snarled and he held back his spat. “I’m nothing like your cursed father,” Byrne shot up and he gripped the side of the drawer, trying to calm down. His shadows rolled down his arm and Abraxi stepped back slightly. The witchling slowly took the pins out of her hair, letting it fall down her back.

Byrne swallowed slowly and he sighed. He rubbed his jaw and cracked his neck “Come with me,” Byrne tried to ask. He awkwardly held out his hand, giving her a painful smile that looked more like he was about to eat her.

Abraxi bared her teeth and snapped at him before walking straight past and out the door. “Or not,” Byrne sighed and he followed her. He paused slightly and closed the door, rubbing the long, thin scar on half of his face. He closed his eyes before he started to walk again.

He touched her left or her right arm gently, signalling for her to turn. Each time she flinched, so he pulled back and just pointed. Byrne looked down at his hands and he saw the shadows swirling.

“What the hell are Yellowlegs doing here?” Abraxi asked. Byrne looked up and he shrugged at the witches with yellow bands wrapped around their foreheads. He knew all of them by name, having met them once or twice in his lifetime. Or a hundred times.

His back grew a little straighter and he walked faster. “They’re here for hope” He grabbed her elbow gently and ignored Abraxi’s efforts to try to yank away. Byrne stopped at the large oak doors and he bowed his head, receiving head bows in return.

“Is that a person?” Abraxi prodded him. He snorted at the back of his throat and shook his head. Abraxi glared at him, and he tried his best to ignore her. 

“Iskra has arrived,” One of the Yellowlegs said. Byrne gave her a tight smile and she opened the door, along with her sister. He lead Abraxi into the throne room and he let her go immediately. He knew she hated his touch, they all did.

“Ciel!” Abraxi screamed, picking up her skirts and running towards her brother. Byrne paused and he turned around, watching as she launched herself into the witch’s chest. He could heard Ciel’s moans from here and he watched with a raised eyebrow as Abraxi gave him a once over.

“Rajni,” She sobbed and slowly walked over to her sister. Byrne turned his head and he walked away. Aradia stood by his throne and they both narrowed their eyes at the same time. Byrne snarled and Aradia stubbornly fell to one knee. That wouldn’t be the last of it. God, he could practically sense her happiness at his anger.

And the darn witch knew why he was angry.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” Abraxi screamed at him. Byrne flinched as if it were a physical blow and he looked back at the witchling. He gave a long shrug and a cruel smile before he walked to Aradia.

“Where is Iskra?” Aradia gave him a cold smile and Byrne lifted up his hand. Aradia choked and blood poured from her nostrils. Abraxi gasped but he ignored it, grabbing his step-mother’s chin tightly. “I will deal with you in a moment, but I wish to greet my sister” He snarled, leveling his canines at her throat.

“Byrne, let her go,” The multi-Heir paused and he let his step-mother go. He turned around and grinned at Iskra Yellowlegs, standing in the doorway. Iskra grinned back and she walked over to him, giving him a short but satisfactory hug. “Is everyone here?” She held his face gently, stroking his longest scar.

Byrne nodded and he petted her hair from a short moment, before pulling away. He locked eyes with Abraxi and he pursed his lips. “Abraxi, please step away from my guests”

“Like hell I will,” Abraxi snarled. She narrowed her eyes, blocking Ciel with her body. Byrne sighed and he clenched his fists as Aradia laughed. A little longer. He just had to control himself for a little longer.

Byrne held his hand up as Iskra moved forward, effectively stopping his older sister against her will. “Just give her a moment,” His sister bared her long iron teeth, but she nodded before settling herself down on the arm of his throne.

“What has he done to you,” Abraxi whispered. She looked at Ciel and she nearly screamed when she saw the brand on his shoulder. Her brother hissed and he tried to pull away, blue blood streaming down his chest.

“B-Burned...wyrdmarks. What about you?” Ciel tried for a lazy grin but he grimaced in pain. Abraxi looked at her friends, her family, and she saw wyrdmarks burned into all their skin. Brands. He had branded them. She covered her mouth and looked back at Byrne.

“Finish the Lion,” Byrne said without any hint of the emotion Abraxi was used to in his voice. Abraxi wondered why she ever received any of his kindness. If what was even considered that. Maybe it was all a game. A giant chess board.

Why was he doing this?

“No!” Lyria screamed, tears slowly streaming through the blood on her face. Byrne looked away as Aradia stood up. He slowly walked onto the dais and sat on his throne.

“Aradia,” Byrne said casually, leaning back. Iskra ran her hand down Byrne’s arm and Byrne pushed her hand off impatiently. Iskra rolled her eyes, running her fingers down her braided hair. “I found out something interesting. My ravens still carry news from across the sea you know”

Aradia paused. Lyria screamed, even as her mouth betrayed her, her lips staying shut. She thrashed and Byrne twisted his fingers and she immediately stopped moving. Her light hair was matted with blood and she watched helpless as Aradia slowly began to burn Wyrdmarks into Gavriel’s chest, causing the Lion to arch and bellow.

Aradia raised her eyebrows at Byrne before focusing back on her work. The way she did it with ease was sickening and bile rose from Artemis’s mouth. She closed her eyes, whimpering as she heard her grandfather scream in pain.

Byrne drunk in his noises of pain. “And what is it you’ve heard?” She turned away from Gavriel, as his flesh slowly popping. The smell reached Byrne’s nostrils and he held back his chokes.

“You’ve hurt a child. More than one if I could hazard guess. And you’ve experimented on pregnant,” Byrne clenched the arms of his chair and his shadows exploded around him like a dark cloud as he breathed his final word, the room going deadly silent, “women”

Iskra froze along with everyone else. Shadows swam across the floor and up the walls. Byrne glared at his step-mother, his breathing getting shallower and shallower. Aradia had the nerve to grin.

“Is there a problem, Byrne?” She snarled at his name, her iron teeth scraping against her bottom lip. 

“Stop burning the Lion,” Byrne said tightly. Abraxi shuddered and she hugged herself, trying to guard both her siblings still. Lyria’s face had taken on a red color and she looked to be calming down because of his order. As if he cared. This wasn’t for her.

“Stop burning him” Byrne said again, tendrils of darkness curling around everyone. The scent was driving him over the edge, no matter how hard he tried to anchor himself. His canines elongated and his eyes burned darker, an empty bit of shadows. Abraxi gave off a short scream. 

“What are you,” Abraxi winced, backing away. Byrne flinched at that, wondering how terrible his canines truly looked. He began to walk towards his step-mother. Aradia stumbled away from Gavriel and the burning smell slowly faded away.

“Haven’t you been listening?” Byrne said between clenched teeth. “I’m a monster” He snarled, teeth clenched tightly as if he were holding back. Abraxi realized he was holding back. Even then the room still shook and Abraxi fell down to her knees, staring up in horror at the thing in front of her. Almost...demonic.

“This is what I am and it’s not my fault,” Byrne stared at her for a moment. He analyzed the fear and he shook his head, closing his eyes and gripping the back of his neck. “It’s not my fault,” He whispered quietly, before they were all devoured in darkness.

#Byrne #Abraxi #Aradia Yellowlegs #Iskra Yellowlegs #Ciel #Lyria #Gavriel #Rajni #Artemis #underthe-mountain fanfic #hermajestymanon fanfic

[blcdeforhire]

an “alternate ending” to this thing that @welcometoaltima wanted me to write.

     Tracking them down hadn’t been easy. You’d not expected it to be easy, all things considered, but you’d not expected it to be this difficult, either. For a group of so-called werewolf hunters, they’d made themselves particularly difficult to pin down. You’d asked some of the locals, but none of them seemed to be even remotely aware of the Silver Hand existing at all.

     Instead, you’d sought help from the Companions, who seemed to know where the hideouts of their main enemy were hidden away.

     ❝ Driftshade Refuge, ❞ Salvasi had responded when you’d asked for their assistance. ❝ It’s out in the Pale, between Frostflow Lighthouse and Fort Fellhammer. Here. ❞ She’d marked it on your map, which you were eternally grateful for because you weren’t sure you’d find it any other way.

     So, with a few supplies packed away in a bag and a few weapons strapped to your hips and back, you mounted your horse and began the long journey north.

     Despite how far you had to travel, it only take about half a day to reach your destination. You dismount your horse at a safe distance, tying it to a tree and giving it a soft pat on the neck before moving forward. Driftshade looked like an old fort of some kind, given the collapsed stone walls. Only one building was truly intact, and you suspected that it had been, at one point, the fort dungeon.

     Even from your position, safely hidden by the foliage, you could see two of the Silver Hand keeping watch. There were multiple ways you could’ve gone about this: summon an atronach and risk giving yourself away; draw your sword and attempt to take them on in a frontal assault; or draw your bow and shoot them down from your current position. After a short time to contemplate your options, you decide on the third. It would be your safest way in, and, at least if you missed, it would provide a decent distraction.

     An arrow is drawn back, your gaze steady; sights set upon the one guarding the door, you wait another moment longer before releasing the draw string. The arrow goes soaring, hitting its target dead on; by the time the second one has come ‘round to investigate, you’ve already had the chance to notch another arrow and ready it. Your eyes follow them for a few moments before you loose the second arrow. They turn just in time to get the arrow tip to their throat. Only once they’ve fallen and ceased moving do you dare tread out from the cover of the foliage, keeping low just in case. You don’t even bother to loot the corpses left behind before you make your way into the building.

     As you’d suspected, it was far larger in here than its outward appearance lead one to believe. Most of it was underground, and your initial suspicions are confirmed. While it didn’t look like much any more, the layout of the area told you that this had been the fort dungeon once upon a time. Most of the place looked relatively intact, though piles of rubble lined some of the walls.

     Down the steps do you travel, pausing when you catch movement down below you. Two more Silver Hand were patrolling the room; one, you could tell, was an archer. Perhaps it would be best to deal with them first, you decide, drawing back another arrow. The tip is leveled with the back of their neck, your hands steady and your sharp gaze focused from behind hazy goggles. For several beats, you don’t move, crouched behind the small stone parapet as best you can. Then you release the arrow, watching as it soars through the air and hits its target dead center. There’s a gargled gasp as they topple forward from their chair; their friend comes rushing over, sword drawn in a defensive manner. As they turn, you get the satisfaction of planting yet another arrow between their eyes.

     As you go to move forward, a horrifying scream echoes through the fort. You go completely rigid, breath catching in your throat. You recognized that scream, you knew that voice--

     Throwing caution to the wind, you hurry down the steps and to the wooden door across the way. You try to open it, to no avail; it’s barred from the other side, and you’re not physically strong enough to break it down. Still, you ram your shoulder into the wood a handful of times, until you’re sure you’d end up with a nasty bruise; the door doesn’t move an inch, and you hit it with your fist in frustration. Looks like you’d be taking the long way around.

     You should be moving silently, cautiously, picking off Silver Hand as you go, but in your fury you forget to do just that. Every werewolf hunter that comes your way gets an arrow between the eyes, whether you shoot it at them or stab it through their skull with your own two hands. They would regret this, you’d make sure of that.

     Despite how quickly you manage to work through the fort, it feels as though it’s been an agonizing process. Your armor is torn in places, fresh wounds mingling with old scars, as if your body was a canvas and their weapons a paintbrush. You pause for a brief moment to cast a Fast Healing spell upon yourself, before you drop your bow upon the ground and draw your sword. No matter what you found on the other side of this door, their leader would pay for what they’d done to Bezi.

     With a deep breath, you let the door swing open and step inside.

     In that moment, your nerve seems to leave you. Bezi is strung up on one of the wooden posts, silver weapons glistening with his blood. They’d impaled him at least a dozen times, if not more, with daggers and swords and silver-tipped arrows. He appears completely lifeless, usually bright blue eyes radiating with warmth now shockingly cold and empty. You can feel the lump in your throat, threatening to choke you, as your vision starts to blur. They killed him, strung him up like a game trophy for all to see. They treated his corpse like a prize - the thought alone gets your blood boiling once more.

     Despite the tears collecting in your eyes, your gaze sharpens once more and turns to settle upon the leader of the Silver Hand. He strolls towards you with confidence, expression smug and his weapon held lax in his grip. You’re certain your knuckles are turning white from how tightly you’re gripping your own. With a howl of fury, you rush him, fully intent on making sure he doesn’t leave this place alive.

     Metal clashes against metal as the two of you battle. Even in spite of the fury burning white-hot in your chest, you’re able to think clearly. Rushing head-long into a fight without thinking strategically has rarely ever wielded satisfactory results; that was something you’d learned a long time ago. Through all of this, your opponent seems to find himself regretting his decision; he was larger in stature, if by only a small margin, though more heavily-armored. You’re able to dance circles around him and his greatsword, shooting in to land a few strikes before leaping out of harm’s reach.

     Eventually, you impale him on your weapon. He lets out a gasp, sword clattering to the stone floor hollowly. Breathing heavily, you lean forward to look him in the eye.

     ❝ That’s for Bezi. ❞ And then you remove your sword and watch as he collapses, lifeless, to the floor.

     Without even pausing to think, you make your way towards your friend, exhaustion weighing heavily on you. Using your dagger, you cut him free and lower him to the floor. The tears have sprung up anew, blurring your vision again; you remove your helmet and toss it aside, running the back of your sleeve across your eyes. Then you set yourself to removing the weapons from the giant’s form, grunting with the effort of trying to remove the arrows in one piece. Once they’ve all been freed from his body, you use a Healing Hands spell, though you’re not really sure why. Bezi was dead because you hadn’t been fast enough to save him.

     So wrapped up in your thoughts are you that you don’t even notice the light return to Bezi’s eyes - you don’t even realize he’s alive until you hear him gasping for air. Startled, you jerk back a hair and turn a surprised look upon him. Gods be praised, he was alive!

     ❝ Tel...? ❞ The poor man sounds completely exhausted, and in no small amount of pain. ❝ Wh-- where am I? ❞

     ❝ That’s not important, ❞ you tell him, smiling in spite of the tears that fall. ❝ You’re okay now. That’s all that matters. ❞

     He offers you a weak smile, barely able to move from all of the silver in his system. He was extremely warm to the touch, dark skin flushed from fever; you felt like it would be a few days yet before he could travel of his own accord.

     ❝ I want-- I want to go home, ❞ he murmurs. ❝ Take me back home, Tel. ❞

     ❝ I can try. Let me help you up... ❞

     Retrieving your helmet, you place it back over your head before helping him to his feet. He’s leaning heavily against you, feet dragging as he struggles to walk; you’re forced to hobble slowly towards the door and up the stairs, more than ready to leave this horrible place behind. Once outside, your horse kneels so that Bezi can mount without much struggle. You untie it from the tree as it stands, and slowly but surely you begin the long trek back to Whiterun.

     For the next couple of weeks, you stay with him at Jorrvaskr, tending to him to the best of your abilities. He thanks you every time, but you can’t help the guilt that eats away at you.

     If you’d moved more quickly, he wouldn’t have been harmed.

     This was your fault.

#doᥱs ιt fᥱᥱᥣ ᥣιkᥱ ᥲ trιᥲᥣ | drᥲbbᥣᥱs #bastardswxrd #violence cw #death cw #blood cw #ask to tag #[intense yikes.png] #[this has only been sitting here for 84 years]