#((and that's an interesting idea; the others sort of remembering their time as ghosts...but perhaps; like dorian; they chalk it up))
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https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/719251327573786624/beatingheart-bride-theheadlessgroom
@beatingheart-bride
It always surprised Wilhelm to hear that little reminder, that affirmation, that he did not deserve to be shunned or treated as harshly as he was: Although he was a proud man-proud of his heritage, proud of his family, proud of where he came from-and was never afraid to say so, a man could only take so much abuse before he started to believe it himself. He tried not to let it get under his skin, of course, reminding himself that they were just narrow-minded people who didn’t know him the way people like his wife and son did, but still...
...it still managed to burrow under his skin like a damned tick. It burrowed, it planted itself in him, slowly poisoned him-it made him stop, second-guess himself, even when he knew he shouldn’t. It was frustrating, exhausting, and demoralizing, but still, he hung in there. Call it stubbornness (the hallmark of a good Pace), call it optimism, a sort of Pollyanna-ish outlook on things, but he reminded himself that the harsh words, the rude stares, the little whispers...they meant nothing. He let them roll off his back, and instead chose to believe in the little reminders: From June, from Randall...
…and now, from Emily.
“Thank you, lass,” he smiled softly at that: Neither do you, he wanted to say, but for now, he settled on gratitude for the kind words of this sweet siren, sitting in his bathtub.
#((he's totally kicking himself! but he won't waste another moment; he's already done so long enough!))#((and honestly; it's going to be HILARIOUSLY easy for dorian and emily to pull the wool over the eyes of all of louisiana!))#((because you're right; they-and both sets of parents-really will only see what they wanna see! it'll take little convincing))#((for the gracey and de clair parents to get onboard with this union; they have no reason as far as they can see))#((to believe that their children are being disingenuous; they completely buy into the notion that they're wildly in love with one another))#((and couldn't be happier at the thought! neither could've picked a better; more ideal spouse for their child!))#((and y'know; i could see beau and lena tagging along with the others! i think beau; being more of a father figure to dorian))#((than his *actual* father would want to be there for the wedding/be by his ward's side in this new chapter of his life))#((and of course lena wants to see her daughter get married and be a part of her life as well; so i could see her tagging along too!))#((and that's an interesting idea; the others sort of remembering their time as ghosts...but perhaps; like dorian; they chalk it up))#((to being nothing more than nightmares; not knowing the truth behind them? it's an interesting idea; i dig it!))#outofhatboxes#beatingheart-bride#V:Part of Your World
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Crack headcanoodle monday: the Winnower wishes to preserve the state of the game and the status quo. The Gardener is tired of one shape always winning and changes the rules to fundamentally alter the game and give other shapes a chance. Their estranged offspring, Witness, it tired of the endless, pointless cycle of life-death-life-death and wishes to raze the universe of all life so no one suffers anymore. It very much subscribes to the theory of "why live if you die anyway"/"why fight if you will lose anyway". It is soon to be taught a lesson by its creators it is rebelling against.
That's a really cool idea, omg.
I've been thinking about something similar, specifically that the Witness is maybe some sort of manifestation of the Winnower that it needed to place into the game.
Now, literally just now as I rewatched the starting cutscene I remembered something that I first thought of when I saw this scene:
Ghost Fragment: The Traveler 3:
The knife had a million blades.
This lore tab is a recounting of the Collapse from the Traveler's POV. The knife attacked with a million blades and "cut its godly flesh." It also "stole so much more than your body."
Blades would be the Pyramid ships. Their angles in that second image were always so peculiar to me, we don't usually see them like that. The look like blades, perhaps on a spear or arrow. Or a knife.
And well. In Unveiling the Winnower says:
I looked at the gardener.
I looked at my hands.
I discovered the first knife.
When they fought in the Garden, the Winnower "discovered" the first knife, possibly some sort of manifestation of the Witness that it's using to chase down the Gardener. In that sense, your theory is basically there; the Witness would be some type of progeny of the first conflict.
It's really evocative that the only time we've ever seen the Witness physically affect reality around it was when it did the slicening of the Ghost and Guardian and their ships (sliced, like with a knife). As it was passing through a beam of Light. Outside of that, it always appears through shattered glass or speaking through our Ghost. It doesn't do anything; perhaps it can't unless it's being directly affected by the Gardener. It can interact with that for which it was made; the original conflict between Gardener and Winnower. Otherwise, it needs Disciples to do its bidding.
The Witness is obsessed with bringing about the final shape and it believes it can only be done so with what it did; connected the Veil with the Traveler, opened a portal to an unknown dimension and... Currently unknown and characters are hard at work to figure it out. I am most interested in what it told the Traveler:
"The universe makes us all victim and perpetrator of its infinite cruelty. You, more than any, suffer both fates.
And:
"Be free."
I am currently obsessed with this and thinking it could mean that the way to enact the final shape would be to remove the Gardener from the game and effectively restart the universe. By "freeing" the Gardener from the body it used to enter the game (Traveler), and banishing it back to the original dimension it came from (the original metaphorical garden where the Gardener and Winnower fought), the final shape can happen. Originally, before the Gardener's change of rules, the final shape were always the Vex. Perhaps Sol Divisive know what's up. Or the Witness is simply using them and the ultimate goal is revert to a reality without the Gardener's rule and start anew.
Ghosts currently can't feel the Traveler, but the Light isn't gone. The Gardener may have been banished from its body, but its rule is still in effect in the universe. For now. In that sense, the Gardener is the victim of it all, but also the perpetrator, for enabling that rule in the first place.
This is all purely speculation ofc, but I've always wanted some really cool follow up on the Unveiling and the original conflict and possibly an explanation for a few things that are quite strange and are related to a dimension we haven't seen yet. The place outside of time and space, the original garden.
There's so much possibility here. We could be completely wrong or we could be entirely correct. Or a secret third thing (correct in wrong ways, or wrong in correct ways). I don't expect anyone to really guess what's up, but this is currently what's really interesting to think about until we get any sort of confirmation or denial.
#destiny 2#destiny 2 spoilers#lightfall#lightfall spoilers#witness#traveler#winnower#gardener#lore vibing#long post#ask#this is super cool to ponder about#vibrating to find out the truth about the witness one day
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Mister Magic
I'm always searching for good horror audiobooks because, I suppose, people reading to me just never gets old, and I got to get my dose of The Horrors somehow. Most of the time I find something too self-indulgent or too mindless to be any good, but every once in a while I find something like Mister Magic.
Val can't remember her childhood, but she has always assumed something bad happened and that it in some way was her fault. She is about as content as she can be with her past being a painful mystery until her Friends find her again. Turns out, Val was part of the long-running TV series Mister Magic as a child until just before a tragedy saw the thing cancelled. Now, a cast reunion and retrospective may see the show rebooted, but Val can't shake the feeling that her past should perhaps stay buried.
Mister Magic is another in the "adults re-experience some Fucked Up Magical Shit from their childhood" genre of story, akin to King's It and Malfi's Black Mouth, although the lens of the progatonist having amnesia does provide an interesting twist on the whole thing as the narration doesn't have to pussyfoot around as to why she doesn't tell the audience what exactly went down back then. She is, after all, equally as curious, and equally as apprehensive to figure out as we the readers are.
Like the other books I mentioned above, Mister Magic also makes no bones about how it is about Trauma and specifically religious trauma. It doesn't take much knowledge about the more prolific cults of the contigious US to recognize the subtext, and occasional actual text, about mormonism as the source of the trauma.
This isn't to say it's all compulsory happiness, golden plates, and magic underwear, mind you. The book also has a robust horror mythology in itself, working with settings of eerie liminality, the fear of the unknown, the terror of malevolent cults and powerful forces beyond the ken of man. The reveal of what exactly is going on and why they are doing it happens piece by piece, but as things fall into place there is a delicious chill of neo-lovecraftian bleakness to it.
There's also one of the simplest but most powerful instances of body horror I have come across. Author Kiersten White has a real talent for making ideas stick from subtext and up, and in the scene in question she really lets the hooks sink in with some truly nauseating dream logic capped off with the vague but undeniably primal fear of something fucked up being out there and waiting to GET your ass.
Speaking of things that may have a vested interest RE:your ass, the titular character and ostensible protagonist of the TV show is also very interesting to me. His presence haunts the story, but he, or perhaps "it" is more apropriate, feels more like a ghost than an actual threat. Our heroes, per a childhood agreement, do not speak his name, and they all seem to have their own interpretation of exactly what "the man in the cape" as they've come to call him, was. Without getting into spoilers, I will say that the book handles resolving the built-up expectations of what sort of a being we're dealing with here in an untraditional way, but the end result is, I would argue, more satisfying than what either It or Black Mouth could muster.
I could go on honestly, especially the characters and how the author plays with our sympathies and assumptions, and try to unpack how this book has the protagonist change and learn throughout while seeming sympathetic throughout which is a thing curiously many authors seem to struggle with, and a bunch of other things, but I feel like I've said enough. Mister Magic. It's a good book. Read it, listen to it, whatever works for you.
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Okay guess who slept last night THIS BITCH so here we go, my toddler and I discussed this en route to preschool this morning. More coherent thoughts: essentially, until last night, the entire Christian/Lucha vs Darby/Nick/(Fox) story was very easily rationalized as happening because Darby was going for the TNT belt and Christian was either thinking he was a credible threat or simply wanted to ensure that he was distracted and therefore started this overlap in their stories. After last night, this excuse no longer holds, and this whole thing is deliberate in some other way.
Perhaps the most important thing to keep in mind is how much Jack’s ghost is hovering over this entire narrative: they have been methodical with the call-backs, and there have been enough of them that we can assume we are SUPPOSED to be seeing Jack's fingerprints covering this. But that sort of leads us into a few questions here, and the first one is trying to sort out if Christian's real target is Nick or Darby.
Before last night, I would have said Nick, easy. He's young, he's fatherless (lol), and he's the clear Jack stand-in. But the thing I wonder if I have been overlooking is how he is also, perhaps most importantly, a weakness. Specifically, he is Darby’s weakness. Comms have gone hard with the idea that Darby now has to care about something other than himself, and he has already lost because of it. (You could argue that he lost of his own accord at All Out, but Nick was enough of a threat to his victory that he came into play at least twice during the match.) The angle with Fox has, additionally, brought into question whether or not Nick will stand by Darby’s side no matter what, or if there are some hard lines being drawn in the sand. So it's clear that the Nick v Darby possibility is bubbling up closer to the surface. They can thread this needle for awhile with the right build-up.
Last night marks the second time that Christian came in with the idea that Nick should be mentored by someone with a championship belt. Honestly, I would have put money on Darby getting the TNT last weekend, and I'm still not entirely convinced that we were wrong about that prediction, but an interesting option was opened up over the weekend: OC no longer has the International belt, and Darby is now free to pursue it. (I don't think he ever would have gone after it while OC had it, since they tagged together. Darby, remember, is sometimes loyal to a fault.) Darby is obviously in the tournament to go after MJF again (which I assume Roderick will get, but the point remains that it is an option), but he could also be in the running for going after Mox. I'm still mulling over what Christian's angle here means.
Before, when this was assumed to be TNT belt threat related, we could rationalize a lot, and now, we have to ask ... why? Why is Christian still dogging after Darby and Nick if the threat is gone? There isn't a solid reason anymore! So let's take a look at our little ghost, existing in spectral form above this entire thing. As far as Jack’s tag/story partners from the past year, we have this:
* Luchasaurus: betrayed by, Jack defeated in the cage match
* Christian: betrayed by, Jack defeated in the coffin match
* Hook: betrayed, Jack defeated for the FTW (and then lost to)
* Darby: not betrayed, despite MJF literally outright asking Jack to do it
It's worth noting that actually, Jack had TWO chances to betray Darby: once in the tag match after MJF asked him to, and once again in the 4-way, when all he had to do was hit him with the belt to be crowned champion. That's it. That's Jack’s last year, minus random matches. Those are the big stories he has had. And Jack, remember, posts photos when something big happens, and during this time, he has posted pictures about Christian, Hook, and .... Darby.
With no clear reason yet why Christian is going after Nick and Darby, and last night, where despite Christian approaching Nick directly backstage, he spent his entire time on comms during the match focusing on Darby, it’s possible that he is trying to figure out what it is about Darby that makes him an outlier in Jack’s recent history. It's fantasy booking for sure! Mostly, I just want it. But we also can't rule it out and our options are starting to narrow. All the obvious "reasons" for these circles to overlap are falling away.
Is this setting up Nick turning on Darby? Possible, though we discounted them turning Nick heel so early - though if they play this right, he doesn't even HAVE to be. Is this setting up Nick going with Christian? Possible, though something big would have to happen for that to happen given that Christian is being such a creep about it, lol. Is this finally going to summon Jack in as a direct participant in the narrative? Possible, and timing may need to be adjusted on this with him out. Remember, Hook being in that random 8-man tag drew Jack out into the story for the first time since he "ended" stories with all three of the others (Lucha, Christian, Darby), when he came flying out to attack Hook in the post-match brawl. (And he very deliberately did not run into any of them out there, despite how they were in the same ring.)
The Christian recruits Nick as the new Jack angle opens up the most possibilities for a full overlap (and Jack coming in), but none of them discount his involvement, since we are obviously supposed to be remembering him this whole time. I doubt his story with Hook is completely done, since that's been set up as a long-running tent pole to both their careers, but I suspect we will see him fall back into this as more unfolds. These stories are running so close to each other that they are almost side by side right now, and given what we know about Jack and Darby’s history, there's no way they have left that loop open by accident.
#wrestling theory with katy time#HERE WE GO FAM LET'S DIG DEEP INTO THIS#darby allin#christian cage#nick wayne#jack perry#deep dive ring posts
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National Post article by Canadian columnist Father Raymond J deSouza
Here’s an interesting take on Spare by a Canadian columnist, Father Raymond J. de Souza. What I find particularly compelling is his take on the ghostwriter’s role in this dumpster fire
National Post
Raymond J. de Souza: Could drug-addled Harry’s tome be the most boring book of the year?
Opinion by Father Raymond J. de Souza - Saturday
https://www.msn.com/en-ca/entertainment/news/raymond-j-de-souza-could-drug-addled-harry-s-tome-be-the-most-boring-book-of-the-year/ar-AA16PH
Prince Harry’s new book,
© Provided by National Post
Spare is a slog.
Prince Harry is very famous, but his life is not very interesting. His ideas less so. Yet, having written about the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, I felt professionally obligated to read, as the Sussexes would put it, “their truth.”
The reviews have not been kind. The BBC reviewer was dismissive, calling it the “ longest angry drunk text ever sent .” Other reviews were savage, ridiculing Harry for thinking that his dead mother sends him messages in the form of animals .
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Tedium sets in quickly. On almost every page there is someone being mean to Harry. No slight is too trivial to be remembered, resented, recorded and written down. At one point, even the Imperial State Crown, despite its evident elegance, torments Harry. It’s caged up in the Tower of London, not free as ordinary crowns are to wander the bright sunlit uplands, a metaphor for Harry’s lot in life.
Comedy can relieve the boredom. Jokes about his accounts of the frostbitten family jewels — not the ones in the Tower — almost write themselves: Harry demanded privacy so that he could publicly describe his private parts …
“At all costs, I avoided sitting quietly with a book,” he writes about his teenage years, instead “memorizing long passages of Ace Ventura .” Later, after meeting Meghan, who mentions a book that she is reading, he explains, at age 32: “Sorry. Not really big on books.”
That someone who doesn’t read would have the fastest-selling book in history is simply hilarious.
I invented a game to pass the time, trying to identify what words or phrasings could not possibly have come from Harry, but were invented out of whole cloth by the ghostwriter, J.R. Moehringer. “Vertiginous”? Harry was a pilot, though, so perhaps. In any case, Harry recorded the audio book, which means he had to learn how to pronounce even the words he didn’t know.
As the tome dragged on, I suspected that Moehringer had written the entire book in a sort of code, undermining Harry even as it gave vent to his whingeing, with the ghost knowing that the principal was too daft to see through the draft. Moehringer littered the text with obvious mistakes , easily fact-checked.
For example, as anyone who has visited King’s College, Cambridge — or looked it up on Wikipedia — ought to know, there is no direct line of descendants from King Henry VI. So when Moehringer has Harry saying that Eton was founded by his “great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather,” he is revealing him as ignorant of basic royal history. Not even Henry VIII was a direct descendant of Henry VI, and Henry VIII’s line ran out with Elizabeth I.
Why repeatedly undermine Harry in his own “auto”-biography? It’s as if Moehringer wants to caution us against accepting anything Harry says as true.
Constant, unremitting drug use — cannabis, cocaine, psychedelics — marked Harry’s life from his teens onward. Settling in to his new home in Montecito in 2020, Harry lights up a joint. So when Moehringer includes Harry’s doubts about his own memory, is he warning us that at many points, Harry was too drunk or too high to be a reliable witness?
Related video: Prince Harry’s memoir ‘Spare’ described as 'explosive’ (The Associated Press)
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It is not just the obvious contradictions that plague the perpetually aggrieved prince, such as fretting about security while gratuitously writing about Taliban kills, an unnecessary detail that could inflame those who might wish him harm.
It’s that Harry, in Moehringer’s depiction, has no grasp of reality.
“I wanted to prevent a repeat of history, another untimely death like the one that had rocked this family 23 years earlier, and from which we were still trying to recover,” Harry writes of the Sandringham Summit about police protection after “Megxit.” Has he no notion that the family, beginning with King Charles III, has moved from strength to strength after Diana’s death?
Moehringer includes in the epilogue the funeral of Her Late Majesty last September. But he opens those pages with Harry taking Meghan to visit Diana’s grave at Althorp just prior to Queen Elizabeth’s death. It was the 25th anniversary of her death in Paris with Dodi Fayed. It was Meghan’s first time.
Six years after meeting Meghan, four years after marrying her, Harry had never taken her to visit his mother’s grave. Did Moehringer not tell Harry that it undermined the previous 400 pages about the supreme importance of Diana’s life and death — and afterlife, as Harry consults soothsayers to communicate with her?
Moehringer ensures that we know that Harry’s hold on reality, the truth of things, is tenuous at best. The duke’s drug use moved on from recreational drug use to “medicinal” use of psychedelics, which “let me redefine reality.”
“Under the influence of these substances I was able to let go of rigid preconcepts, to see that there was another world beyond my heavily filtered senses, a world that was equally real and doubly beautiful,” Harry explains. “There was only truth. After the psychedelics wore off my memory of that world would remain: This is not all there is .”
Michael Higgins: Harry and Meghan, a tawdry couple fuelled by hate and a need for publicity
Raymond J. de Souza: 'The Crown’ season 5 trades historical thrills for bitter royal divides
The drug-addled bibliophobe then ventures into metaphysics.
“All the great seers and philosophers say our daily life is an illusion,” he writes. “I always felt the truth in that. But how reassuring it was, after nibbling a mushroom, on ingesting ayahuasca, to experience it for myself.”
All great philosophers think our ordinary life is an illusion? Moehringer had to know that not’s true. From Aristotle up until Descartes, it’s quite safe to say that most thought the exact opposite. Is Moehringer telling us that Harry doesn’t know anything about anything?
Harry doesn’t know Harry himself, which is a sad thing for an autobiography to reveal. He has a minimal self-awareness; he knows that he “texts like a teenager,” which is how he first courted the then 35-year-old Meghan. He always up to join the lads to play video games or drink copious amounts of tequila. Yet he has no idea how unpleasant those closest to him find his company.
Spare’s most pathetic paragraphs are his account of moving into Nottingham Cottage, the former home of “Willy and Kate.” The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge had moved elsewhere in the Kensington Palace complex.
“They were half a football pitch away,” Harry writes. “I assumed they’d have me over any minute now. Any day. But day after day it didn’t happen.”
Why would they? Harry’s own account of those days was that he would return from work, eat takeout over the sink, watch endless episodes of Friends , and smoke weed, hoping not to disturb his neighbour, the elderly Duke of Kent. Who would want such a superficial, bad influence in a home with young children?
Harry laments his estrangement from his brother, apparently oblivious that his own strangeness might be the principal cause, and that marrying a woman estranged from her own family likely would not improve matters.
I previously thought that the royals were prepared to cut Harry off to protect the family — the Firm — as when the Queen kept her favourite Uncle David (Edward VIII, latterly the Duke of Windsor) at a proper constitutional distance. After reading Spare , it is more likely that the Queen seized the opportunity to get rid of a grandson who was alternately annoying and exasperating.
Harry has bet his future on Meghan in Montecito. Celebrity life in Hollywood is not traditionally conducive to marital stability, with or without the need to maintain media interest to generate income. Both Harry and Meghan are children of divorce, and Meghan has already been divorced once, so one expects that this chapter of Harry’s life will be considerably shorter than his book. And if Spare is any indication, Harry will be the last to know it.
National Post
Great article! Thank you❤️
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The Pitch Pt. 2
All right, the idea's in my head now, I can't stop thinking about it, so here's the sequel to my original pitch for a Beast movie/series.
70s/The Beast
All right, so we start off with a brief recap of the original movie/series, and then we go on to the Ghost in the Graveyard.
It's - hard. It's rough. Hank is obviously depressed, and Edna and Norton, who return from the previous series, are intensely concerned. He just seems to sleep a lot. He seems scared of himself. Tremulous. He refuses to take off his bandages. He wanders through the streets of his hometown, alone. Tottering. Falling over, often.
He visits Jennifer. Perhaps she doesn't originally remember him, perhaps she's afraid, but then he says something. He holds her hand, and it breaks the Professor's wiping of her memories. They both feel as though they've lost something they'll never, ever get back.
I can't post the entire comic, but, I want it adapted wholesale. It's so solemn and tragic and soft. But it ties up a lot of threads the original series set up.
Jen seems desperate to pick him up, but it's not working. Nothing is. Eventually, Hank works up the courage to pull at a bandage, and we get our first shot of what he looks like. He, unlike every other element in the scene, is rotoscoped. He looks unnatural, like he doesn't fit. Jen is momentarily terrified, but then she sees enough of Hank that she knows it's him.
But he can't. He just can't. He runs. He runs so very far away.
We transition out.
Then we pick right back up where we left off at the end of the first series, pretty much. Hank's getting settled in to his new apartment, and we're very much in standard drama mode - the only hints that this has ANYTHING to do with superheroics is the picture of the X-Men that Hank puts on his bedside drawer, and a brief glimpse of his old red and black costume before it gets shoved into the bottom of a closet or under his bed.
Hank settles in to sleep, and all he can think of is the Brand Corporation. All he can think of is work, is science, is making the world better, one advancement at a time. He very clearly can't wait to get started.
Smash cut to the next day, where it becomes very clear that this is Hank's first job, and while he's not being treated badly per se by everyone at Brand, it's very much an experience for him, especially when he runs into Dr. Carl Maddicks. He was clearly expecting something a lot more quietly intellectual, more like a university, everyone working in harmony towards a common goal.
Brand is not that.
Linda here is our love interest, but even though she seems almost reminiscent of Jen (smart, blonde, assertive), she feels distinctly closed off and colder. But maybe she's just flirting? Hank's no great shakes with the ladies yet, but the audience feels like something's amiss, even if Hank clearly doesn't.
Tension builds between Hank and Maddicks, and Hank finds himself getting angry - a kind of angry he doesn't feel like he's known before. A kind of angry that makes him want to wring Maddicks' neck, and we get a few shots of our Hank actor with a slightly altered face, larger fangs - still very much human! Still absolutely human! But just. Uncanny. A little odd. A sort of mania starts to consume him. It might just be the kind of thing that becomes obvious in rewatch, but it's there.
And then.
Pregnant pauses. Music kicks in, but instead of a solid celebratory suite, there's a twinge of darkness to it. An energy that feels just a bit wrong.
Hank runs through the halls, eager to tell everyone, but it's late. Most everyone has gone home. He deflates. Why isn't anyone around to celebrate his success? As he turns to go back to his lab, he hears a murmuring voice, and it becomes clear he very much isn't alone in the Brand labs.
Hank runs back to his lab. His heart is pounding. He's forgotten to turn on the lights, but that's all right, there's enough yellow lighting pouring in from the windows. He's thinking. There's not a single word of dialogue. The audience needs to be wondering just what in the hell Hank is thinking. There's no thoughts, there's no inner monologue, just a sort of processing, excited, thoughtful, nervous.
He turns to look at the hormonal extract.
Light flashes across the beaker, catching his eyes. Yellow, beaming through his pupils and the glass of the clear, innocuous looking extract.
He strides over with purpose.
He picks it up, and he doesn't just drink it, he chugs it.
What the fuck are you doing, Hank, asks the audience.
And this is where things get wild. We switch formats. We are no longer live action. Or rather, we are - but we're rotoscoped. Just like how Hank was in the opening section, but now EVERYTHING looks like that.
Our entire perception of the world changes, and we're plunged into a different world. Sound blankets out, colours explode, Hank just seems to disappear. First person view. The lab is there, we blink, suddenly it's destroyed. We blink again, we're outside. There's a ringing in our ears (granted, adjusted so as to be accessible and not trigger anyone). We stop, turn, look, wild. Ringing thing on the wall. We rip it out. But there's still a sound in our ears. Rhythmic. Ticking?
We're trapped in hyper-reality. This isn't just real, it's almost too real. We can taste the sounds, we can hear the feelings, we can touch the smells. We feel strange, off kilter. We blink. We're outside, it's raining. We glance down. We're grey, furry.
Where are we? Why are we here?
Was there something we were meant to do?
There's a man. We hit him. We don't kill him, but our hands twitch as if we - no. Our heartbeat is pumping in our ears. It's rhythmic, just so many BPM, thump-thump-thump. We seem to be moving without thinking, on instinct, guided by some purpose we don't know, don't remember, don't understand. We're scouring the labs, and then we find him.
Maddicks.
Colours flare, the ticking grows more pronounced, music begins to grow more lush, stronger, almost sultry, even as it becomes darker and more intense. We fight. We feel strong. We feel powerful, heroic, driven. We feel free.
We wrap our hands around Maddicks' throat. It feels so good to see him struggle, and stop, the thumping in our ears is growing heavier, louder, in time with the music - but then our fingers move, and we see the claws, we see the furry fingers, we see the monsters we've become, we see the man we're about to murder, we pull back in shock -
And suddenly we break away from first person back to third.
We zoom out from the Beast's eyes, and take in the absolute carnage of the lab.
Normal colours return, normal sights and sounds and feeling seep back in - and the heartbeat we've been hearing gives way to the ticking of a clock.
Oh, no.
Slowly, the Beast's eyes turn to the nearest clock, and we see it's been exactly an hour. Hank's voice sounds out. At first, we imagine it's what Hank was actually thinking, but then it gets more mocking, cruel, guttural.
'I'll only have an hour, an hour to make sure Maddicks doesn't get his hands on my research - but an hour should be plenty.
An hour should be plenty.
An hour should be plenty.'
The Beast slowly looks down at himself, increasingly horrified, and he backs up. He looks at the carnage he's wrought, at the men barely breathing, at doors hanging off hinges, at claw marks gouged inches deep into concrete. Sound bleeds out, save for heavy, panicky breathing that just gets more and more intense, on the verge of sobs, and then -
Crisp, clean, Transatlantic accent. Think 1940s movie star, but a little uncertain. Concerned. Heroic, though.
"Pal, I think you have some explaining to do."
Enter Wonder Man, the hero/villain of our story. Maybe we can establish he's a new member of the Avengers earlier on in the show/movie, with Hank watching a television broadcast of them announcing their new roster? He was on a small set, but the red coat is distinctive enough that you know. Enough that that you see him, and you see the scene that the Beast has created, and you know that the Beast is in trouble.
But Wonder Man's the hero in this equation. The rotoscoping is so intense on him, he's just bathed in this energy, but it's bright, and it's warm in this cold, dark place. We see him, and we feel reassured. He tries to reason with the Beast. It's clear he's not a man who relishes a fight. He brings up his hands, tries to be soothing, even as the Beast acts like . . . well. A cornered Beast. All it takes is a glance at a broken window, and he's gone, out, like a shot. Wide shot of him clearing the Brand Corporation exterior like a wild animal, and a shot of our hero slowly climbing out after him, resplendent in his red coat. He stops and seems to think.
It begins to rain, heavy, and we follow the Beast as he steals through the city at night, jumping from shadow to shadow. We start to hear more of what he was thinking when he was about to take the hormonal extract, and guess what, we're going full melodrama here, we're getting thunderstrikes in between each flash of dialogue.
" - never intended - chemical processes - don't know what happens when you mutate a mutant - I've got to take the chance - my research - I've got to - I've GOT to - "
The Beast slams a hand into a brick wall and it splinters like glass, the rain falling down him so hard we aren't sure if he's in tears or not.
"What was I trying to prove?" He slams a hand into another brick wall, growing more and more manic. "What was I trying to prove?!" He turns, and, like a whip, his fist slams into another wall. "WHAT WAS I TRYING TO PROVE?"
But even as he's shuddering, cold, wet, furious, on the verge of collapsed, there's a sudden tone that we recognise from our previous series/movie - one associated with Professor Xavier. Suddenly, his voice breaks into the Beast's thoughts, and he doubles over, he instinctively fights against it.
We see flashes, of Hank initially leaving the X-Men during the fight with Unus; we see flashes of Jennifer's face, not recognising Hank; we see a vague flash of disappointment on the Professor's face as he watches Hank drive away from the X-Mansion, and Hank lashes out. This is not what he needs right now. To Hell with him. TO HELL WITH HIM!
And just as soon as it's over, Hank leans heavily against the wall. "Well, I've done it now. Cut off from my friends, marooned in a strange body, I guess . . ." He collapses and hiccups. He seems so very childlike now, feeling like he's ruined his entire life after an ill-advised temper tantrum. He supposes he sort of has. "I guess this is freedom. Hooray." Because maybe they were what he needed right now, maybe - maybe that was just - he's lashing out, he's not in his right mind, did he want that? Does Hank even know what he wants?
He presses his head against the concrete, closes his eyes -
And wakes up to sunlight. It's the next day. He instinctively brings up a hand to shield himself - only for a hand to grab him, and pull him up onto his feet. Still on instinct, still panicked, still emotionally wrecked, Hank smacks the other person with a massive, furry grey mitt, and there's a smack of plastic on the floor.
"Hey, pal, those are $200 dollar sunglasses. I might have to bill you for that." But it's said without malice, it's clear Hank hasn't hurt the person. How - ?
A shot that mirrors the one we had of the Beast's eyes. Is it possible our Wonder Man has been changed like Hank has? It's unlikely he was always like this, after all. But - fear. Fear governs the Beast.
The Beast panics, and we have ourselves a little donny brook.
(Just pretend Simon's in his safari jacket and Hank is still grey.)
In the confusion, Hank scarpers, and he makes it back to his apartment. Now, more than ever, he's convinced that he's ruined everything - he's attacked an Avenger, destroyed his lab, nearly killed Maddicks, he's ruined his entire life.
He ruins his apartment, and he sits there, crying. It takes him a while, and we fade out, back in to night - that night? Days later? Judging by all the food everywhere, we can't be sure. Hank's watching TV, but not really watching. Time passes. We aren't sure how much. Hank's just staring, but after a while, he reaches out and grabs a phone. We fade back out on it ringing out.
A soft, silent smash cut of the Ghost in the Graveyard section, making it clear that took place here. We pick back up on Hank stowing away on a train car back to New York, sneaking back to his apartment. His fur is starting to turn from grey to blue, in patches. He puts down a box full of - something, we don't initially see. He takes a deep breath.
As he works, we get a shot of his TV. The Avengers are holding a tryout. We assume he's remaking himself as he was, for that.
But then, Hank wakes up in the middle of the night, and . . . for the first time in a long time, he smiles. He goes back to his box of make-up. He throws the Hank McCoy mask on the floor. The audience is confused.
The next day, Avengers tryouts.
We thought Hank was going to go as himself, but he wasn't. He went as a joke, and then as his completely blue self. He doesn't need Hank McCoy anymore - or rather, he doesn't need who Hank McCoy was. I feel like it'd be really funny meta-commentary if, instead of Edward G. Robinson, Hank goes as Nicholas Hoult or Kelsey Grammer, whichever one is funnier and in better taste.
Hank aces the tryout, but we end on him giving back Simon his sunglasses. "I hear they're worth $200." Simon grins, and Hank grins back. Let's be real, it's more than a little gay.
We end on Hank as a triumphant Avenger. Warm, confident, comfortable in his skin. Unlike the entire rest of the show/movie, it's animated, completely animated, but with the same voice cast. Hank is larger than life now. He's a character, but he's a character he likes.
Also, it's very, very, very gay.
Why yes, the entire thing is kind of a trans/gay metaphor and Hank is afraid of his obvious feelings for Simon, how did you guess? I was so subtle!
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I have a theory/semi-question about the displacement of students that would have occurred when ramshackle shut down.
If it happened during the last 20 years, wouldn't someone have mentioned it in the story? Like, as an off-hand comment. "Ramshackle fell into disrepair 20 years ago. Caused a lot of issues for us with all the displacements" kind of comment. A lot of historical events that happened within the last twenty years are still talked about a lot, especially at schools. At one of the schools that I went to, during the seventies, one of the teachers died (fell down a flight of stairs), and we still actively talked about that (I went to the school mid 2010s).
I think what might've happened is that the dark mirror just slowly stopped sorting students into ramshackle until it eventually had no students at all, but I definitely think it was over a slow period of time, a long time ago (90-70 years). And then because no students were there, it fell into disrepair. I don't think ghosts are too unnatural or unexpected at the dorm, they already work in the cafeteria and Crowley or some other teacher might've asked them to stay at ramshackle to scare away the students because the building was so ruined that it was a concern for student safety.
I also do not think I agree with your theory about that one ghost dying in his 70s-80s. Unless he was a teacher at NRC there'd be no reason for him to feel attachment to the place, at least not attachment enough for him to go there when he was dead (ghost). My own personal theory that I would like to hear your thoughts on is that he sustained an injury (perhaps playing spell drive) that ended up killing him. He might've been in a coma first which would explain his destroyed vocal chords, and thin figure. Him calling himself an elder might just refer to him as being born a long time ago (over 100 years).
I really like your theories, and they're written in a way that makes you want to theories yourself about everything.
Sorry for any poor grammar or confusing sentences, English isn't my first language and I'm a bit tired:)
Hope you have a good day<3
Yes, this is very interesting! \(//∇//)\ Thank you, I try my best to write my theories in a way that provokes discussion? I always get surprised at the amazing idea other people have, so I like sharing ideas back and forth with other people. It is why I put a lot of images from where I found my “evidence,” so people can use them to draw their own conclusions ✨
Anyway, I agree with your concern! This is also something I was wondering about, because you’d think that such a scary place like Ramshackle Dorm, which is on the main campus, would have many rumors surrounding it. Similarly, this is the problem I have with Crowley. Isn’t it strange that the headmage of such a prestigious academy has no rumors surrounding him? Why doesn’t anyone gossip about his magic, his power, or even his strange clothes? Or even the fact that he’s a Fae and has been headmage for at least 100 years? The lack of Crowley rumors is honestly why I didn’t worry too much about the lack of rumors with Ramshackle’s abandonment- it just doesn’t seem natural that no one would talk about either of them. But it is a very good point, I wish they talked about Crowley or Ramshackle more, at least in the vignettes 🥲
That’s an interesting idea! 👀I never thought of the possibility Dark Mirror slowly not sorting students in Ramshackle Dorm. It still begs the question on why the Mirror would stop doing this, but it’s something I cannot answer due to the lack of information we have :( But this idea makes a lot of sense! Perhaps the Mirror didn’t see anyone’s souls as worthy anymore for Ramshackle? I like this possibility!
That’s also a good point! I don’t remember who said this, but it is confirmed that besides Crowley, Sam and the teachers, all of the other staff members are ghosts. However, the Ramshackle ghosts are unique in the fact that I think they don’t actually work at NRC. Crowley can summon them if he needs help, like he did in the prologue to teach the students about blot. To be honest, I feel like if Ramshackle was deemed too dangerous, the school would simply shut it down instead of using ghosts 🤔 NRC students don’t seem like the type of normal kids to be that afraid of ghosts haha! The only time ghosts were really a threat were in Endless Halloween because of possession, but the Ramshackle Ghosts are pretty harmless. They also don’t speak or behave like students who died in their youth, so I think that even though they’ve only “haunted” the dorm around 30 years ago, I do agree that Ramshackle must have been abandoned much earlier! The ghosts are just now used to cover it up, but you can tell it’s a lie because of the inconsistencies with their age.
So many interesting points! ^_^ Thank you, I hope you have a good day too, get lots of rest haha \(//∇//)\
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Let’s try something: no more ghosting in 2024!
First, let me clarify that I’m not talking about anything where discussion/argument/confrontation would put you in physical danger. Gauge your literal in-the-moment safety as much as you have to and be careful; sometimes you do have to pull up stakes and leave in the middle of the night to prevent further abuse. That’s not what I’m talking about.
I’m talking about when it’s hard, or awkward, or you feel like hiding away. Yes, anxiety can be a physical experience (boy howdy), but you can work on it. It will respond to practice. With time and determination, you can actively communicate your needs and wants, tell your friends that you feel sad/anxious/not in a great place to communicate but aren’t running away forever, or politely inform a new dating interest that you don’t think it’ll work out but you wish them well—or someone you’ve been seeing for a while, if it’s not working out. (I understand this can be compounded by a partner’s own issues and perhaps tragic events, but it’s not fair to either of you to stay in a relationship just because you don’t want to add to their woes.)
Think about what scares you and why. Interrogate it. If you’re not much of a diarist, start. Writing with pen or pencil or typing things down will give you a physical way to think through your problems—“thinking by hand.” Then you also have something to look back on (to see how you’ve grown/changed/found other ways to deal with stuff), or alternately, something to destroy (like burning an unsent letter if you’ve gotten out a bunch of things you never want anyone else to read). It doesn’t have to be pages upon pages, or formal, or neat and tidy. Maybe it’s just a few sentences or you make a collage or pull some tarot cards or something. Whatever works to keep a record of yourself.
If therapy helps you, great, but sometimes you get a therapist you don’t vibe with/can’t afford to see regularly, or they don’t set any kind of “homework” to help you apply the talk-therapy to the outside world, or you sort of outgrow the need to have someone talk you through your stuff on a regular basis but haven’t been left with any tools for working on your own. I am only one person and I’m only sharing my own experience, so do what you know works for you, but for me: keeping a daily journal (google docs and/or paper), shuffling tarot/oracle cards and seeing what pops out, setting small manageable goals in my hobbies/interests and human connections (some examples: read 10 pages of any book; make a new art thing; text a friend), and keeping a daily to-do notebook really help. I even put the names of the people I want to stay in contact with regularly on my list so I don’t forget they’re there—I may not remember to text them that day, but it keeps them in the front of my mind. This is probably an ADHD helper for me, so if that’s not your problem, don’t worry about it! These are suggestions, but ultimately, it’s about you and finding what helps you stay in touch with yourself and others so you are less likely to quietly scamper away from connection and leave people wondering if it was something they said.
Treat people how you’d like to be treated. Be kind and considerate. This isn’t always easy! Like I said up there, it takes practice. Your mind and spirit require just as much work as physical muscles do. It might feel awkward to talk to people, but find what works for you. Maybe it’s sending some memes or a song or a video. Maybe you’ve been out of contact with friends for a while and feel like it would be weird to come back. That particular muscle ache will go away, you just have to get going. Now, the brutal part of this is that you might risk rejection or a harsh response. But getting through something like that can increase your capacity to face down interpersonal conflict.
This is not an edict. It’s not a total solution or a scientifically proven answer. It’s just some ideas and I’m just one person on the internet. You don’t have to listen to me. If this isn’t for you, you’ll know it. But if even one suggestion helps you connect to yourself and others, awesome! Make it your own. The power is inside of you; you just have to find it.
As far as we know, we get one life. Don’t be a ghost here on earth. You’re worth more than that ♥️
#cosmic thoughts#friendly advice#anxiety#journaling#awkwardness#no more ghosting#the power is inside of you#you just have to find it#love
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Pulp Musicals Theory: MAIA Artwork as Foreshadowing And Character
Okay, so in between my real life and the First Wedding Ever, I suddenly had a huge realization about the art used for the Pulp Musical MAIA broadcast. Guys, the different items in the room specifically represent the characters and episodes of Pulp! I may be the last one to figure this out (I seriously can't explain why I've never thought to really look at the MAIA drawing before) but damn if I don't think the whole story has been right in front of us this entire time. Full theory under the cut!
Okay so here is a screenshot of the main MAIA drawing, with all the non-MAIA items of interest circled.
Numbers 1, 2, and 3--an issue of The Sun, a pair of bricks, and a model ghost ship, respectively--obviously represent the first three episodes in order. Numbers 4 and 5 are pretty obvious as well, a giant vase of roses for Rose Stratford, and a portrait of the historical figure Margaret Cavendish for, well, the character named Margaret Cavendish (I reverse google image searched the drawing and it turns out its from the real Cavendish's book).
So that's three of our episodes, two of our main quartet, and four symbols yet unaccounted for. It's safe to assume that two of those objects are for Samuel and John, leaving the other two as clues to upcoming episodes (also, could this be confirmation for us non-patreon-people that Pulp is gonna be five episodes long? I feel like I remember Matt Dahan saying something somewhere about five episodes, so it seems likely to me).
If I were a betting woman, I'd say that the Globe is most likely for Sir John "and the Earth" Herschel himself. And Samuel is most likely symbolized by the green statuette beside the vase of roses ("Samuel, as always, stands beside her"). What I can't figure out, though, is just how the little green figure represents him. Here's a blown-up image:
He's a little green fellow with a large silly hat that has something blue sticking out of the top, what looks like some sort of pack slung over his back, something else I can't identify in his arms, and maybe even a blue beard? Honestly up close, he looks kinda' like either a Pharaoh or a dog. Anyone have any ideas just what this is? This is the one part of the riddle I just can't figure out and it's driving me up the wall.
And that brings us to the crack in the wall and the rocket ship, which could perhaps symbolize the last two episodes (assuming, of course, that the crack doesn't somehow symbolize Samuel... we've just gone from Zero Fears to One Fear, folks). The rocket ship seems like a fun grand finale, and proves that our Quartet will definitely be time-traveling further into the future (!!!!!!!!!!!) (most likely into a pulpy Jetsons-esque far future of 2189 or something of the sort) (!!!!!!!!!!!). But I could honestly see the crack being the final episode as well. A little bit ago, @its-short-for-jackalope and I started tossing around the idea that the Gate that Margaret must one day go through is hidden within the Moon itself. After all, Margaret has always felt connected to the Moon, and it would be a fun way to tie the overall story back into Rose and Samuel jump-starting everything with the claim that there's something alien on the lunar surface. So when I pointed out that the various features of the room were clues to episodes and characters, Jack suggested that the crack could be representative of the Gate (maybe a literal crack hidden inside of the moon, anyone?). And we know Margaret confronting the Gate is likely to be a massive climatic moment at the end of the story, though I suppose they could pass through at the end of Episode 4 and have to survive on the other side--in a rocket ship--for all of Episode 5.
Alternatively, maybe whatever happens to Margaret in Episode 3 could trigger memories of the Gate that manifest in her starting to hallucinate cracks in places, such as walls, where there aren't any? And she spends Episode 4 decoding these visions until reaching the realization that they have to go to outer space in episode 5. (Though why she won't be able to simply zap them there like the Traveler after unlocking the secrets to her powers is anyone's guess).
Either way, assuming the crack does stand for the Gate, episodes 4 and 5 will likely deal with the discovery of the Gate and also the process of getting there/going through. And I'm excited to come back to this drawing after Ghosts of Antikythera to see if there's anything more I can glean...
#Pulp Musicals#Pulp Musicals Theory#Pulp Musicals Episode 3: The Ghosts of Antikythera#The Ghosts of Antikythera#The Great Moon Hoax#The Brick Satellite#Samuel Stratford#Rose Stratford#Margaret Cavendish#Sir John Herschel
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Skeleton, Shade, and Slime Chapter One: Spooky Scary Skeleton
When thinking about what kind of Halloween fic I wanted to do for Dead Cells or Hollow Knight I remembered I'd intended to continue Mute Buddies and how one of my ideas for that included how they'd react to to each other's 'deaths'; Beheaded to Ghost's Shade, and Ghost to the reveal that Beheaded is actually a ball of slime. And I figure that's pretty Halloween appropriate. And then I decided to add in this chapter because I realized Ghost, being a bug from a land full of bugs, probably has never encountered a being with an internal skeleton before and thus might be curious about it which is for sure Halloweeny.
Also initially I had Ghost thinking of Beheaded as 'Friend' as a placeholder until I could come up with a better nickname Ghost might decide to refer to them as since they can't exactly introduce themselves (and Ghost doesn't even actually have a name) so they gotta come up with nicknames for each other. But then I decided I liked it like this so I kept it.
~
Just when the wanderer had been thinking perhaps that the island was at least somewhat friendly, they were proven wrong. Unlike their new friend, these beings had attacked them without hesitation, warning or seemingly real reason. Blood and other fluids now oozed from their broken bodies, much of it quickly washed away by the ceaseless rain.
Not having had time to properly study their attackers before the fight or really during it either, Wanderer took time to do so now. A few of them looked similar to Friend but differently coloured. They hadn’t moved the same though but far more clumsily. There was a big beast with a lantern of some sort that Friend had gone out of their way to target and take out immediately, indicating it had been dangerous. Wanderer would’ve liked to see in what way but whatever.
They walked over and sat on the ground by one of the monsters that looked like Friend. Its fog head and shining eye – or at least it seemed to be an eye of some sort – had gone out, leaving nothing but something stringy looking hanging out from the neck. Not really interested in that, Wanderer turned their attention to the thing’s arm. They pulled it out straight and stabbed their nail hard down into its forearm.
Yep,there was something hard in there. Confirming what they thought they’d felt while poking Friend earlier and while slicing into these monsters during the fight. Typically, soft beings were soft all the way through. Unlike a proper carapace, being inside, it didn’t offer much protection from blades and whatnot so what was the point? … Well it did stop the wanderer’s nail fairly well as they continued to press down on it, even rocking it back and forth a bit. So cutting off a limb would be difficult but drawing blood was still far too easy.
Curious to see it, Wanderer adjusted their grip on their nail and began slicing. Seemingly partially rotted – though it couldn’t be yet could it? It had just died – the flesh came away easy as did the layers of muscle and other tissues underneath. The rain washed away the blood and other fluids as they worked, quickly allowing them a good view of the ‘inner-carapace’. It was white and separated into two rods that likely merged back together past where the wanderer had revealed. They scrapped it with it with nail some more; despite the shared colour it didn’t seem to be made of the same material as their mask. That was probably about all they could glean from it though so…
As they put the arm down, Friend crouched down in front of them on the other side of it. They pointed at it and lifted their hands, making forward facing fists, holding them together and then lifting one while lowering the other in a quick sharp movement. Miming breaking something? Only one thing they could mean by that.
Wanderer was still curious so they nodded before standing to step back to give Friend more room.
Friend straightened in one fluid motion. They then hovered a foot over the exposed part of the arm before lifting it high and stomping their heel down hard, making an almost wet sounding crack. They weren’t satisfied yet though and stomped once more before stepping back.
Wanderer moved back in to bend down and pick up the hand part, turning it so they could see the jagged break. The ‘inner-carapace’ wasn’t solid all the way through but instead filled in with an almost sponge like structure. A quick look revealed that the part still attached to the main body had that same structure as well. Thus presumably all the of ‘inner-carapace’ stuff did too. What the purpose of that was, Wanderer had no way of knowing. Nor did they really care beyond the oddity of the thing as a whole.
These beings that inhabited this island definitely weren’t bugs but instead something entirely different and thus new to Wanderer. That was pretty cool. Worth the horridly long sea voyage to see? … Perhaps. Going back or moving onward was going to still suck though. That was for future them to worry about though.
So, satisfied with their examination for now, they put the hand back down and looked up at Friend, still watching them. Possibly just as curious as Wanderer was about them and the island and it’s inhabitants or perhaps not. Much like Wanderer themself, they could form no readable expression, making it hard to know what they were feeling. Which, coupled with them also being unable to speak, was why Wanderer had taken an immediate liking to them. Never before had they met someone who shared both those traits… not that they could remember anyway.
Regardless, Wanderer gave them a nod in thanks for their help in assuaging their curiosity somewhat before turning and continuing down the shore. The big building down there would hopefully have its roof be at least partially intact, allowing for a break from this endless rain. Friend could and would continue to follow or not as they chose.
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3 Flash Pieces in 3 days: I hit the goal 🎉
I posted about a writing challenge that I joined last week. I procrastinated for a good amount of time, but I'm happy to say that I hit the goal in the end.
Now, I have three flash pieces that I'm pretty happy about. And I certainly want to write more.
The Stories
Here's a little more about how I wrote these stories, in case it might inspire someone.
Story #1
The first one I wrote is about dating in the age of advanced AI — a cyberpunk romance of sorts. It ended up being 1,288 words — perhaps a little long for a flash piece. I might either cut it down or expand it to about 2k and turn it into a short story.
This was probably my strongest idea. There's a twist in it quite early. As I worked on it, I changed the planned ending and put in another twist that felt like a good fit.
Writing this story took about 2 hours and 20 minutes across two sessions.
Story #2
The inspiration for the second story came from a place — this narrow street passage behind a police station that I walk down on my way to work. I remember the street making an impression on me when I walked through there for the first time a long time ago.
The idea hit me as soon as I walked through that street last week on my way to work, and I wrote it down pretty much exactly as it came to me.
This story ended up being 889 words. It took me about 1 hour and 33 minutes to write it.
Story #3
This was one of those ideas I had in my mind for a long time. This time, the inspiration came from a name. This fairly uncommon but not outlandish name caught my attention, and I built a character around it.
Who would the character be? What would he do and why? Some names are associated with expectations. For example, naming a burly bodybuilder type of guy Ashley is bound to create an interesting story dynamic.
Then came the other characters in the story and a rudimental plot to prop up the character development. It ended up being a ghost story of sorts, although the ghost isn't the main point.
Lessons Learned
I've been meaning to start writing short stories and flash again regularly. Short stories and even just little snippets of narrative are a fantastic way to experiment. It's a great way to get your storytelling reps in.
Finishing those three little stories gave me a lot of satisfaction that I haven't experienced in a while.
I finished late, so I didn't have time to submit those stories to Fractured. Perhaps I'll publish them here on the blog sometime.
And finally: I don't think I would've written these stories had I not joined the challenge. Thanks to jshawng for setting it up! External accountability works. Use it to your advantage.
I might make this type of challenge a weekly event. I'm unsure what would be the best structure, but I will figure something out.
#writing#writers#write#writing tips#writing advice#amwriting#writing life#writeblr#writing challenger
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I think we come up with a bunch of clan concepts and lore that we never use. What are some of yours that seem neat but you don’t think you’ll ever use?
I completely agree! Here's the thing on my end, since this ask is a good a time as any to say so: I've actually moved my lore off-site, from FR-verse to an original universe myself and my boyfriend write together. As such, any ideas I might scrap as too many factions on FR are allowed to exist as I see fit these days. My lore as it exists here I view as a sort of alternative universe, if that makes sense. Anyway, since I do have random thoughts, I'll share a few!
There's a secret governent operation named Blackwatch (original, I know) run by a very high ranking director codenamed Banshee. He oversees Blackwatch Units known as Ghost Commanders. Whilst the Units are told they are androids, in reality all of them are soldiers who died and were found by the Blackwatch team and 'resurrected', so to speak, with technology. I actually do have some WIP dragons for this, since I'm obsessed with it. It's in Lightning, on the FR side, perhaps unsurprisingly.
On the more 'normal'(?) side, some may remember how I've had a small clan/cult of cannibals living in Nature that I always loved the idea of but could never really get right since they'd be so isolated from other people, plus the content itself isn't something very FR friendly, lol.
I've also rotated a faction of paladins based on the Knights of the Round Table (capitals for Emphasis) around a few times but have never got right. I did write something once, them having a sapling that draws in all evil/shade infected which forces them to live a nomadic, difficult life. They'd been forced into the Wasteland for some ominious reason.
I've also aaaaalways wanted to have a fictional version of the Golden Horde based out of Earth because I think it's very cool and what if it was dragons. Come on, that's awesome.
There's some lore ideas/plots I like but haven't done too. The one I can think of is that I wanted to move the Syndicate back to the Icefields, or give them a second base there, but it's a bit of a logistical nightmare.
Thank you very much for such an interesting question! Please, let me know of any ideas you've had (by anon if you like), or anyone reading this if you wanna share :>
#ask#anon#my lore#kinda#i always go OH FUCK when i see a message in my inbox#but it's always someone being lovely ;w;;
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Chris Evans - The Intern
A/N & WC - I know absolutely fuck all about American politics, other than what’s in the news and in RWRB: I’m British. However I read a TikTok comment that said ‘[in D.C.] it’s an open secret that Chris Evans regularly hooks up with 20 y/o congressional interns when he’s here promoting his foundation,’ and I obviously don't know if this is true or false, but this idea spawned. *EDIT: I have since been notified that this rumour is untrue, and I offer my sincerest apologies for this. I will once again reiterate that this is a work of FICTION and is not to be taken seriously, especially not when Chris’ career and political platform are taken into account.
This is kinda coworkers to lovers/boss&employee to lovers/she hates him he loves her to lovers? I specify reader's height and education but feel free to change it in your head because I just did what worked with this idea, which is fictional. I do not know Chris, nor do I claim to. This is first and foremost a work of fiction. I don't consent to this being posted elsewhere. 12.5k.
Warnings - Chris sleeping with people half his age, politics, bisexual!tall!reader, mild harrassment kinda: Chris keeps pursuing reader when she declines, alcohol consumption, fuckboy behaviour, smut: degradation kink, praise kink, 'Mr' and 'Miss' in bed, slight anal play, oral f rec, protected sex, fingering, slight dom!reader & sub!chris, sort of tattoo kink. 18+ only
Summary - Mr Evans has been trying to get you to sleep with him since he first met you on your internship, yet not a single visit has gone by without him asking you out for drinks, even though you decline each time. But maybe you’re just a little inclined to find out more about how the elusive Mr Evans gets away with breaking so many interns hearts, and maybe you’ll test whether yours can stay intact. Drinks and Mr Evans' natural charm could have you falling faster and harder than you'd realised you could.
AS UNFORTUNATE AS IT MAY SEEM, you can’t remember a single visit from the ASP founders occurring without at least one broken heart. Every single time.
You tell them every time that it’s their own damn fault, that they knew the repercussions when bouncing head first into what was always going to be a one night stand, yet every intern in the office did it anyway. But that niggling part of your mind remains unanswered, and that just won’t stand, not with junior finals as well as one of the biggest political campaigns of your lifetime coming up.
And the visit is this weekend.
Every visit thus far, you’ve also been hit on a minimum of twice. Usually just by one guy, but if it’s anyone else, he makes sure to scare them off just to keep you for himself. You’ve never let him, of course. His reputation of sleeping with (and subsequently ghosting) every intern between 18 and 22 in the entire campaign office is hard to believe and yet incredibly veritable, which makes it all the more disgraceful.
So why is your interest piqued at the thought of some mediocre straight-cis white man who decides he likes politics when he barely scraped a high school GED and didn’t even attend college?
Lord only knows, but you’d like to get to the bottom of it before finals, and before another heart is broken and the campaign is knocked for six.
A smiley, blonde lady no older than 25 beams up at you from the secretary’s desk. “He’ll see you now.”
You adjust a singular pin in your hair, fight the urge to bring your thumb up to your lips, and grip your folder tighter. The office doors open of their own accord, or perhaps the smiley-secretary just pressed a button, but either way, you can hear your heels echoing on the expensive, marble-effect laminate floor that costs probably as much to properly maintain as your yearly college fees.
And there he is, behind a huge sprawling desk that isn’t even his, but that he’s just borrowing for the weekend. The chair, orthopedically designed for the lumbar support of your boss, is currently kicked back fully and is being lounged in by none other than the heart-breaker himself, hands loosely slung behind his head, and his feet up on the thousand-dollar oak desk.
Deep breaths, y/n. Deep breaths.
“Miss y/l/n!” he exclaims, “always a pleasure.”
“I ran those numbers for you, Mr Evans.”
He kicks his feet off the desk, and deigns to straighten his posture for you, a lazy—very unprofessional—smile toying on his lips, half hidden by his close-cropped beard.
“Thank you,” he tells you, voice low, but he hesitates, “you didn’t have to bring them to me, you know.”
“Well, I thought it would be more efficient since it’s been a whole”—I very ostentatiously check my wrist, glimmering with the vintage Cartier watch I saved up for a whole year to buy—“five hours since you requested them, and you haven’t yet been to collect them.” Or hit on any of the barely-legal interns. “And I called Barnaby’s office for you. He says he’s in, and I wrote down what he said, verbatim.”
You take a single step closer to his desk, forgoing a seat on one of the very uncomfortable square things your boss insists on keeping around, and hand him a thick file with a note written in neat, blue-ink shorthand paperclipped on the top.
His blue eyes flicker over your face as he takes them, but you don’t meet his gaze, and make sure he knows that.
“You’re very efficient, Miss y/l/n.”
“Thank you,” you respond, aiming to school your voice into a neutral tone, but when his Bostonian accent takes over, it’s increasingly difficult to keep a straight face.
You know the effect he has on girls, on women, on men, even, but this is something else entirely. You won’t cream your pants just because he shoots you a wry, roguish smile, and you won’t drop everything just to sleep with him. But there is something indescribable and magnetic about him that makes him a very attractive man.
Nonetheless, there are two Mr Evans’. There the suit-clad man sat before you here, playing politician and getting some sick kick out of it. And the other, more well known Mr Evans, with the tattoos and the dirty jokes. He’s a dichotomy to say the least.
“Come, sit. Let’s chat.”
“Actually, I’d rather not, thank you, I have work to do.”
He laughs, deep and pure and warm. It echoes off the walls, off the poor excuse for art strung upon said walls, off the window panes, and hits straight to that spot in the back of your brain that needs to be shut up. Of course.
“Don’t we all?” he jokes. “Just for five minutes.”
You concede, taking a step around the chairs and positioning yourself very carefully down in one. Pencil skirts and stockings are not ideal for chairs as low down as these. You tug at the edges of your blazer once settled, cross your legs at the ankles, mindful of your high heels, and look at him with your carefully perfected, political-intern, people-pleasing smile.
“What are you now, a senior?” he inquires.
“Junior,” you tell him, “I’m just tall.”
He laughs again, this time smaller, and places his elbow right on top of your neatly handwritten note. A shockwave of annoyance ripples through you.
“Howard?”
“Georgetown. Poli-sci.”
“And why did you choose to become a congressional intern?” he asks, intrigue lacing his words.
You roll your eyes, sighing a fraction—as much as is allowed in your high-necked cream blouse. “Is this for your damn website? Because if it is...”
“Just for me,” he explains, and leans over on his desk, papers rustling as his tie knocks them. “I’m interested.”
“Um, well, I’ve always been active in politics, and I have a strong moral compass...” Unlike someone.
“No, no, no.” He stops you, and the air is knocked from your lungs. “Why did you choose to do this?”
This is possibly the first time you’ve genuinely been asked that question, because the real answer isn’t exactly interview friendly.
“Because I’m tired of the way LGBTQ+ youth, and adults, are treated, and this campaign is, in my mind, the best way to make a wider difference, due to both the legal activism and the queer charity support it offers, but on more topics than just queer rights, because the anti-discriminatory policies within this campaign are the best I’ve seen. The anti-racism initiatives, the anti-ableism laws, working against age-old prejudices within this country: I believe we can move forwards into a more accepting world. I believe the future of politics lies here, and I didn’t want to waste time at a New England college when I could be working here whilst getting my degree, and kick start my future while making a difference.”
There’s a brief note of silence, a rustle from outside, footsteps on the faux-marble floor. And then Mr Evans leans back in his chair, fingers straying to his tie while you sit there knotting your fingers together, and he releases a long breath of air.
“And that’s why you’re my favourite intern, and possibly the best in this whole office. Your passion is... unrivalled.” Heat begins to crawl its way up your cheeks as you cross your legs at the knee, your pink tweed skirt pulling a little. “Tell me, are you getting college credit for your internship here?”
You shake your head ‘no’, and have to push a pin back into your hair as it becomes dislodged with the slight movement. You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your every move.
“That changes now. Let me make some calls. With your hard work here and your undoubtedly perfect GPA, I don’t see why this shouldn’t help you graduate summa cum laude and make you valedictorian, if that’s something you’re interested in?”
Only the dream!
“Thank you, Mr Evans, I don’t know what to say... but you really don’t have to do that...”
“Except I do,” he says, voice low with authority, eyes darkening as he meets your gaze across the desk. He’s normally shorter than you, so feeling his looming presence is a change, “because you’re the best intern here, and you deserve more recognition for that.”
“I—” you find yourself stumbling for something to say other than the obvious exercise in futility, but nothing comes. “Thank you, Mr Evans. So much.”
He nods, lips pursed, and picks up a pen, scribbling something on the piece of paper atop the folder you gave him. This, apparently, is your cue to leave.
He stands as you do, and this time, comes around the side of his desk to stand by your side. The sick pleasure you gain from being taller than him now is just that, sick, but he needs knocking down a peg or two. Or ten. Perhaps even the number of notches on his bedpost, but by then he’d be buried underground. However, you must concede that what he’s doing for you is incredible, so even his womanising ways can’t be held above this good deed he’s doing. He might be a fuck-boy, but he’s got a heart of gold, and the means to make dreams come true.
“Thank you again, Mr Evans, and anything you need doing while you’re here, I’m your girl.”
He takes a wide stride to open the door for you. “Aren’t you just.”
His smile, while you expect it to be smarmy, is warm and grateful, maybe even genuine.
“Let me walk with you.”
So you do, and feel his hand brushing yours, the coldness of his rings contrasting the flush of your body, his pinky finger briefly knotting around your own as you walk, side by side, in silence, throughout the office.
“Actually...” he begins once we reach your designated area.
He leans his elbow against your screen, crossing his legs at the ankle in an attempt to look casually suave. That doesn’t work on the same faux-marble laminate floor that spans the area: it’s too squeaky.
“I can offer you two options... a pile of work that only you are capable of completing to a high enough standard, which you will get full credit for, or you can come for a drink with me. Tonight. No strings attached... but you have to wear that suit.”
Even with everything he’s doing for you, you don’t owe him anything, least of all a drink which will undoubtedly lead to mediocre sex. That’s the way it’s been with every other intern in the place for the past 3 years, and you won’t suffer the way they were all stupid enough to.
“Thanks, but I’ll take the work. I’m far better at it,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
He stands and straightens out in concession, “I’ll have my secretary bring it over to you, and I’ll come check on you before the days out, cool?”
“Like a cucumber.”
His presence looms over you as he hovers momentarily, expectant, perhaps, but within a minute he’s walking back along the corridor, the swagger in his stride audible from his Brogues. While you dig into some work on the computer, awaiting the files Mr Evans is sending over for you, you catch a glimpse of his face, as though he cast a final, longing glance back over his shoulder at you.
Of course he didn’t, you correct yourself. He did a good deed. Don’t fall for his trap.
But does it have to be a trap? Even someone with a reputation like Mr Evans could be genuine and kind without an ulterior motive. And maybe you shouldn’t have said no to that drink…
That’s when the pile of work lands on your desk with a thud, a gust of air hitting your face as blondie drops it down.
“Mr Evans says to call him with any questions. His cell number is on the top of the file.”
It’s a good job he’s given you his cell because, judging by this pile of work, you won’t be done in time for drinks, anyway. You shed your pink blazer, pinning together one of the pearl buttons as you drape it over your bag. Only you are capable of completing to a high enough standard… he’d said. If you believe that, and don’t look for the layers of flirtation and pleading beneath his words, you’ll be okay with rejecting what must be his hundredth offer of a drink with him. You won’t be another one of Mr Evans’ congressional intern hook ups. Mind over matter, right?
——
Mr Evans’s eyes are glued to you as you strut through the office, coffee in one hand, book in the other. It’ll be good to get ahead in an elective for once, even if you can’t pay attention to a single word scribbled on the page due to his piercing blue gaze fixed on your hips, your back, your legs, your neck, you.
He’s never tried to hide his watching you before, but this time feels strangely intimate. You have to clear your throat to regain some semblance of composure once you reach your desk, closing your book. It takes everything in you not to let your eyes flit up to where he’s sitting with his secretary. Some strange part of you hopes he’s watching your every move: logging onto the system, stacking your files, pulling out your pen, hanging up your coat…
The white of the marble, the blue of his eyes, the red of your suit. How fitting.
You know what you’re like, and you’re fully aware of what you do. You’re most men’s fantasy, in pencil skirts and frilly blouses and stockings. It’s an awful pity you have virtually zero interest in any of them. Except maybe this one, who, from the first day you met, hasn’t even tried to hide what he thinks of how you look and how you dress. A few moments stand out:
That time you showed up in a red, white and blue combination for the election, and Mr Evans physically groaned, tossing his head back, and held a folder over his groin the entire day.
The yellow ensemble—sunshine yellow—and possibly the only time he hasn’t left the congressional offices with an intern after telling you that you looked like sunshine, and you were the only sunshine he needed.
But perhaps your first meeting has the alacrity to stick in your mind for so long. And that one's on you. When a 6-foot-tall man with arms the size of your head, a close cropped beard and wearing a suit that fits a little too well, it’ll even get your fem-leaning bisexual engine going a little. You’re pretty sure most of the men in the office, gay or otherwise, had their engines revving for him when he laughed like that, and paid minute attention to each and every single person when he spoke to them. You’re all important to him, which is what’s so incredible, not that you’ll ever confess to having thought that.
But then he came over to see the interns, asked each and every one of you your name, your reason for being here, and shook your hands, offering a kiss to each of your cheeks. But something about his attention to you felt... different. It was obvious he was trying to get into everyone’s pants, but his eyes snagged on you, and instead of his office-appropriate smiles he beamed at you, and introduced himself as Chris, alongside insisting on calling you Miss y/l/n, because apparently you’re the most efficient one in the office. It’s good to know he still thinks that.
“That dress looks stunning on you, by the way. Props for dressing like this is an actual office and not a free for all,” he whispered gruff in your ear, sneaking a wink as he pulled away, glancing down at the navy number that pinched in at the waist and fell to your kneecaps as though perfectly tailored for you, paired with an emerald green blazer.
He has a point: people will come straight from college in their God-damn pyjama bottoms and no one will say anything. Of course you’re all for comfort and wearing what you please, but President Biden could come around any day, and they’d look like that. It was the first time you’d been seen, though, since most of the time people think you’re funny for dressing this way to go to work, and oftentimes college as well. But you’re at a top college studying one of the most competitive majors, while working as an intern 5 days a week: forgive you if you’d like to dress like it. It was just... nice, to be seen by Mr Evans.
Then he hit on you for half an hour before you point blank told him not in this lifetime, but he’s never stopped fawning over you. Perhaps until yesterday…
He didn’t even try to flirt after you rejected his offer for drinks in order to do work, and today, there’s not a single broken heart around the office, and he’s been in the office since apparently 8am. That’s never happened before.
Your heart begins to stutter strangely in your chest, driving you to place a hand over your sternum, swallowing thickly. Then…
“Morning, Miss Y/l/n. Did you get that work done for me?”
Think of the devil and he shall appear, ice-mint and whiskey breath, freshly pressed suit and tie, authority and looming presence.
“I’m almost done, just one section left,” you explain, eyes focussed on your screen.
“On my desk in an hour.”
Your eyes flutter shut, your red-stained lip drawn between your teeth. “On it, Sir.”
But he doesn’t leave like you expect him to, but instead just lingers, his breathing shallow. He watches as you open the server and create a fresh document and spreadsheet, pasting in the same titles you’ve used for every other section within the file he gave you yesterday. With your fountain pen, you begin to jot down notes in your neat shorthand, but Mr Evans is still there, apparently reading over your shoulder. A sigh escapes your lips before you straighten up.
“May I help you Mr Evans?” you ask politely.
“No…” he trails off, “I just wondered how you work, what brings your efficiency out, and apparently me being around is a distraction.”
You scoff a little, tapping the end of your pen on the desk rhythmically, in time with the tap of your heels. “Don’t flatter yourself. But, if you’d like to watch me, feel free to pull up a chair.”
He hums and ahhs for a moment before reaching for a rolling chair from a nearby cubicle, and positioning himself behind you.
“I do like to watch.”
“Hmm, I bet you do.”
With the proximity, he can’t have missed the way your lips curl into a threatening smirk. You meticulously chose the shade of your lipstick to match the scarlet of your wide-leg, high-waist trouser-suit for today.
“You don’t usually wear makeup,” he observes curiously, his voice a semitone lower than his previous flirtatious statement.
“Not usually, but I do like lipstick. It makes an outfit that much more striking.”
His slow exhale carries a slight whistle, and, if the creak of his chair is anything to go by, he’s leaning back with a casual air, and manspreading. You’re a simple woman: manspreading on a man like Mr Evans is always attractive, hence why it’s so hard to keep your focus on your work all of a sudden, even more so when he says, “You can say that again, fucking hell…”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, but you don’t let him hear it as you get your head down and work. Your college work for the semester is almost done and, Mr Evans was right yesterday, you have an untarnished 4.0 GPA, so you’ve not got too much to worry about, especially not if you’re going to be receiving college credit for the hours upon hours you’ve spent as a congressional intern since your move to D.C.
You’re finished with your work within the hour and move onto something else whether noticed or not, and other than the occasional squeak of shoes on the marble-style flooring, or the creak of his chair as he clears his throat, you’re mostly unaware of Mr Evans’ looming presence behind you. You can’t say the same for your sense of smell though, his cologne slowly moving from being an attack on your nostrils to being a pleasant warm hug, though unusual all the same.
You push your chair out from beneath your desk and curl a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“Mr Evans? It’s elevenses, can I get you anything from the kitchenette? That is, provided you still want to supervise me now I’ve finished those files you asked for.”
You pick them up with an unmanicured hand, and dump them lightly in his lap, startling him from his slouched position. He’s definitely too relaxed for work. No wonder he thinks you’re the most efficient if this is how he himself works.
“Shit, you’re fast. I’ll grab coffee and a donut thanks. And yes, I will be supervising you.”
You don’t even bother to ask why because he won’t have formulated an answer just yet, and if you were to ask it you couldn’t ask it too quickly, too repeatedly, or even too slowly, because one thing you’ve learnt over the past few years with your congressional office working closely with ASP, Mr Evans gets very easily confused and flustered, and would undoubtedly just blurt out some shite along the lines of ‘to spend time with you’ which is borth cringey and uncalled for, not to mention completely false and just another attempt to get into your pants. He does that all the time with the other interns, and for some reason, they all fall for it—quite literally: they fall at his feet. You can tell by the state of their knees the next day—almost as bad as their hearts. Your knees are so used to being in heels that they quite possibly couldn’t cope with such a thing.
What a good thing you’re a top…
No.
Nope, eject those thoughts, and just get Mr Evans the donut he wants—jam and sugared, as you’ve somehow discovered over time—and his coffee—black.
You turn on your heel and begin to strut back to your cubicle when one of Mr Evans’ ex-conquests suddenly appears in front of you, blonde hair falling in reams around her shoulders, still wearing… last night’s party dress apparently, with an oversized sweatshirt and air forces. It’s a look, most certainly, but your mind flutters back to Mr Evans’ comment on the first day. ‘Props for dressing like this is an actual office and not a free for all.’
And then she’s speaking to you for the first time since you told her she was stupid to sleep with Mr Evans considering he’s 1– kind of their boss, and 2– a notorious playboy and heartbreaker. She doesn’t seem to care about your honesty right now, though.
“Oh my God, why is Mr Evans sitting at your desk? Did you finally give in to him?” she inquires.
You scoff, but secure your hold around your coffees and donuts nonetheless. “What? No. Why would I?”
“No reason,” she hums, “you just look real cosy.”
“He’s supervising me, apparently.” You roll your eyes, but don’t miss her performative lip-bite.
“I reckon he likes you, y’know.”
“Well that’d be nice if I was even remotely interested,” you say, you assume honestly, so why does it feel like a weight has sunk to the very pit of your stomach. It definitely isn’t because you’ve said that very line to yourself so many times that it’s second nature to say it even if it isn’t entirely correlated to your true feelings… is it?
“It doesn’t matter if you’re interested. He’s really good in bed. Maybe you’d lighten up a little.”
And with that she walks off. That was nice, you think to yourself, and shake away the cobwebs as you deliver a half-asleep Mr Evans his coffee and donut. You’re not sure why half the interns are here other than a straight white man who runs this place, because you seem to be the most politically inclined and politically minded congressional intern in this place. Of course the others like being here, and are passionate about the cause, as proven by their dedication whenever elections roll around.
“Thanks, baby,” he whispers, thankfully grabbing them from you, and gulping down his coffee while it’s still scalding hot, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. The name he just let slip also doesn’t seem to bother him, if he even noticed. You pointedly ignore it.
“Late night?” you inquire as you take a large stride over him and land elegantly in your chair, crossing your legs.
“Early start,” he responds, but doesn’t meet your eyes with his crystal gaze. “Why?”
“You seem tired. More so than usual when you have your late nights.”
He arches one thick eyebrow over his forehead, “You know about those?”
“Oh my God. Literally, oh my fucking Lord above, Chris.” Possibly the first time you’ve ever called him by his first name, but that’s not important right now as you push ahead. “You shag half the women in the office—mainly interns who are way too young for you, I might add, and you don’t expect me and the entirety of D.C. to notice? It’s every single fucking time you visit!”
“Don’t swear at me, young lady,” he threatens: voice low and demanding.
That’s rich, considering you’re older now than half the interns were when he slept with them, in your early twenties.
You slam your coffee down indignantly, though careful none splashes onto your very expensive, very nice, scarlet trouser suit which you love very much. “Or what? What are you going to do, Chris? Fire me? Sleep with me? Because news flash, you can’t do either of those things. You may wear the big man pants and sit in the office all high and mighty, but you’re just another sad, rich, straight, white man thinking he can make a difference in politics because he’s bored, okay? Sometimes it amazes me, literally astonishes me with each visit, that Taylor Swift didn’t write her ten minute All Too Well about you, because you should probably stop sleeping with people half your age, especially when you—apparently—have a girlfriend—who is also more than a decade too young for you.” Once you finally stop for breath, you notice that perhaps your voice was a little louder than you had prior intended since half the office is staring at you, and Chris is gaping open-mouthed, utterly disbelieving apparently. He knows how feisty you can be: you’ve turned him down what must be over fifty times now. But this? This is a direct attack. Then again, he has no power over you. Absolutely none. You’re not just going to submit to him because he acts like a big man in a suit—he has no fucking idea the privilege he holds just from being the man he is, and was born as. But that’s the problem: your attack is so personal, and is mostly centred around his fuck-boy ways. They can't bother you, they simply can’t, it’s a statistical impossibility. But when you look at him, eyes wide, lips parted, a hand running through his beard… it might not be. Which is horrifying, you might add. Lord above only knows what STDs a man with his reputation is carrying, the thought alone sending a shiver rippling down your spine.
He stands up, his muscular frame straining in his shirt and blazer as he unfastens the button with one hand. His eyes glue to the floor. “I think I’ll leave you to it. Thank you for the work, and the coffee, Miss y/l/n.”
And with that, he leaves. Mr Evans is many things, but resigned has never been one of them, so you must’ve struck a nerve. It’s not that he didn’t deserve any of it, and he has needed to be put in his place for a long time, but you could probably have gone about it in a different way.
However, Mr Evans acting like a butt-hurt predator isn’t going to stop you from working, so you get your head down for the rest of the day.
——
You seem to be even more productive when you’ve got guilt, or some similar emotion, crawling up your neck. By the end of the day you’re finished with almost twice what you’d usually get done. As everyone else begins to file out, you grab your bag and sling your coat over one arm, leaving your cubicle with all of your work in your spare arm.
Before your brain can quite catch up, your knuckles are knocking on Mr Evans’ unmanned door, inwardly praying that he’s still here.
“Come in,” he calls.
One deep breath later, your heels are clicking on the marble laminate floor and you’re placing the files on his desk, and words are falling from your mouth.
“I’m really sorry about earlier, Mr Evans. I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have taken my personal vendetta against you out in the office: that wasn’t fair. And as for what I said…”
“Don’t apologise for that,” he says, a note of authority in his voice, “you’re right on all accounts. And even if the office wasn’t the most objectively ideal place to have that confrontation, I’m glad it happened. But please, let me take you for a drink—as friends, no strings attached―to make it up to you. But you have to wear that suit.” Almost verbatim what he said to you yesterday.
A chuckle rises to your throat, and all in a flurry, your head feels a little lighter than before.
“I’ll go for a drink with you.” It’s high time you did, and maybe he’s very, very different off the clock, and you owe him this after, well, destroying his reputation with those in the office who weren’t aware of his womanising reputation. “But I won’t wear the suit, hard pass.” You also decidedly elect not to tell him you won’t wear the suit because the only very skimpy underwear you own that doesn’t show a VPL in these trousers has been riding up your arse crack all afternoon. “I will, however, wear the lipstick and the heels.”
His head lolls over the back of the chair, his tongue hanging out in a very dog-like manner. The groan he emits, however, is more feral.
“Done, done, and done,” he agrees with an incredible amount of enthusiasm, and a pearly-white smile peeking through his beard. “Shall I send a car to pick you up? Or I can drive you?”
“Thank you, Mr Evans, but I’m okay to meet you there provided you send me through the name of the bar. Okay?”
“Y– yeah…” he trails off, “yeah, okay. Seven?”
A smirk is painted on your red lips as you turn on your heel to exit, “I’ll see you there.”
Only once you’re outside and away from him do you realise the gravity of what you just agreed to. Why the fuck are you going out for a drink with Mr Evans? He’s the founder of ASP, yes, which is very cool, but he’s also just some horny, stoner actor who, shock horror, doesn’t have a vagina. This is… something else. Maybe it means the stupid fluttering in your lower belly will stop once you shut this down once and for all as friends, because you refuse to be another one of Mr Evans’ interns.
——
The champagne satin of your cocktail dress glitters even in the dim light of the up-scale bar Mr Evans selected for you, but despite the calibre of the place, you have to be very careful not to get any spilled drinks on your very expensive red-bottom heels.
Mr Evans is already at the bar, dressed down in slim-fitting jeans and a black henley, a blazer-style leather jacket slung over the bar stool to his immediate left.
Your heels on the lino alert him to my presence, and he’s springing up in an instant, arms open wide in an embracing gesture. He meets you, holds your arms in a weird half hug, and presses a kiss to your ever-warming cheek.
“Hey…” you say, your eyes avidly scanning him, though for what, you’re unsure.
“Hey yourself.” He chuckles. “You look stunning. What can I get you?”
“Oh! Thank you. Um, just a tonic water is fine.”
He orders for you, sweeps his jacket up, and follows you to a table, except he doesn’t sit down, and just keeps staring at you. Your brows must furrow at some point, because the next thing you know, he’s asking;
“How tall are you?”
So that’s what this is about. You pull your chair up and slide onto the seat. “I’m not sure. Five ten, five eleven? Probably closer to the latter.”
“And how tall are those shoes?”
“120mm.”
“Which is?”
“Four and a half inches, ish. Could be more.”
“Jesus Christ…”
“Why, Evans? Intimidated by a woman taller than you?” you ask, smirking.
He growls almost, a guttural, visceral noise that you haven’t heard possibly ever as he takes a seat, “Take those heels off, then we’ll see who’s boss.”
“Hmm, well, considering you’re technically my boss, yet you’ll more than willingly fall at my whim, I’d say that’s me,” your voice drops to a whisper, “heels or not.”
He all but falls onto his chair groaning at this point, and your smirk is one of sly success.
You make small talk over your drinks, and while he asks you about college and your life here in D.C., you inquire about his acting and his life up in New England. It’s benign, all of it, which is a slight disappointment considering how much you were looking forward to tearing him down upon the slightest pique of interest. But he’s genuinely being friendly, professional, and this isn’t the Mr Evans you know. It’s off putting.
You talk for a little while, and both order another round, chairs gravitating closer to one another, strangely. At some point, his ring-clad hand finds your thigh, likely when you’re laughing at one of his admittedly truly funny anecdotes. His presence is genuinely nice, and for the first time, you can see why all the other girls fell for his tricks if he’s this suavely charming with them all. There’s still something strange that you can’t put your finger on, and when a natural lull in the conversation occurs, your mind screams at you to ask the question you’ve been putting off all evening, and the true reason you came out tonight.
So why put it off any longer? You came here for one reason and one reason only, and now you’ve finished your second round, this seems like the perfect time to ask.
“Why do you sleep with all the interns? I mean you’re old. Not, like, old old, but we’re half your age, Mr Evans.”
He takes a deep sigh, passing his empty glass between both hands on the tabletop. “Chris, please. And I’m not entirely sure I want to tell you that.”
“Why not? And, as a forewarning, ‘because I want to’ isn’t a good enough reason.”
“To get your attention, okay?!”
Fucking hell, he was right not to tell you. Of course you knew he was interested in you, but you’d thought it was just a male thing, a power thing, an ego thing, how he can get every young woman in the office to fall at his feet except you, and he won’t stop until you’re one of them too. But this? This is a… feelings thing.
“You’re joking, right?” you scoff, suddenly in dire need of alcohol to kill the bizarre feeling crawling around your stomach. “You decided to sleep with a bunch of chicks so I’d notice you, and what, get jealous and crawl into your bed too?!”
“It’s not like that,” he says, teeth gritted. His posture shifts, shoulders now hunched and eyes darkening with every passing second. The seams on his shirt pull taut. “I– I like you, and I didn’t know how to go about liking someone younger than me, so I did the only thing I could think of, and after the first time I knew it was wrong, I knew there were better ways to get your attention or pique your interest, damn I only needed to have an intellectual conversation with you to work that one out! But I just couldn’t stop, and I then thought if I delayed sleeping with you, and spent small slots of time with you every time I came, then you wouldn’t forget me, and maybe you’d like me too.”
“That is so fucked up you don’t even realise. You could’ve engaged in more political activism, asked me about college earlier, why I joined this office, or heaven forbid, tried to get to know me and see what we have in common in a friendly way instead of being a perv for years!!!”
“I know,” tears begin to brim in his eyes, and his hands make a futile dart across the table to grab yours, “I’m so sorry.”
Frankly, you’re appalled at all of his actions, of course you are—they’re completely immoral, but here he is, spilling his heart and guts all over the table for you to see. His soul is right there: you could shatter it with a single word if you wanted to.
But you’re past using words right now. So you stand up, grabbing your coat as you shove the chair out from beneath you, standing surprisingly solid even in your high heels. You’ve had enough of his bullshit.
Your hands are clammy and shaking, though, as you press down on your thighs, and your breaths come out shallow despite your best attempts. What sort of sick fucking game is he playing here? Appalled doesn’t begin to cover it. But at the same time…
What if he’s telling the truth?
That makes everything so much worse than you’d begin to consider. Because if he was, you would not be able to refuse this pull he has to him.
You hear his footsteps pounding behind you, evidently having just settled your tab, and races to reach the door before you can. One strong hand wraps around the chrome handle, pulling enough for his muscles to ripple, his rings glistening in the dimming lights.
“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, more earnest than you’ve ever seen him before, his deep voice breaking.
He’s already paid for your drinks, and now he’s apologising and being chivalrous? As you pass him in the narrow glass doorway to the bar, your chest brushes against him, your nipples peaking at the friction between you. And that’s the moment it’s over, because the sincerity in his eyes could not possibly be a lie, no matter how great an actor he is.
“I’m sorry,” he apologises again, softer this time, and evidently for the touch neither of you intended.
But fuck it, you’ve had enough of being the good girl, and no matter how old he is, you’re an adult, and you can be reckless for one night if you damn well want to be. And good lord above do you want to get down and dirty with Mr Evans and see what all the damn fuss is about. In all honesty, you have for a long ass time, but would never admit it. He doesn’t have to know that, though. All he needs to feel is the same flame of passion you feel.
One slender hand swiftly wraps around his head, nails burying in his close cropped hair that bristles at your fingertips as you tug him to you, kissing him. Hard.
His body reacts as yours does, possibly even swifter, almost instantly as he draws you closer, his hands spanning your hips and waist, his grip bruising you. Your body is flush against his, cramped in this tiny doorway, and yet nowhere could’ve been a better first kiss for the two of you. The butterflies that erupt in your belly could swarm a stampede of elephants with their ferocity, and you wouldn’t change a single step it took to get here for the world.
Chris pulls away, just barely, gasping for breath as he searches your eyes. His lips are stained the same red as your lipstick. That’s when you know he’s absolutely in love with you, from this very moment on.
“Out of every one, you’re the only one I want, the only one I’ve wanted since I first saw your tight little ass in those skirts, and your long luscious legs in those stockings and stilettos. Maybe it was the wrong way to get your attention, but…”
“Chris? Shut up.”
He does not have to be told twice, not when you’re dressed in somehow even higher heels and a stunning dress that clings a little too well to every curve of your body. Of course he’s all too enamoured with your brain as well, but your body takes the cake as you kiss him in the middle of a busy D.C. street and yank his hand down to your ass when he isn’t moving fast enough by himself. That's the moment he realises that he has no control in this situation whatsoever, and more surprisingly, he's absolutely more than okay with that.
Your tongues don’t just dance, they tango almost instantly, as soon as he begs entrance with a pleading swipe. He tastes of sweet alcohol and smells of that heavenly cologne but he feels like Chris, something so innate and authentic that you can’t quite describe it.
“Your place or mine?” he asks—begs—when your kisses move to the beard covering his sharp jawline.
A feline smirk wins over as you feel his heart absolutely pounding beneath his pulsepoint, the erratic beat telling you you’re doing everything right. Let’s just say men aren’t your usual area of expertise…
“Yours. Where’s your driver?”
“Just round the corner, if we can make it that far.”
“I can, baby…” you hum, sliding your hand down his toned chest, feeling the tight muscles beneath his Henley as you find his belt, and slip your hand underneath, fishing for his rock-hard member inside, “but I don’t think you can.”
He hisses as your slender fingers wrap around his cock even through his boxers, his head falling to the crook of your shoulder. Magnanimous in victory, gracious in defeat, except you won’t be magnanimous about this win whatsoever, and you have a feeling he’s about to turn into an absolute brat.
“Can you, Mr Evans?” you purr in his ear.
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes…”
You slip your hand through his, giving the both of you a whole wedge of space between your bodies, both radiating heat. “Come on then.”
The speed with which you strut down the street is amazing, thinks Chris, when you have heels of that height on. Your hips sway with every move, your ass creating a peachy silhouette in the flimsy, fitted fabrisc, the same ass he was grabbing at for dear life just minutes ago. When you reach the glossy town car, you don’t even wait for him before flinging the door open and clambering inside, letting him follow of his own volition, but you know the show you’re putting on, and by this point he must be able to tell that the undies you’re wearing aren’t what one would call full coverage. The driver speeds off the minute Chris’s door closes, which also happens to be the moment his lips fuse to yours, his arms caging you in on the leather seat as you grasp onto his shoulders for purchase. His hand skims its way down your dress, each stunted brush of his fingertips on your skin growing in courage that sparks you alive until he reaches the split seam at the leg.
Your hand flies out, pinching his wrist between your thumb and forefinger.
“You think you’ve earned that yet?” you taunt.
His eyes fly open, the blue splintering into shards as a surprisingly puppy-like look clouds his view.
“N– no…” he murmurs, his lips barely moving, “please can I earn it? I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”
So dominant and bossy in the office, so unbelievably pliant and submissive in bed. Just the way a man should be, you grin.
“Go on then, baby.”
There’s no other way to say it than that his face lights up at the prospect, grasping your hips as he turns you both onto your sides, your back pressed against the leather upholstery while Chris works his way up your thighs with gentle caresses despite his rough fingertips, licking his lips when his digits brush the line of your panties. The stark chill of his rings sends a shiver up your spine.
“May I?”
“You may,” you permit.
Like a kid in a candy store, he can’t wait, but his enthusiasm doesn’t counteract his talent. Pushing the fabric aside, his fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the proof of your arousal. A drop of drool appears in the corner of his mouth, his tongue darting out to instinctively lick it away. His eyes flicker to yours for consent, a pleading, doe expression to them. You almost smirk while nodding.
Starting with two, he glides his fingers up your inner walls, tentatively, almost, using a beckoning motion against the velvet sponginess, testing for the spot that makes your knees tremble, even when sandwiched between him and the leather seats. The metal of his rings settles against your core. He works you gently, his eyes growing wider with every whimper you suppress by biting your tongue or lip. His ‘come hither’ movements make it seem as though he’s physically beckoning you to come.
He is. Especially when he begins to work your clit like a joystick, but with an immense tactile talent. The edge is teetering within hold, on a ledge, just when the car rolls to a halt.
“We’re here, Sir.”
Fuck.
“Thank you,” you call, straightening out your dress. Chris repeats your actions, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as you clamber out onto the street. Your togetherness is astounding, though you can’t say as much for Chris, jittery and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you want to let me into your house, Mr Evans?”
He groans, his head thrown back, and leads you into the building. To his credit, as you trawl through the corridors, he doesn’t lay a finger on you or say a word. There could be other people around seeing as this is an apartment block, albeit a small one, and he doesn’t so much as kiss you. Until he keys open the lock on his door.
“Nuh-uh,” you scold, “I want you to wash your hands, fetch condoms and lube, and wait for me in the bedroom, only in your pants, yeah?”
He nods eagerly, like a puppy dog, and dashes off before you can even praise him. Sure, it’d be a pleasure to undress him, but this is more efficient, and he riled you more than you’d care to admit in the car.
You kick off your heels at the door, peel your stockings down your legs before taking steps further into his abode. A bachelor pad, that much is evident. Your toes savour the shag pile rug, a white leather sofa holding pride of place opposite the gigantic flat screen which is no doubt tuned into a sporting channel. You finger the strap holding your dress up, trailing your other hand over the keys of his piano, revelling in the faint tinker they make. The straps of your dress skim your arms as they fall down, the garment falling from your body. You step out of it and into the master suite.
There he is, bare, muscular chest rising and falling from the exertion. His boxers cling to his body, and the items you requested are in one hand.
“Good boy,” you praise, sarcasm lacing your tone, but he eats it up. “Thank you Mr Evans.”
“O– of course Miss Y/l/n.”
You take a step closer to him, your fingertips meeting his calf, covered with dark hair.
“Tell me, are you this good for all the women you bring home?”
“No, only for you.”
You smile a little, “Right answer, handsome.”
A crimson blush coats his cheeks, the colour deepening, paired with his jaw gaping, when you move to straddle his thighs. Your underwear, albeit sturdy and modest compared to most people’s lingerie, is a delicate lace that compliments your skin perfectly. The high waistband hugs the very top of your hips, ribbons falling from the band of your bra to tie the set together with a small bow.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, enamoured.
You nod, and instantly his hands are on you, touching whatever skin he can reach across your torso and your waist, down to your own thighs, up to your collarbones and higher. You use his distracted state as leverage, pushing him down onto the pillows. He falls with enthusiasm, and his grip doesn’t falter. Impressive.
“You wanna undress me, or must I do that myself?” you ask with a sly smile.
“Please can I? God, I wanna…”
“Go on then.”
His nimble fingers go straight for the bows, separating your bra and panties, and he then reaches for the clasp at the back of your bra, allowing your breasts to fall free, spilling into his awaiting palms. His thumb and forefingers tweak your nipples, his blue eyes as wide as saucers now as he mumbles senselessly.
“I thought you were an ass man, Mr Evans.”
Incoherent noises slip past his lips, worse than before, but his hands slip around your ribs and down your back, allowing you to feel every ridge and callus before he starts pawing at your ass.
“Oh my God,” he whimpers, “oh my God, I’ve been dreaming about this for years.”
His movements are rough, clumsy, the pads of his fingers dragging along your supple flesh as he kneads your bum with what seems to be all his strength. It definitely turns you on to see this more animalistic side of him, to have him paw at you like a man starved.
“My turn,” you announce.
At the mere sound of your voice, your tone laced with a slight authority, his actions cease, and his hands are rendered at his sides. His head bobs eagerly. You shimmy a little further down his legs, balancing your weight on your calves as your lips come down on the script just beneath his clavicle. His hands fist the sheers, the material tearing slightly as you graze your tongue over the tattoo, but you could swear his brain explodes like the fireworks visible behind his eyes when you lave your tongue over the eagle covering his right pec, skimming his peaked niple as you follow the intricate patterns of ink.
“Ohmygod, please.” He sounds pretty when he begs, that deep tone and Bostonian accent all wrapped in a parcel designed to make your panties even wetter.
To cool him down for a minute, to make him tick, you switch to the designs on each of his upper biceps. The whine is beautiful, so high pitched and needy, you can’t help but smirk a little before giving in and switching your attention to the tattoos on his ribs, blood-coloured lipstick stains littering his skin. He groans now, low and deep, one hand weaving into your hair to tug. You move further down his body, ensuring now to fix your eyes on his, to dare him to look away as you kiss and lick and bite every piece of ink covering the rest of his abs. The feral growl he emits when you finally graze your teeth over the one in his v-line, watching his eyes finally flutter closed as his hips buck up into you for the first time. He’s rock hard, his clothed cock against the column of your throat. Miraculously, this seems to be when he finds his voice, and when his inner brat starts to show.
“Who knew Little Miss Priss liked tattoos?”
Your teeth, previously lifting the waistband of his skin-tight boxers in order to remove them, let go and snap the band against his skin. He winces.
“Call me that again, and you won’t be coming tonight.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss y/l/n,” he bleats.
You don’t deign him with a response, your face a hard mask once again as you peel the fabric from his body in one move, removing your own panties a second later. You snatch up a condom, ripping the packet open and removing the item.
“S– shouldn’t I be doing that?”
Your eyes burn into his, a cold stare, “You’ve proven that you can’t be trusted with your own pleasure so no, Mr Evans, you shouldn’t. May I?”
“Y– yes.”
You pinch the top and roll it onto his thick cock, even bigger and heavier in your hand than he previously seemed to be. Long, uncut, extremely sensitive…
“You want this?” you confer.
“Yes, yes, I want this so much, I have for so long… can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, your skin on mine, fuck, please just make me feel good!”
A smirk tugs at the corner of your red lips. “If you insist.”
Grasping his cock in one hand, you sink down on him, no need for the lube you asked him to fetch just in case. It’s a snug fit, his girth stretching your walls, his dick pulsating with every flutter your pussy makes. Wow. Before you’ve even moved, once you’re fully seated on him, his tip grazes your g-spot. You haven’t been with a guy in quite some time, so this is different, but it’s definitely good.
“You’re so tight,” he grunts.
“And you’re so big, Mr Evans,” you tell him, fluttering your lashes.
He’s a mess already, and it seems incoherency is his strong suit, since he replies with a mere, “You’re so beautiful,” that makes you want to cave to his wishes already
His hips make the move to cant upwards, but you stop him with a sharp thrust of your own, reminding him just who’s in control. He doesn’t complain. You rise onto your knees and sink back down onto him, your pace increasing every so often, watching the way his abs contract, hoe his lips part with each little moan that slips by them, his crystal eyes closing when the lewd noises of your wet pussy become too loud.
“I’m so in love with your body,” he murmurs.
The bliss overtakes you too, rolling your hips as his pubic bone grazes over your clit with every grind, his cock hitting every sweet spot laced inside your core.
“I– I’m close,” he cries.
You can tell, and just to tease him some more, you rake your nails over his abs, your hips forming a figure eight as you ride him harder.
“I know, Mr Evans. But you won’t come without permission, will you?”
“No!”
You rise up onto your knees and fall back onto him, his hands making another grab for your ass as your own stomach starts to coil at long last, a blazing orgasm burning on the fringes, hissing through your veins. With one final grind, you lower your lips to his ear, your hot breath fanning the lobe as the trim patch of hair offers yoru pearl enough friction to draw you into a haze.
“Good boy.”
“Thank you!”
Your orgasm is transcendent, racking through your body with no regard for anything else, a loud moan searing your throat as you ride it out, your walls squeezing Chris. Even once you come down from your pleasure, your hips are moving leisurely, but there are tears forming in Mr Evans’ eyes.
“You wanna come, baby, now you’ve made me feel good?”
His nod surely makes him dizzy, his breath coming out in laboured pants as he searches for the tiniest tad of friction.
“Yes, please. You’ve made me feel so good, too.”
“Come for me, then, Mr Evans,” you coax.
Right on cue, he does, his load filling the condom, warmth spreading through your core. He groans and whines, shakes and clings to you. Wow.
As much as you hate to admit it, you can see why everyone says he’s such a good lay, why he always has a new intern in his bed. So obedient, so attentive, such a pretty face…
But he’s not your type, and you don’t exactly feel like working through all his shit with him. This hookup definitely fits under the umbrella of ‘I can’t fix him but I can rail him,’ and you’re okay with that.
“Miss y/l/n,” he breaks the silence, “that was incredible, you’re so sexy I could cry, but… please can you do something for me?”
Your hand strays to his hair, smoothing down the dark, wry locks, “Of course I can.”
“C– can you degrade me?” Your eyes grow wide, your jaw opening slightly in shock. “No, no, don’t worry. Forget I asked, I’m so sorry.”
“No, Mr Evans. That’s not it. I definitely can, but I thought you liked praise?”
“I do!” he hastens to add. “I love praise, but I kinda like soft degradation, y’know calling me names and saying my only use is to make you feel good?”
“Yeah, sure, I can do that.” You pause, eyes trailing over his face. “Only for you, Mr Evans.”
“Thank you, Miss y/l/n, you’re the best…”
And there’s your praise kink flaring up again. He was praising you so much and it only fuelled your already roaring libido. You weren’t planning another round, but if he really wants this, and if he’ll keep praising you…
“You wanna eat me out, baby? Use your tongue like a good boy should?”
He hardens within you at your words alone. Impressive. You roll off of him, allowing him to do with the condom what he will as you take a swig of water from the glass beside his bed that you hadn’t noticed before, but that he must’ve brought with him before this began, since there’s an identical glass on the opposite stand, beside his rings. When you turn back, though, he’s ready. He grabs you by your thighs, using an astounding upper body strength to haul you over to him, your knees astride his shoulders. His tongue darts out to lick at your swollen nub, stiff like your nipples.
“You taste divine.”
“Well let’s hope you can make me feel it, baby,” you coo, “or is that too much for you?”
Challenge shines in his eyes and he doesn’t hesitate to bring your pussy down on his face, his beard rubbing your inner thighs and lower lips almost instantly. The friction is heavenly, and has you grabbing onto the headboard and his cropped hair for purchase.
His tongue delicately parts the seam of your labia, already lapping at the drops of your arousal, humming at the taste. The vibrations roll through your body, curving your spine. His nose nudges your pearl but his lithe muscle works its way further down to your opening, inserting his tongue where his dick had been just minutes before. His skill is immense, sending your nerves into a frenzy while your hips undulate over his face of their own accord, drawing whimpers olling from his lips to match your moans.
“Finally your mouth has a purpose further than chatting up other women.”
“Yes, Miss y/l/n!” he agrees, though it’s muffled.
He licks, laves and lavishes, sending pleasure coursing through your every brain, tormenting your mind with lust, the precursor of a luxuriant climax you can’t quite reach yet. He returns his tongue to your clit, peeling away the hood as he suckles on the nub, finally building that coil in your lower belly. The sharp cry that tears from your throat isn’t your fault but is due to the talent of his tongue.
“Nothing more than a fuck toy, eh?” you tease.
His moan floods your core with more arousal than you know what to do with, your hips bucking, hands pulling at his hair while his beard tickles your sensitive inner thighs, only adding to the sensation. His fumbling caresses on your ass draw him closer to you, whining, his pelvis thrusting into thin air as he searches for the friction he’s doling out to you in spades, his rigid sex hardening with your every rise and fall.
“So horny, so desperate, and you can’t even touch yourself. Pathetic little noises,” you jibe, “you’re touching me so well, though, baby…”
And at that precise moment, his one hand moves from cupping your ass cheek and slips his finger past the tight ring of muscle, only to the first knuckle, but oh the intrusion. You startle, as though electrically sparked, jolts of pleasure ricocheting around you: his brat tendencies are showing again. Still, it’s not unwelcome, and you find yourself leaning into the action, seeking the waves of pleasure that run up your spine when paired with his mouth and hands working your different holes, his facial hair stimulating your clit as far as you can go.
“Stupid man, Mr Evans, getting me into your bed this way. Well now at least you won at something…”
You can feel him hardening behind you and beneath you, since the muscles in his chest and abs contract with each twitch of his thick cock. He could make you scream with pleasure if you weren’t so inhibited, so your moans and murmurs will have to suffice, since you feel it even if you don’t convey it.
It’s fervid, a fever dream, but your climax comes on like a freight train, flooring you as you writhe above Mr Evans, sitting on his face and using him for your pleasure only. Your walls clench around his tongue, but he only takes it as an opportunity to delve further in, his heart beating rapidly beneath you. Your hands travel upwards as you ride the waves that ebb and flow around you, tweaking at your nipples and feeling the sensations everywhere.
You topple off him, falling into the cool sheets that shape around you, your chest heaving. You turn your head to glance at Chris, currently panting just like you are, white cum sticking to his gorgeous muscles and contrasting the dark ink of his tattoos and the shadows of your lipstick. The smirk that tugs at your mouth is pure feline, a blooming sense of achievement in your chest.
“Someone enjoyed himself,” you intone. His face flushes a crimson that it probably shouldn’t after where it just was, which is why you add, “Sorry for, y’know.,” you gesture to your thighs and then his face.
He chuckles, rolling on his side to face you, “Being caught between your thighs is the most delicious vise of silken flesh…”
You smile to yourself, scraping your nails gently through his hair, “I’ve gotta go pee. Bathroom through there?” You point to a door covered in stacks of blazers and shirts on the hooks: all of which he’s worn to the office this week.
“Yeah. Miss you already.”
You roll your eyes at his lopsided expression as you scurry away and sort yourself out, admiring the vintage-style tile that covers the room head to toe, even on the toilet lid. Not very subtle, and therefore very Chris.
He’s standing there, towering in the doorway when you open the door again, taking you by surprise by snatching your lips in a kiss. You close the door and pluck his henley off the pile by his bed. The duvet is around your waist, your head in the pillows, by the time he comes back out, stopping dead at the sight, his abs glistening with drops of water.
“It suits you better. Keep it.”
“If you insist,” you giggle. “Join me?”
“Not running out on me, then?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Not yet.”
Though in actuality you can’t gather the sense to leave, not when his sheets smell just like him, woody and masculine and citrusy and so damn comforting. And while you won’t verbally admit it, you want to fall asleep in his strong, safe arms just this once before you let tonight go like it was just a dream, if you can ever find the strength for that.
“Hey, you okay?” he prys, his voice low. Suddenly he’s beside you, his fingers under your chin, his thumb swiping your lip. “You went away with the fairies.”
“Yeah, sorry. I– I’m good. Thank you for this, Chris. It was really nice. And I’m so sorry for how rude I was to you earlier. And before that. And I’m sorry it took me so long because this was such an incredible night, and I do like spending time with you…”
He cuts you off by his lips on yours, fusing, melding, fastening, your words lost on the tip of your tongue as his steals them away. His kisses are the most intoxicating thing about him.
“It’s okay. I’m real sorry for everything as well, but we’re here, right?” You nod, surprised at his relaxing tone. “And that’s all that matters. Don’t get all het up.”
You nestle into him, your head slotting perfectly between his shoulder and neck. Lips brushing your temple, arms enveloping you, fingers tracing… it’s funny how much can change in such a short space of time. His digits find your folds again, slipping through, arousing you once more before caressing your waist, your ass, anywhere he can reach.
“Chris?” you murmur.
He shushes you gently, “You can rest now. You deserve it. I’m here.”
——
Chris stirs at the blaring sound of his alarm, rolling over in the sheets, now laced with your scent. He presses snooze, laying back in the pillows, a lazy smile adorning his face. Last night was… consummate. The best sex of his life. Yet when he turns to your side of the bed, the sheets are neatly straightened, and there’s no sign of you. Not even a note.
“Y/n?” he calls. Upon garnering no response, he calls again, louder this time.
The relief that floods his senses is surely not normal, but he can’t help it when your head pops around the door, his shirt gracing your tall frame.
“I was just making some tea. I didn’t realise you were up.”
“I only just woke, darling. Come back to bed.”
You sigh, cracking the door open a little more despite turning on your heel, away from him. “I’ve got work.”
“No you haven’t:” he rushes, “I got you a paid day off for today.”
“Chris! No!” you exclaim. “That’s not your place.”
“I– I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend some more time with you. I’m leaving tomorrow night and I won’t be back for months…”
He truly is a little brat. You leave his mind to scramble and go to pour your tea, your clothes assembled in a neat pile on the piano. Right on cue, he scampers out from his room, one foot caught in his boxers as he hops over his apartment to reach you.
“Y/n, please. Spend the day with me. I’ll take you for breakfast, lunch, dinner, take you shopping, to the library, or we could stay in bed, or watch TV or do wherever you want. Please don’t go yet.” His voice fractures, weaning in strength with his final words. For all that you pride yourself on your cold exterior and ability to be objective on many matters, a forty year old millionaire kneeling at your feet and begging you to spend the day with him is something you can’t refuse. The sincerity in his eyes sends an ache through your heart. And that, paired with that stupid voice in your heart encouraging you to, is the reason you agree to stay.
“I’ll come back to bed, go straighten the covers,” you tell him.
His face all but lights up, even beneath the dark beard covering the lower portion. Except before he disappears, he jogs to the door, snatches up your Louboutins, and dashes back to his room. You smile to yourself. Chris’ cheekiness is a compelling enough reason in itself to spend the day in bed with him.
——
The clock strikes 9pm, the time you told yourself you’d leave his apartment and not look bad. So now the moment’s come, why are you so hesitant to part with him? It’s a necessary evil, and you've been together constantly for the past twenty four hours… You’re dressed in his flannel over your dress, standing at his door, watching him towel dry his hair. You whiled the day away in bed, mostly, going out for a nice lunch, watching a film in his arms in the afternoon, not even discussing work or politics once, but falling into a steady rhythm. Despite the comfort, your differences were still alarming, which is exactly why you’re here, ready to go.
Chris catches sight of you and his movements halt, his expression resigned, his shoulders slumped. “I thought today would be enough to convince you to stay.”
“Good sex and a nice lunch doesn’t equal a relationship, Mr Evans,” you say, adding an inflection of humour to your tone. It doesn’t convey, or meet your eyes. You know how resigned you must look, too.
“But I care about you! I want this to work, I want to be with you, I want a relationship. Please.” That escalated very quickly. Evidently you went into this with very different expectations. It takes you a good moment of silence, kicking your shoes off to meet his height in his moment of vulnerability, until you find the right words, modulating your tone accordingly.
“Chris, we can’t be together. I don’t feel the same way you feel about me. I’m warming to you as a person, but you’re a political broadcaster, for lack of a better word, while I’m at school, working to become a politician. That in itself is enough of a reason for us to be incompatible, not to mention age, distance, my sexuality and preference of girls… I can’t be with you,” you tell him in earnest.
The air is sucked from the room around you, the lights flickering.
“Y/n, please,” he begs, his accent thick, “you’re everything to me. You’re the one I look forward to seeing every visit.”
“And that doesn’t have to stop because of this!” you exclaim. “I’ll see you the next time you come, I– I’ll help you with ASP stuff whenever, but that doesn’t mean I have to be your obedient little girlfriend.” You certainly didn’t intend the bite in your words.
“I don’t expect that of you!” he cries. “I just want you, in whatever capacity. I want you to do this, finish school, be a politician, and I’ll give up whatever it takes for us.”
Your heart shatters at the resignedness in his eyes, his voice, the every line of his body. You take his hands in yours and hold them, your thumbs rubbing shy circles over his knuckles. “I don’t want you to do that, Chris. Look at me, c’mon.” His eyes trail to meet yours, tears shining afresh in them. “I trust you. I believe in what you feel. And just because I don’t feel it yet, my feelings for you have definitely increased these past few days. But I’m not ready for a relationship yet. You’ve gotta appreciate that I’m still really young, still in college, and while what’s between us may be ‘it’ for us both, I need to experience more of the world and build a life for myself before I can offer my heart to someone.”
He sniffles, tugging one hand away from yours to wipe at his eyes and nose. “I get that. I’m sorry.”
“Shh, no, don’t apologise. And we can still do this, yeah? Whenever you come down, I’ll be here to see you and we can spend time together, we can help each other out. I’ll even come to Boston during the holidays if you want me to,” you offer.
Your brain won’t accept it yet, but Mr Evans irrevocably holds a piece of your heart. Maybe you will find your way back to him in the future when things are more settled, when the age difference doesn’t matter so much, when he’s grown out of his man-whoring ways. Sure he can teach you a lot, but you can help him too, educate him, motivate him, prove what his activism can truly do. But for now, this is what’s right, no matter the cost and the pain.
“Can you stay with me tonight?” he whispers.
“Of course I can.”
——
“Good morning, Miss y/l/n,” Mr Evans calls to you as he passes through the office.
His brogues click on the floor, though you can see through his feigned confidence as he flicks open his blazer by the single button straining across his tattooed chest. No one else sees him this way, though: only you can see that vulnerability. His favourite intern.
“Good morning, Sir,” you echo, straightening your neckerchief and how it fits in your blouse now you’ve removed your blazer, the one that matches his favourite of your skirts, “did you have a good night?”
Last night, Chris made love to you for hours. He ensured he proved every single word to you, appreciating you with every inch of his body. He fulfilled promises he made that no one could make good on but him. That tenderness and passion can’t be feigned. Something in him has melted the iciness of you, warming your soul up to him, the idea of a relationship. And yet you can’t imagine it with anyone but Chris, even if the idea is in your future.
His smile is gentle, his eyes already shining with unshed tears by the time he reaches the door to his office. He thinks only one heart was broken last night, but you knew from the moment you chatted sincerely with him, that you’d be another intern with a broken heart, only so much worse. Which is why his next words wound you so. “I did, thank you. A good enough night to face the day, and all the rest to follow.”
#chris evans x female reader#christopher robert evans#chris evans imagine#chris evans smut#chris evans x f!reader#chris evans x intern!reader#chris evans fanfiction#cevans#chris evans fic#chris evans x fem!reader#chris evans x f reader#chris evans fluff#chris evans x reader#chris evans fanfic#chris evans x politician!reader#Chris evans#Chris evans angst#Christopher evans#chris evans angst#chris evans x tall!reader#chris evans x y/n#politician!chris evans#chris evans tattoos#chris evans
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Try it, I Dare You
*** Greetings! So this little fic is part of Familial Attachments which I wrote ages ago. I randomly got inspired by Big Bro! Lucifer and decided to branch off of it. Quick reminder that this MC is not a Teen! MC and therefore not underage. Thanks, everyone for the love and support! This fic is a long one. -B ***
Summary: As Lucifer forms a more familial bond with MC, the other brothers find themselves falling for the human romantically. Lucifer notes the changes in his brother's intentions and is not pleased.
Gaining you as an honorary little sibling was one of the best things to ever happen to Lucifer.
It gave him someone he could open up to, someone to fawn over, someone he could be soft with.
This change in dynamic between you and Lucifer had caused a number of things to change in the House of Lamentation in general.
You and Lucifer had become practically attached to the hip. Where you went, it seemed he wasn't far behind. The other brothers had joked that he had degraded himself to be your guard dog (a comment that had them all scrubbing the entirety of the hall's floors with their own toothbrushes), and in all honesty, he sort of had. Lucifer spent more time outside of his office, and would instead do his work in the lounge, where he could personally keep an eye on you.
It was this extra time around you that had caused Lucifer to begin to notice things.
It began, as most problems within the house do, with Mammon.
You had been talking with Mammon on the couch as Lucifer quietly did paperwork in the background.
He hadn't been listening in on the conversation (as frankly, it was none of his concern and you did deserve your own privacy), but your bright laugh had momentarily caught his attention.
When he glanced over, he saw you double over, nearly in tears from something Mammon had apparently said. It was nice.
What wasn't so nice, was the openly soft, adoring look that he was giving you under the knowledge that you weren't looking. His cheeks were dusted visibly flushed as his eyes glistened with affection.
Lucifer's eyes narrowed as the expression quickly disappeared once you turned to face Mammon once more and continue your conversation.
Paying closer attention now, he noted how Mammon's hand was draped over the back of the couch, his fingertips ghosting over the tops of your shoulders. A fond smirk remained glued on his face as he watched you talk passionately, and didn't even make an attempt to interrupt you as he would with most people.
Most damning, however, was the fact that the blush never quite left his face.
Lucifer pressed his lips into a thin line.
Mammon quite clearly had romantic interests in you, and that just wouldn't do.
It wasn't that Lucifer didn't trust you to know what's best for yourself. No. He knew that you were exceedingly clever and did, in fact, trust you to make your own choices. It was precisely why he hadn't done anything about Asmodeus's hollow flirtations, or Satan's teasing, or Belphegor's sleepovers. He knew that if you were truly bothered by it, you were more than capable of getting them to leave you alone.
He didn't, however, trust his brothers with you.
With the new pathway of thinking that Mammon's actions had opened that day, Lucifer had noticed that Mammon was not alone in his not-so-innocent intentions with you.
In fact, it appeared that you had captured the hearts of each of his brothers.
It was all too obvious to him now.
Satan's hands lingering on yours as he passed you books. Asmodeus's comments being less shallow and materialistic and more personal and sentimental. Levi's awe-filled eyes, being fixed on you rather than the games the two of you played. Belphegor, cracking open an eye to peer up at you when you weren't looking as he "slept" on your lap. Beel's fidgeting and blush as he asked you to help him work out. Mammon practically melting whenever you ruffled his hair; even as he protested and swatted at your hands.
Lucifer cursed his past self for being so oblivious.
Perhaps the worst part of all of this is that you, the innocent pure soul that you were, were completely oblivious to all of their advances. You would simply giggle or brush it off entirely as just one of the many weird things that his brothers did.
It was unacceptable.
Lucifer, although he seldom admitted it, loved his brothers. He truly did. But he also knew how reckless, moronic, and just overall dangerous they could all be. You deserved better than that. It was for this reason that Lucifer had made it his personal mission to put an end to these revolting advances.
-
Asmodeus smiled as he practically skipped over to where you were reading in the living room, "Hey MC," he draped his arms over your shoulder from behind and nestled his chin on top of your head. "What are you doing today?"
You chuckled and moved your head to gaze up at the bubbly demon. "Good morning, Asmo. I'm not doing much. Just relaxing, I guess. Why?"
Asmo could feel his smile widen at the information. He had been trying to get you all to himself all week, but there was always someone else around or something else that you had to do. Now was his chance!
He hummed as he snaked around the chair to face you. "Then that means you're free to spend the day shopping with your truly!" He shot off a cheeky wink to end it all off.
Asmo felt his heart flutter as your eyes glittered in excitement at his words. "I'd love to Asmo! Just let me gather a few things and we'll-"
"Ah! MC. Are you heading out for the day?"
All the light and warmth that Asmodeus had been feeling instantly plummeted as Lucifer entered the room. His brother was obviously trying to play it off as though he hadn't orchestrated this, not even looking at the two of them as he thumbed through a few papers in his hands, but Asmodeus knew better.
You, however, were none the wiser.
You practically lit up as Lucifer walked into the room. "Yeah! Asmodeus invited me to go shopping with him. We're probably going to be gone for the better part of the day," Asmodeus's bad mood caused by his brother's presence softened as you looked back at him.
Asmo plastered on a smile and wrapped an arm around your shoulder while glared sharply at Lucifer. He hoped that maybe this time he'd actually take the hint and leave everything alone. "Was there something you needed, big brother? Or are you just here to grace us with your presence?"
Asmodeus regretted his words, as the moment he saw them, Lucifer smiled sharply, like a cat who'd just captured its prey. "Well, since you asked, Asmodeus, I was hoping the two of you could pick up a few things for me," Lucifer began to list off rare item after rare item. Asmo could nothing but watch as the dread in his stomach grew heavier and heavier.
You chuckled nervously as Lucifer reached what had to be the twentieth item. "That's quite a bit, Lucifer. I don't think I'd be able to remember it all, and even if I did, I don't know where to begin looking for half of the things you listed," your face scrunched up adorably in thought before you snapped and looked up at the two demons. "I know! Why doesn't Lucifer come with us! That way he'll be able to get his things, and we all can spend time together. Sounds nice, right?"
And there it was.
Asmodeus did everything he could to keep the disappointment off his face, as Lucifer patted your shoulder. "That sounds like an excellent idea, MC," Asmo bit back a growl as Lucifer pulled you out of his arms and lead you towards your room. He glanced back at Asmo with a smug, prideful, look on his face. "We'll go get ready. Thank you for arranging this day out, Asmodeus."
Asmodeus could do nothing but pout as Lucifer walked away with you.
-
Satan had never felt so... tender-hearted before.
He watched you affectionately as you rambled on about your day while effortlessly helping him make supper.
There was something so wholesome and domestic about the entire situation that reminded him of the few romance novels he had read. Initially, when he read those books, he thought the poetic descriptions of the person's heart skipping and the tingling warmth filling their body was a gross exaggeration, but now he knew, and he never wanted that feeling to go away.
He moved by your side and stirred one of the pots on the stove while you diced tomatoes. As he listened to you speak about an enchantment you were trying to get the hang of with Solomon, he suddenly remembered one of the more cliche moments from the books he read.
Glancing at the sauce, Satan carefully scooped up a little bit into a spoon and gently blew on it to cool it down. He turned to you and held the spoon out towards you. "I'm not sure if I got the spices balanced outright. Would you mind-"
Before he could speak any more, a head. that most certainly did not belong to you, swooped down and ate the sauce off the spoon. You and Satan blinked as Lucifer, who had somehow appeared behind you, pulled away from the spoon with a thoughtful expression. "The sauce is good. I'd say it's probably done now," Lucifer stated calmly as his thumb wiped at the corners of his mouth. Satan's grip tightened on the spoon's handle as he snarled at his brother.
You looked awkwardly between the two as Lucifer draped his arm onto your shoulder. "Lucifer? What are you doing here?"
Lucifer's expression softened as he looked down at you, "I just wanted to check in on you," Satan's eye twitched at the excuse. Lucifer tilted his head before he continued. "Also, I saw Mammon sneaking into your room, muttering something about your jewellery box and wanted to give you a heads up."
Your eyes widened as your head snapped in the direction of your room. "What?! Why didn't you start with that?!" Lucifer's smile widened as you made your way towards the kitchen exit. You glanced back at Satan with sympathetic eyes, "Sorry, Satan. I'll promise I'll help you make dinner next time!" Before Satan even had the chance to respond, you had taken off down the hall, yelling his older brother's name.
With you gone, Satan turned to Lucifer with full, unrestrained fury. "What the fuck was that for?" he spat as he stepped into Lucifer's space.
The elder brother merely rolled his eyes and stepped around Satan as though he was nothing more than a hissing kitten. "I could be asking you the same thing. You were getting awfully close there."
Satan's face grew red, though it was hard to distinguish whether the colour was from anger or embarrassment. "That's none of your business!"
Apparently, Lucifer didn't deem a response necessary, as he simply dismissed his brother with a cocky wave of his hand and strutted out of the room in the same direction that you had left.
-
Beelzebub was taking a chance and stepping outside of his comfort zone.
Ever since discovering a small, weak flower in the shadows of the Hall of Lamentation and nursing it back to health, Beel had taken up gardening as a hobby.
None of his brothers knew about it, to his knowledge, and that was okay. If anything, the soft-spoken demon preferred it that way.
But when he noticed that it was particularly nice outside and that you were roaming around with little to do, he decided to let you in on his little secret.
Beel stole a glimpse over his shoulder at you. You were hunched over, humming to yourself as you worked away, your hands knuckle deep in the rich soil with smudges of dirt smeared across your forehead. The gentle dim light of the Devildom sky bounced off your skin and blanketed you in its glow, only adding the beauty you projected.
The sight alone stole his breath and momentarily made him forget about his hunger.
He opened his mouth to speak to you, but was cut off by the sound of heavy footfalls thundering towards you and a loud dangerous growl.
Beel's eyes widened as he notice Cerberus turn the corner, heading straight towards the two of you in a dead sprint.
Without thinking, Beel quickly tackled you to the side, just as the three-headed hell hound rushed past you, demolishing the garden in his wake.
You did a double-take between Beel, Cerberus and the garden as you scrambled to your feet. "Cerberus? How in Diavolo's name did he get loose?" you anxiously ran a hand through your hair began to head in the direction he took off in. "Lucifer taught me a few tricks for catching him. I'm going to go get him! I'm so so sorry about all of this Beel! I'll make it up to you, I promise!"
Without another word you took off after the beast, shouting it's name.
Beel frowned and looked at what remained of his garden. He felt his heart sink a little at seeing all of his hard work destroyed. With a heavy sigh, he slowly made his way towards Cerberus's den to see just how bad the damage was.
Only, when he arrived, the pen's door didn't even have a scratch on it; almost as though someone had let the dog out.
-
Leviathan paced around his room as he muttering to himself as tightly clenched to tickets.
"Alright, Levi. It's not a big deal," he whispered reassuringly. "You just have to go out there, hand them the tickets, and ask them to come with. You already checked their calendar when you were in their room last time, and there are no mentions of any upcoming events on their Devilgram, so they won't be busy. O-Of course, they could always reject you for being a stupid shut-in and a gross o-otaku, b-b-but they're your Henry! Right? They have to agree! Okay!" Levi took a deep breath of courage and quickly flung open his door.
He charged to the living room where he knew you would be lounging with Lucifer.
Upon seeing him, your expression lit up and you graced Leviathan with one of your dazzling smiles. The otaku swore that he could hear his heart go "doki-doki". He stumbled to a stop as his face blushed, and quickly hid the tickets behind his back. "H-Hi MC."
"Hey, Levi-chan!" Oh Diavolo, he loved it when you called him that. "What's up? You look like a man on a mission."
Levi briefly noted Lucifer side-eyeing the two of you as he began to stutter out an answer. "W-Well you see, uh... I-I just um...There's this th-thing that..." He let out a small noise of frustration at his own incompetence.
But you never laughed, or sighed, or groaned, like any of his brothers would have. No. You merely sat there and waited patiently for him to find his words with a gentle smile on your face.
Another deep breath and Levi composed himself. "Did you want to go to an idol concert with me this weekend?" Levi couldn't even bring himself to look you in the eyes as he asked the question. "O-Obviously you don't have to, b-b-but you seemed to like their music when I played it the other day, a-a-and you aren't busy so I thought-"
"Actually," Levi's mouth snapped shut as Lucifer spoke up, "MC and I have plans with Diavolo this weekend."
Levi's head whipped over to look at you and noted the slightly confused expression on your face. "I thought that was next weekend?"
Amber eyes narrowed at the words, as Levi slowly turned to glare at Lucifer. It was all to clear to the Otaku what was happening here.
Lucifer shrugged, not even phased by the venomous stare of his brother, and pulled out his D.D.D. "Barbatos messaged me saying that Diavolo had an important meeting pop up next week and asked if we could move our little get-together to this weekend instead."
You huffed and crossed your arms. "I know he's the prince and can't help it, but making last-minute changes like that is just rude."
Lucifer chuckled at your annoyance and ruffled your hair. "I know, but it's nothing either of us can help. I'll just confirm that we're good with the change and-"
"No." Lucifer and Levi both looked at you in shock. Levi dared to let his heart flutter with hope at the determined look on your face. "I can make plans with Diavolo any time. This concert is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and it clearly means a lot to Levi. Tell him that I'll have to take a rain check. I'm going to be spending the weekend with Levi-chan."
Levi instantly let out a cheer of victory as he stepped forward spun you in the air. "Thank you, MC!!! Oh we're going to have so much fun! I swear you won't regret this!"
You giggled as you were set back down onto your feet. "Thank you for inviting me! This is going to be amazing!"
You and Levi began rambling about all the things you wanted to do at the concert and what you'd need to prepare in advance for the ultimate experience.
Levi couldn't believe it! He was going to spend an entire weekend getting to show you the things that he loved! It'd be just the two of you and it'd be perfect.
"I have an idea," Levi felt himself tense as Lucifer spoke up once more. "Why don't we all go together? That way you can spend time with Diavolo, while also getting to attend the concert?"
Levi's heart sunk as you squealed at the idea, jumping excitedly around a smiling Lucifer.
So much for his perfect, romantic, weekend.
-
Mammon took a deep breath as he stared at your bedroom door.
This was it. He was finally going to tell you how he felt.
He had it all planned out. He was going to go in there, and gift you the necklace he had noticed you looking at the last time the two of you went downtown. Then, he'd explain how through the past months of living with you and being your protector, that he found himself becoming enraptured by every single little thing that you do. He'd explain how he knows that he's clingy and greedy when it comes to spending time with you, but that's because there's nothing he treasures more than being by your side. And then, he'd say that he loves you, and hope that you say the same in return.
Fucking romantic right? Mammon had this in the bag.
He confidently lifted his chin as he knocked on your door before walking in. "Hey MC! I know it's late, but do ya gotta-" he trailed off at the sight before him.
Both you and Lucifer were in fluffy, white robes on your bed. Lucifer had a headband in his hair, brushing his bangs away from his clay mask-covered face. You were beside him, also sporting a mask, your tongue peeking out of the corner of your mouth as you carefully painted his nails.
Lucifer raised an eyebrow at his brother, obviously annoyed at being disturbed, while you smiled over at Mammon. "Hey, Mams! Just a sec," you smoothly finished applying a coat of red polish to Lucifer's pinky finger before recapping the bottle and turning to the white-haired demon. "What's up?"
Mammon felt his face heat up, as he quickly hid the small box in his hands behind his back. "I- Uh- Nothin'! Just wanted to talk with ya. Can ya come with me for a few minutes?"
Lucifer sighed as he examined his freshly painted nails. "Might I remind you that you're the one disturbing us, Mammon? If you've got something to say," Mammon gulped as knowing, irked, obsidian eyes bore into his, "spit it out."
You smacked Lucifer's arm. "Hey! Be nice," you offered Mammon a sympathetic smile as you turned back to him. "Sorry, Mammon. You were saying?"
Mammon swallowed down the lump in his throat as humiliation flooded his veins. He awkwardly looked away and waved off your concern. "Nah. It was nothin' important," he subtly slid the necklace box into his back pocket, "I-I'll talk with ya tomorrow or somethin'. It's nothin' ya need to worry about."
You blinked owlishly at Mammon. He could practically see the gears churning inside your head; you obviously thought something was wrong. "Are you sure? If it matters to you, Mammon, that means it's important. I can spare a few minutes if it's really bothering you."
You began to stand up, but as you did, Lucifer caught your wrist."MC, he already said you didn't need to worry about it. If it was that important, he would've just told us. I'm sure everything is fine," Mammon tensed as Lucifer shifted his cold gaze onto him, "right?"
Mammon quickly nodded as he stumbled back towards the door. "Yeah! Yes! Everything is perfectly fine! I-I'll just get goin' and leave to continue whatever this is. Bye!" He scurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him, before slumping against it.
He could faintly hear the sounds of you scolding Lucifer, and felt himself slump in defeat.
He'd just have to try again another day.
-
Belphegor fluffed the blankets and pillows that he had set up in the backyard.
It was perfect. He had actually put in work to make sure it was.
A sea of blankets would protect the two of you from the chilly, Devildom, night air, while his finest pillows would make sure you were comfortable. He had brought out a thermos filled with tea and some snacks to make the evening extra cozy.
It was everything the two of you would need to take in the meteor shower tonight.
A click sounded behind him. Belphie perked and quickly turned to greet with you a smile.
Only, instead of you, a rather smug-looking Lucifer stood in the doorway.
Belphie growled and went back to arranging pillows. "What do you want?"
Lucifer shrugged and began to set up a telescope. Belphie gritted his teeth at the sight of it. "I'm just here to take in the meteor shower like you are. That's all. It is quite a beautiful sight after all, and it also happens to be very enlightening."
Belphegor sneered at his older brother as he turned away from him. "Well do it somewhere else! I'm watching the shower here with MC, not you. So go away!"
Lucifer tilted his head in mock confusion as he held up his phone. "Oh dear, but I've already invited the others to join us out here."
Belphie's head snapped up at Lucifer's words. "You what?!"
As though summoned, the rest of his brothers toppled into the backyard.
"I was unaware there was a meteor shower tonight," Satan claimed as he laid down his own blanket near Belphie's perfectly structured nest. "To think I almost missed out on it."
"Eh, I don't care about any stupid stars or anythin'," Belphie groaned in annoyance as Mammon plopped himself down beside him. "But if anythin' falls near us, then those meteor pieces have gotta be worth a fortune!"
Levi scoffed and rolled his eyes as he leaned against the house, game counsel still in hand. "Nothing's actually falling, dumb ass. They're just space rocks passing by."
Asmodeus giggled while he snuggled himself up on Belphie's other side. Belphie wrinkled up his nose and tried to lean away from the physical affection. "Then why are you out here, Levi, if they're just space rocks? Can't you admit that they're beautiful, like me, and you wanted to experience something real for once?"
Levi let out a squawk of embarrassment. "There isn't anything that 'reality can offer me that anime can't! I've seen meteor showers at least ten times all with amazing shots and angles that you could never get in real life!"
Asmodeus merely shook his head in response. "Whatever you say, Levi," he reached over to the picnic basket that Belphie for you and him had packed and held it over his head. "Beel! Snacks!"
Belphegor gaped at his twin as the ginger giant grabbed the basket and sat down behind them. "Beel?! You too?"
Beel looked down guiltily and looked through the food. "I'm sorry, Belphie. But Lucifer said there'd be snacks and that everyone else was going to be there, and I thought it'd be nice to have a family event."
Belphie groaned and held his head in his hands. "You knew I was planning this for just me and MC though."
Beel frowned and held out a cookie to his twin. "Sorry."
Before Belphie could argue anymore or even get the chance to kick everyone out, the door opened once more.
"Oh," everyone looked over to see you standing there in your pyjamas. Belphie's heart clenched as your confused eyes found his. "I didn't know this was a group gathering! I would've brought down some pillows for everyone or some snacks if I had known!" you smiled brightly at the group as you walked towards them.
"No need. Belphie went ahead and provided enough for everyone already," Lucifer claimed and patted the ground next him. "You can sit with me, MC. There's plenty of space over here."
Belphie cursed under his breath as you accepted Lucifer's offer and huffed as the meteor shower began.
Lucifer smirked as he took in his brother's defeat with glee, and you babbled away none-the-wiser by his side.
His brothers could try to woo you and corrupt you all they wanted, but Lucifer wasn't going anywhere. For every attempt they'd make, he'd be there to stop it.
You had deemed Lucifer your big brother, after all, and as such, he'd make sure that you were always safe from his brothers' infernal influences.
***The ending is meh, but whatever! I hope you guys enjoyed this fic! It was both fun and hassle to write, but I love it nonetheless! Thanks for your amazing support and love! Sorry for the lack of fics lately. Love you all!***
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See I’m really interested in the theory of the Captain being visible in mirrors bc of the theme tune. (I also think I saw a screenshot where you can partially see him in a mirror?)
I don’t think the Idiots would put him there in the intro for no reason? Especially because every other ghost is in a specific place for a reason.
Maybe this is a little GCSE English of me but I think it’s really interesting that he’s in a cracked mirror. Perhaps it’s a statement on being a reflection of his times.
But despite reflecting his time period, glimpses of his true self shine through. He’s flawed. Overbearing, uptight and controlling at times with the other ghosts. He’s unable to let the war go.
At the same time, he cares so very much about his friends. He lies about Santa to save Kitty’s belief of Christmas magic, let’s Pat take over camping when he realises that Pat has more experience. When this earns him the teamwork award, he’s surprised because he wasn’t trying to achieve anything, but he holds it to the same standard as his treasured war medals. He organises an entire mission to help the other ghosts get rid of Alison and Mike bc his skills lend themselves to that sort of thing.
He gets excitable about tanks and warfare, becomes flustered and needs help sometimes (see the emergency protocol from Wedding Reddy). He crushes on any new man that turns up to the house.
He still loves a man he hasn’t seen in 80 years and is still upset that he never knew whether he was loved in return because they weren’t allowed to express it. That understanding of love transcending traditional rules and laws allowed him to help 2 people like him that did have a chance to express their love have a wedding to remember.
The Captain is very much a cracked reflection of his time, highlighting the idea that his era wasn’t always the ‘good old days’ for everyone. But he has pride in himself and his friends, despite everything. He is so wonderfully human and I think that’s why he’s my favourite
#bbc ghosts#bbc ghosts captain#can you tell I love him and am fixating on him?#your honour i love him
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Prompt: Wei Wuxian has achieved time travel! He's gonna fix so many broken things. Unfortunately, WWX has miscalculated a teensy tiny variable and instead of arriving in his original 15yo body in Lotus Pier, he's crash landed in MXY's tiny 7~8yo body at Mo Manor. But no problem, he can fix this if he can just find his real body. (Meanwhile, Yunmeng Jiang's head disciple is acting the wrong kind of childish, aka, Mo Xuanyu is having the weirdest day of his young life.)
Switcheroo - ao3
Mo Xuanyu thought that this Wei Wuxian person whose body he’d stolen must have been a really interesting person, mostly because he’d been here for three days so far and nobody’d noticed the switch yet.
Possibly it had to do with the fact that Mo Xuanyu still wasn’t exactly sure how he’d stolen the body – he’d just gone to sleep in the shed, same as always, and then he’d woken up in the softest bed he’d ever encountered in his life…no, softer than even his dreams! He’d thought it over and concluded that he must have died from cold out in the shed, turned into a fierce ghost out of resentment, grown powerful (somehow), then stolen some rich young master’s body when they weren’t paying close enough attention and, once he’d possessed the body, promptly lost all his memory of being a ghost.
It seemed like the only logical course of events.
He was very sorry about it, though. Wei Wuxian seemed like a nice, if very unusual person.
The first day, Mo Xuanyu had barely even noticed the body-switch, being quite so enamored of the soft bed he was in – he’d refused to get out of bed at all, declaring that he was going to lie in and sleep for a century or more, and the people who’d come to the door to get him didn’t beat him or anything over it, but rather just laughed or rolled their eyes and then left him to it. Luckily, at the time, he’d just assumed he was dead or something and proceeded to ignore everything in favor of napping.
He only acknowledged that he was alive later in the afternoon, when his stomach started growling – it seemed like a very unlikely thing for a dead man’s stomach to do.
Mo Xuanyu had by that point figured out that he wasn’t himself anymore, which was fine since he didn’t much like himself; he’d also figured out, through looking himself over, that he was old now. At least fifteen or sixteen, which was twice the age he last remembered himself being. That was fine, too, though: being older meant that he was stronger and faster and would be better able to handle it when people wanted to beat him or something. Most importantly, though, it meant he was old enough to enter the kitchen on his own!
Mo Xuanyu already knew that he wasn’t allowed to eat at the main table, being only the bastard son of the younger daughter, and the cook back at home was a fierce woman who didn’t allow anyone under the age of ten into her kitchen; as a result, he had to wait for his mother to bring him back some food, and it was always cold and not quite enough. Now, though, since he was older, he figured he might as well try to go to the kitchen and fill his belly that way.
Luckily, while his current body’s house was much bigger than the Mo house, all houses were generally built along the same lines, so it wasn’t hard to find the kitchen. Everyone there laughed when he showed up, even though he’d tried to be very quiet and sneak in and then screwed it up by tripping over his own feet – it seemed like everyone thought he was doing it on purpose to be funny – and then the cooks gave him a meal of his own that was hot and fresh and wonderful.
He'd wolfed it down.
“Honestly, Wei Wuxian, you eat like a hungry ghost, you’d think the Jiang clan starves you,” one of them scolded him, but with a smile, and from that Mo Xuanyu learned that the rich young master was called Wei Wuxian and that he lived with the Jiang clan. The different surnames confused him a little, but he didn’t dare ask any questions about it, so he just stuffed his mouth and pretended that was the reason he couldn’t answer.
No one questioned it.
No one questioned it when he went wandering all around instead of doing whatever chores or duties he’d been assigned, either. Someone had actually seen him hovering by a door and asked him to bring back a pheasant when he returned, so out of lack of better options he’d headed outside to try to go find one.
He had a pretty good time walking around the forest, then remembered what he’d been asked and chased the pheasants for a while, without success . Fortunately, he then got lucky and stumbled over an old snare that had three pheasants caught inside, so he’d picked up the whole box and carted it back home.
“Three,” one of the boys in purple-blue marveled as he saw Mo Xuanyu walking towards the kitchen. “You know, people say that the birds around the Lotus Pier have gotten too smart to be caught easily, but look at our da-shixiong; he makes it look easy!”
From this, Mo Xuanyu could figure out that Wei Wuxian was (apparently!) part of a cultivator clan, apparently located at a place called the Lotus Pier, and that he was the oldest or at least head disciple, to boot. He knew all about cultivator clans from his mother, since apparently his father had been a sect leader, and that meant he knew enough to call the other boy ‘shidi’ as he passed, making the other boy beam happily.
It also meant that when he chanced a guess and called the young woman in a pretty pink dress who waved at him ‘shijie’, she smiled and nodded, which meant to him that he’d done the right thing.
“I heard you slept even more of the morning away than usual,” she told him, but didn’t seem too upset about it. “I bet that means you’ll be skipping dinner and staying up all night, hmm?”
Mo Xuanyu had no intention of skipping dinner if it was anything like what the kitchens had given him earlier, actually, but while he was still trying to figure out a way to say that, she said, leaning in close to whisper, “It’s probably a good idea, anyway – Mother and Father are fighting again. Just go to the kitchens to grab something…I promise I’ll make it up to you with some soup tomorrow, pork ribs and lotus roots, your favorite. All right?”
“Shijie, you’re the best,” Mo Xuanyu said effusively, willing to die for her at once, and she laughed and tousled his hair.
“I am,” she said, looking happy. “And if my little A-Xian stays good and obedient, I may even feed him.”
She did, too, the next day when he finally tore himself out of the beautiful wonderful soft bed and went to go find her. She’d made him soup, just as he’d promised, and laughed and laughed for some reason: apparently, she interpreted him being quiet and not talking too much as his efforts to be ‘good and obedient’, which was apparently so out of the ordinary as to be a deliberate joke.
From this, Mo Xuanyu concluded that the young master he’d possessed, Wei Wuxian, was a jackass.
Well, perhaps that was a bit harsh. Arrogant and self-centered, talented and brave and probably brilliant, definitely charming and maybe even kind, but also spoiled and inclined to step on other people to get where he wanted to go, if Mo Xuanyu had to guess – why else would everyone constantly react as if him not being obnoxious was the world’s biggest stunt?
No one seemed to expect anything of him at all: he didn’t do any chores, and no one batted an eyelid; he didn’t go where he was told, and everyone just sighed…at one point the sect leader himself came and patted him on the head, scolding him in a joking tone that he hadn’t seen him leading any of the training the way he was supposed to – but when Mo Xuanyu quailed, he’d burst out laughing, telling ‘Wei Wuxian’ to stop pretending to be a scared little rabbit, that it was fine if he’d gotten distracted by some clever new invention or whatever, that someone else would handle it, that he should take as long as he needed.
Mo Xuanyu had pasted a great big smile on his face through force of effort and agreed cheerfully.
The sect leader had accepted it.
Probably a jackass, but clearly a beloved one, Mo Xuanyu thought to himself as he packed up clothing and a few small treasures that no one would miss, a little wistful. The scare of the whole encounter had put things in perspective – he wasn’t going to be able to keep up this sort of façade for long. In fact, he was shocked he’d managed it so long already; surely, no matter how many pranks this Wei Wuxian played, no matter how childishly he behaved, surely someone should’ve noticed that he was actually an eight-year-old masquerading as a sixteen-year-old?
Mo Xuanyu couldn’t decide whether it was sad that no one paid too much attention or something that this Wei Wuxian fellow had brought down on his own head by being so consistently annoying.
Either way, there was nothing for it – he was going to have to leave.
Now that part was really sad: he’d never in his life had such good food, or such a soft bed, or even so many people that just seemed plain old happy to see him as since he’d arrived in this place. But he wasn’t the one all those things were for; he was just a sad ghost possessing a person, and if he stayed, the cultivators would eventually figure out something was wrong and exorcise him.
Probably violently.
Mo Xuanyu probably deserved it, too, but despite that he wasn’t willing.
So he packed up what he could and headed out.
He got all the way to the gate before a new purple-clad disciple – about his age, if he had to guess, and holding a pack like he’d just come back from a trip, with a scowl on his face – called out for Wei Wuxian.
Mo Xuanyu waved a little, hoping that that would be enough.
For the first time, it wasn’t.
The boy’s face settled into an even deeper scowl.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Wei Wuxian! You’re acting all weird – hey! Where are you going?”
Mo Xuanyu was running away, obviously. He wasn’t about to get tied up and exorcised, no thank you.
He didn’t think he’d make it, but it was still worth trying.
Sure enough, the purple-clad boy who was probably called Jiang Cheng, based on what everyone was calling out as they ran by, got tired of running and jumped on his sword, and there was no way Mo Xuanyu would be able to outrun a sword, not even if he tried as fast as he –
Someone picked him up.
It wasn’t Jiang Cheng.
Mo Xuanyu turned his head and stared.
It must be some sort of yao, he thought. Humans were definitely not that pretty.
“Lan Wangji!” Jiang Cheng howled. “What are you even doing in the Lotus Pier?! Put my shixiong down!”
The rescuer, Lan Wangji, frowned a little at Mo Xuanyu.
Mo Xuanyu didn’t know exactly what expression he ought to be making in return, and was a bit too dazed to even dare to guess. He’d just noticed that they were flying – flying! on a sword! – and he was clutching onto this Lan Wangji’s shoulders for dear life.
“You are not Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said. His voice sounded very definitive.
“Uh,” Mo Xuanyu said. “Sorry? Please don’t drop me.”
“I will not. What is your name?”
“Mo Xuanyu,” Mo Xuanyu admitted, and Lan Wangji’s eyes widened as if that meant something to him – except it couldn’t, of course, because Mo Xuanyu was sure he’d never met anyone even remotely like this Lan Wangji fellow in his life. “I don’t remember taking his body. I’m sorry. Can you not exorcise me? I don’t want to die.”
Lan Wangji was silent for a long moment.
He was still flying very fast, and Jiang Cheng was still following, shouting out curses and demands that he stop, not that Lan Wangji was listening.
“There will be no exorcism,” he finally said, and Mo Xuanyu exhaled in relief. “We will, however, fix this.”
“…we?”
“Wei Ying and myself.”
Mo Xuanyu nodded. That sounded more likely than anyone relying on his participation.
“Where are we going?” he asked. Jiang Cheng was falling further and further behind.
“Mo Village.”
Mo Xuanyu tensed up at once.
“You will not be left there,” Lan Wangji clarified, and – how did he know that Mo Xuanyu didn’t want to be left there? “But we must collect Wei Ying, who I suspect is currently in your body.”
“In my…I’m still alive?”
Lan Wangji was quiet again, and then said, “Yes. And you will remain so.”
That was reassuring, mostly.
“Okay,” Mo Xuanyu said, and found that he mostly felt relieved. He’d be very happy to have his normal body back again, if possible, especially if he didn’t have to stay in Mo Village…“Wait, if I don’t have to stay there, where will I go? I don’t have anywhere else to go, unless my father comes back for me. He's a sect leader –”
“He will not, and even if he did, you should not go with him. Once Wei Ying returns to his body, you will be able to stay at the Lotus Pier. If you do not wish to stay there, I will bring you back to the Cloud Recesses – that is my home – instead.”
“Oh,” Mo Xuanyu said, feeling bewildered. That was an awfully nice offer, even if Lan Wangji was feeling guilty about Wei Wuxian stealing his body by accident – which seemed like what had happened here rather than Mo Xuanyu being the one who did the stealing. Maybe he should go with Lan Wangji instead, he seemed much more responsible than Wei Wuxian was, rushing over to rescue him and explain things instead of throwing him into a body and leaving him all alone in a strange place. But on the other hand… “Is the Cloud Recesses…I mean…no offense, but…does it have…”
“Yes?”
“Does it have soft beds, too? And – and hot food?”
Mo Xuanyu didn’t need much, not really. He looked eagerly at Lan Wangji, who had an odd expression on his face briefly before wiping it back to neutral and nodding in confirmation.
“Okay,” Mo Xuanyu said, and curled up in Lan Wangji’s arms. “Then I’ll stay with you. You can take care of me.”
“I will,” Lan Wangji said, sounding strangely serious. “In return for the gift you last gave me – I will.”
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