#a very Thinking Pose but nevertheless he slouches. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

redorich · 3 years

Note

for the hermit canyon, i humbly request:

Etho messing with Karl and maybe like, Lazarbeam or Fundy, by pretending he’s moth man.

Quackity stalks through the woods, blissfully unaware of its other inhabitants-- not that he would care, if he knew. No, tonight, under the full moon (because it's romantic) he makes his move.

The Hermit, as Quackity is completely sure of, is a beautiful young woman with long flowing hair as white as snow. Because she is a creature of untold power and beauty, fairy tale logic obviously applies. Therefore, if Quackity can steal her clothes, she will have no choice but to marry him and they will live happily ever after as big booty bitches in love.

Nodding to himself, Quackity feels assured in his logic. He's wearing his favorite assless chaps, his best pair of knockoff Yeezys, and no shirt. He is ready for what is to come.

---

Karl lurks deep in the forest, illuminated only by the moon. He leans against a tree, taking care not to disturb his outfit-- he is camouflaged as a bush. Dangling strips of green and brown fabric cover his body, and his limbs are completely hidden in the costume so long as he stands still. It's a daunting task, standing still in the dark, dangerous woods at night. Nevertheless, Karl knows that this is what he must do.

"Triclops Mothman, my beloved," he whispers into the night. He will find Mothman, and he will marry Mothman. There is no alternative.

---

Far away from both Karl and Quackity, though still in the same spruce forest, Sapnap angrily prowls. Well, he'd describe it as a prowl. Truthfully, it's more of a pouty stomp. He knows that this forest has had multiple "Hermit sightings", and Sapnap wants-- no, needs what he's after.

"Hermit!" he screams into the night. "Come out and fight me, you little bitch! Man on man!"

To emphasize his point, he bangs a pot and a pan against each other several times. Sapnap is getting his revenge for that little ravager prank, one way or another.

---

Deep within the canyon walls, the Hermit complex looks like an overturned anthill with all its activity. It's Halloween night come early.

"I'm not wearing a dress," Etho insists.

Grian whines, "But Etho, I made it just for you! It matches Stress's outfit."

Stress, upon hearing her name, looks up from her book and waves. Cleo is currently fiddling with the thick mane of synthetic white hair Stress is wearing, styling the wig into a princess-y type braid.

"I'll say it again," Cleo says, looking very intently into Etho's eyes, "I could take your place."

"No," Etho sighs. "If what Puffy said about these guys is true, you'd probably bite someone's face off by the end of the night."

"You're no fun," Cleo huffs, but acquiesces.

"At least put on the wig," Grian demands.

Grian and Etho have a staring contest for a solid ninety seconds before Etho snaps his fingers in front of Grian's face, causing him to flinch and blink. "You cheater--!"

"I'll wear the wig," Etho interrupts Grian. Instantaneously, Grian loses his outraged moue.

Cleo sighs. "They're the same wig, right? Do I have to braid Etho's hair, too?"

"I think I'll be fine with my new flowing, luscious locks," Etho says with a humorous crinkle to his eyes.

They all laugh as Etho dramatically flips his fake hair, whipping himself in the face with it in the process. He also receives a thumbs up from Joe, who is in the process of searching for his contact lenses because "Herobrine doesn't wear glasses", according to Bdubs.

Night falls, and the Hermits are prepared. They hope their victims aren't.

---

Quackity catches a glimpse of silver-white after so long searching in the woods. With a little gasp, he eagerly pursues it. His beautiful maiden, ethereal and distant like the moon, darts between trees and leaps across creeks like she is flying, like her feet barely touch the ground.

He follows her to a clearing, but when he bursts through the brush into the open space, she is nowhere to be found.

“Mi rey!” he wails, “Fantasma hermosa! Come to papi!”

Etho, hiding in a tree about five feet away, has no clue what any of those words mean. He affects a terrible falsetto and throws his voice. “Hello, Quackity.”

Quackity jumps, looking around wildly for his beautiful girlboss queen. “Hermit?! You know my name?”

“Of course, Quackity,” Etho says, hefting a large rock in his hand. “Come closer, I have a cask of Amontillado we can share.”

Quackity turns toward Etho's voice just fast enough to catch a glimpse of the Hermit's mask, his (fake) long white hair, his decidedly not female appearance. Quackity looks the Hermit up and down. Etho has never felt more Perceived.

"What's a place like you doing in a guy like this?" Quackity says, flirtatiousness dripping from his voice.

Etho eyes the man's assless chaps with distaste from his crouched perch in a tree. Quick as lightning, he chucks the heavy rock in his hand at Quackity's head, knocking him out instantly.

Etho jumps down from his tree with a huffed sigh. "Well," he says, grabbing Quackity by the ankle and dragging him, "time to get to work."

---

"Pspspsps," Karl whispers, "heeeere Mothman..."

The sound of a twig snapping to his right makes Karl freeze, then turn ever so slowly. There's no one there. Karl holds his breath for what feels like an eternity, but is eventually forced to admit that the noise was probably just an animal. Surely, a creature of Mothman's size would make more noise when he walks, given the weight of his strong legs.

"Mothman," Karl says. "I wrote you a poem!"

Joe, who was up until this point hiding behind trees and ominously snapping twigs, feels a twinge of morbid curiosity. As a poet, he absolutely has to know what Karl considers an adequate love poem for Mothman.

With red cheeks, Karl professes his love:

"Your feelers make me feel so sweet

Your hindwings set my heart aflame

Fern-like antennae make me melt

And Mothman, you're to blame."

Despite himself, Joe is a little bit impressed. It almost makes him feel bad about what he's about to do-- almost.

A soft eerie glow seeps into the forest, catching Karl's eye. He investigates, creeping forward until he turns around a tree and sees glowing white eyes. He screams, but there is no sound, and the forest has disappeared. Only those eyes remain, and they too flicker out of existence.

There is a dim corridor ahead of him, narrow and lit by redstone torches. At the end, there is an iron door. He runs to the exit, but as soon as his hand touches the door it disappears and he is engulfed by swirling purple-- like a Nether portal, but so much more terrifying.

The purple is gone and he can just barely make out the menacing image of a man with glowing white eyes T-posing in the blackness. Karl opens his eyes and wakes up on the forest floor, prone and sore.

"Right," he mutters breathlessly to himself, "Mothman is not interested."

---

"--YOU BITCH ASS PUNK, I'M GONNA RIP YOUR LEGS OFF AND STICK 'EM ON YOUR HEAD!" Sapnap screams, banging the only pot he owns against a non-stick frying pan he stole from George.

"Well, that's not very nice, innit?" says a feminine voice. Sapnap looks left, right, behind him, up in the trees... then down.

Big brown eyes peer up at him through white bangs. A displeased pout set into a moon-pale face attached to an equally moon-pale woman chastises him without words.

"...You're the Hermit?" Sapnap says disbelievingly. He has his doubts that someone as small and pretty as this woman could wrangle a ravager onto his front lawn.

"You wanted a fight," she huffs. "And for the record, you totally had it coming, with Pamela's Revenge-- remember, the rava--"

"Yes, I know the ravager was named Pamela's Revenge! There were like eight hundred million death messages in chat about it, you jackass!" Sapnap snaps, trying to cover up his unease. It's not that he's hesitant to hit her because she's a girl; he would deck the shit out of Niki or Puffy with absolutely no provocation whatsoever. It's just that... she looks soft. Like a non-combatant. It would be too easy, too cruel--

Stress punches Sapnap in the jaw with a wicked right hook. "Stealing is wrong," she says.

While Sapnap is dazed and quite possibly mildly concussed, Stress follows up with a brutal kick to the shin. Sapnap makes a genuine effort to fight back, and he’s no slouch, but he’s been taken so thoroughly off guard that the best he can do with his head spinning as it is is to swing with a wild haymaker and hope it hits.

His fist makes contact with something soft and squishy. He hears a grunt, but Stress shoves him over onto the ground and dumps a bucket of glitter over his head. It burns his eyes, but more importantly it burns his pride. He doesn’t remember at what point he dropped his pot and pan (he must have at some point, because he punched the Hermit with an empty fist), but he’s angry enough to open his watery eyes through the magenta glitter and snatch George’s frying pan up off the forest floor, hurling it at the Hermit with devastating accuracy. She yelps, blocking with her forearm at the last moment.

“Knew I shoulda let Etho...” Sapnap hears the Hermit mutter. What’s an Etho?

Stress irritably bonks Sapnap on the head with the pan he threw at her. He goes limp like a ragdoll, and Stress sets about maneuvering his body into a sitting position leaned against a tree so she can do his makeup while he sleeps.

“Hope I don’t poke his eye out!” she says. “Ah well, he’s got two anyway. Now, should I go for a cute, summery look, or a dark evening look?”

---

In Atrium 1 of the Hermit Canyon complex, Puffy laughs loud and clear, clutching her paper cup tightly so she doesn’t spill her fruit punch. "No,” she chokes out, “he didn’t.”

Cub, holding a similar paper cup, waves his hand in a vague gesture. “Yep. That’s Etho for you. You know, one time he got Doc to run around with a snowman head on, eating spider eyes?”

“Oh man,” Puffy sighs, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye. “I’m so glad I snitched on Karl, Quackity, and Sapnap. I can’t wait to see their reactions!”

Cub grins evilly. “Stress got pictures before she left.”

Puffy gasps, stars in her eyes. “I’ll bake you a whole cake if you get me a copy.”

“I’ll bake Cub a whole cake if he gives them to me instead,” Grian interjects from across the room. “I don’t need them, I just want to take them from you.”

“Nooooo!” Puffy wails melodramatically. “Grian, please spare me!”

“Five diamond blocks,” Grian makes his demand.

Puffy continues to fake-sob, pretending not to notice Scar sneaking up on Grian until Scar drops an anvil on Grian’s head, like a Looney Tunes episode but slightly to the left. While Grian is distracted, Cub slips the pictures to Puffy, who puts them in her inventory without looking.

Etho walks into the Atrium, now dressed as his normal self, including his natural hair, which looks like an angry wet cat perched atop his head, just the way he likes it. Everyone cheers.

“So, how’d it go with Quackity?” Puffy asks with a smirk.

“Well...” Etho says.

---

Quackity wakes up with the sun in his eyes. In front of him is the public Nether portal, and standing right in front of it is a wide-eyed Sam, staring directly at him. Quackity looks down.

He’s naked, covered in half-dried honey, and tied to a pole like the world’s sexiest flag. And he’s got the world’s worst hangover-- it feels like he’s been hit in the head with a large rock.

“Not again,” he groans.

“...This happens often?” Sam asks.

“If I had a nickel for every time something like this has happened,” Quackity says, wiggling his way out of the ropes tying him to the pole, “I’d have enough money to go buy myself a pair of pants.”

Sam averts his eyes to the sky, abruptly aware of exactly why Quackity would feel the need to buy a pair of pants.

“Damn it,” Quackity says. “Those were my favorite pair of assless chaps.”

“Were they now,” Sam says numbly. The sky is quite blue today, it’s rather beautiful.

Quackity huffs in aggravation, finally having freed himself from his binds. “Yeah, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to, you know?”

“Not really, no,” Sam says slowly. “I wouldn’t know much about-- assless chaps.”

The naked man shrugs. Haltingly, Sam unclasps his cape, pulling it off his shoulders and offering it to Quackity.

“Nah,” Quackity says, “I’ll just streak.”

“Please don’t,” Sam says with pain in his eyes.

#mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit canyon au #quackity #karl jacobs #sapnap #grian #ethoslab #stressmonster #zombiecleo #captain puffy #joe hills #goodtimeswithscar #cubfan135 #awesamdude #me.cpp #me.txt

573 notes · View notes

mandoalorian · 4 years

Text

Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Chapter 2

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Eventual smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption. This is a sugardaddy x sugarbaby fic soooo… a daddy k!nk too oops.

But in this chapter - allusions to sex and MAJOR sexual tension hehe :)

Author’s note: Chapter 2 let’s go!! I hope everyone is enjoying so far! Remember if you wanted to be added to my taglist feel free to let me know!

MASTERLIST | SUBMIT REQUESTS

PREVIOUS - CHAPTER TWO - NEXT

You had been mesmerised just from entering Black Gold Cooperative— but actually stepping foot in Maxwell Lord's office was a whole different story. The entire building was decked out in Christmas decorations, pine trees and tinsel on every corner, but as you stepped foot in his larger-than-life office, there was not a single thing that highlighted festive spirit in sight. Nevertheless, you were in awe, immediately taking in the paintings, the pottery, the statues… it was like every little thing was embellished in gold. You hadn't even laid your eyes on Maxwell yet, but he was certainly looking at you.

You weren't exactly sure what you took a man like Maxwell Lord for. You considered him to be the tacky kind— but every piece of furniture in his office looked antique— like it came straight out of a museum. You admired the paintings on the walls. One thing's for sure, you didn't expect him to be a man who appreciated art culture. They were magnificent, and of all different shapes and sizes.

Maxwell Lord slouched back into his chair and watched you intently, his dark eyes following your every move. You were like no other girl who had come in for an interview, that's for sure. You were dressed in a thick, cream coloured winter coat and he noted the hat and gloves that were stuffed messily into your pocket. Your wet boots left a puddle of water where you had entered his office and he noted the little snowflakes balancing in your windswept, knotted hair.

He was surprised, to say the least. The past week he had been conducting interviews in-attempt to find someone suitable for the job role at hand. Dozens of young girls would confidently strut into his office— their high heels clicking against the expensive marble floor. They would try wooing him with a bat of eyelashes, which of course, Maxwell did not shame their attempts. Despite their unsuccess at acquiring the job, Maxwell did make sure they got a little something from him in return.

The businessman's eyes darted to the trash can under his desk as he looked at the discarded silk handkerchiefs he had just used to clean himself up after his last interview. Then, he re-acquainted his gaze to you, and picked up on the fact that you had yet to acknowledge his presence. You were too caught up in the furnishings of his office. You really were different.

"Ms Minerva?" Maxwell called you eventually, clearing his throat. Not recognising your newly claimed fake name, you didn't budge, but instead let your fingers trace the countries of a world map that hung on the wall. Pins had been stabbed into the capitals of most countries and you wondered what it meant. Perhaps it was all the countries he had visited— or more likely, all the companies that had shares in his black gold business. "Ms Minerva." Maxwell repeated, his voice more solid this time.

You felt your body freeze up, wondering how long he had been calling you for. Shit, you thought. You really believe you had messed up— just stumbling into his office and paying no attention to him whatsoever.

"Oh!" you gasped, spinning around on the heel of your foot, almost slipping on the water you had trailed in with you. Maxwell couldn't help but let the small smirk creep upon his lips at your clumsy but innocent nature. "Your office is… it's so…"

"What you expected?" Maxwell prompted, leaning over the desk slightly trying to get a closer look at you.

Something about your demeanor drew him to you and he couldn't place his finger on what exactly it was. He wondered what your deal was. He wondered why you had decided to attend possibly the most prestigious interview of your life dressed the way you had. You hoped he didn't think you were deliberately ignoring him.

"No- I mean. I'm not sure what I expected, really," You admitted with a small shrug before approaching an oil painting. "This is magnificent," you said. "I've never seen such intricate work before."

The painting was huge— quite possibly the biggest one in the room. It was posed, of course, and you wondered how long the poor models had to stand there to be painted. They were positioned on a grand staircase with a purple carpet rolling up it. They looked stern- mean- not an emotion in sight.

"That's a family portrait," Maxwell informed you from his chair. "My family."

Oh.

You digested the image of the couple with their young son. The child was no older than ten, you guessed, with dark blonde-browning hair and he was dressed in a shirt, shorts and bow tie. The couple stood behind him, and the pair consisted of a beautiful woman with red hair and pearl earrings wearing a fur coat and sleek silk dress. "Your wife is gorgeous." You said, quietly, entranced by the family portrait.

Maxwell paused, his eyes not moving from you for a second. "That's my mother." he deadpanned.

You curled your fingers into a fist at your own shameless and idiotic comment. You could not forget how much you needed this job— you had to do better.

"Oh," you replied, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over you. "So that little boy is you, hm? Your hair is lighter nowadays," you smiled light-heartedly but Maxwell didn't share the warm sentiment. "You look just like your father." You admitted, eyes flicking between the suited man in the painting, and the suited man who was sitting at his desk behind you.

Both men were of an average height, with broad shoulders and the same, identical cunning smirk. Big brown eyes and swept but styled hair. You very little about the Lord family — to the general public, they were always an enigma. Tabloids would spread rumours and no one ever really knew the truth. You hoped you hadn't hit a nerve with the comparison, but as seconds went on, you cursed yourself for your inability to just keep your mouth shut.

Maxwell didn't reply to your comment, and the silence was deafening. For the first time, he looked away from you and into the light oak wood of his desk which he had inherited from his late father. He let a few sad thoughts ponder his mind as you continued to scower his office looking at all the high end decor, before taking a big huff of breath. It wasn't her fault, she couldn't know any better. Maxwell told himself, but it didn't hurt any less.

Her words stung but he pushed them back as far as he could. Blocking out his emotions was something Maxwell had done his whole life and had become quite accustomed to. This was ridiculous. Maxwell wouldn't let himself get worked up over a brief comment about his father, by a girl wearing a last season winter coat who he had never met before. He stiffened up and cleared his throat.

"Ms Minerva, if you are going to just scope my office I'd be in my right mind to call security and have you thrown out." Maxwell sighed, tapping his fingers impatiently against the desk. Your head bolted towards him.

"Oh! I'm so so sorry." you pressed your hands in a pleading manner.

As Maxwell took in your form, his mind began to race. He could get used to looking at you like that. Pleading for him— on your knees— begging for just a taste of what he had to offer. The dirty thoughts consumed his mind and he shifted in his chair feeling a familiar fire in his lower stomach. Brushing past your pretty, doe-like eyes, he reached for a gold fountain pen and an expensive looking journal, opening it up.

"Why are you here?" Maxwell asked, dropping the pen, slouching back into his leather chair and kicking his feet up on his desk. You swallowed the hard lump that had appeared in your throat as you took in his posture.

"Uhm, well I- uh-" you struggled to find words. My god he was attractive. You hadn't paid much attention before, but now that he was sitting there right before your eyes, you felt a small warmth creep up between your legs.

He was just lounging right before you— his body spread out. He wasn't wearing the smart suit jacket as you had pictured, but instead, a crisp white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You could see the light hair on his arms glisten under the setting sun, and the yellow gold of his Rolex wristwatch sparkle as he played with the rings on his fingers.

Maxwell caught you staring at his hands. How could you not? Teasingly, he began rolling his jewelled rings up and down his long thick fingers. You found yourself biting your lower lip, pulling all your energy into suppressing a moan as you watched the way his fingers moved. You took in every detail, wanting to remember it forever— the light bronzed shade of his skin and the wrinkles over his knuckles. His nails were short but definitely well manicured. You let out the smallest gasp as you imagined how they would feel inside of you. You wondered how many of his fingers you could take and how they would stretch you open. You imagined his thumb rubbing circles into your clit as he finger fucked you and suddenly you felt your panties dampen. Your knees went weak.

He moved his large ring clad hands and folded them against his broad chest, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. You always wondered to what extent his magazine covers had been edited but he was just as handsome as he was on television, in real life. One thing you noticed was that his usual styled dark blonde hair was only slightly out of place, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. It was a change from his ordinary pristine appearance. Seeing that you were struggling to answer his question, Maxwell pointed his finger and gestured you closer to him. You walked towards him and stood still in front of him, only his desk between you both.

"Take it off." he mumbled, his gaze strong and steady on your body. You swore your mind was playing games on you as you engulfed his dark choice for words. You were absolutely ready to submit to him but deep down you knew that you were over-thinking.

"I- I'm sorry?" You croaked out.

His smirk grew and a small dimple appeared in his left cheek. "Your coat. Take it off." He commanded and you mouthed a small 'oh' before following his instructions and dropping your wet winter coat to the floor. You cursed yourself. You were ready to completely undress yourself for this man you had never met before. Did he have this effect on everyone? "Turn around." he prompted you, twirling his finger in gesture. You slowly spun around a few times and Maxwell was struggling to contain himself.

You were delightful— wearing just a pair of washed out flared jeans and a geometric print t shirt. The jeans were very 70s, flaring out at the bottom, and Maxwell wondered how out of date your wardrobe was. He wondered if you'd let him take you out clothes shopping. Maxwell felt flushed as he took in how perfectly the denim sculpted your thighs and the round of your ass. He found your body exquisite. The t-shirt was thin, and he was surprised you had opted for such a fashion choice in the depth of winter. Despite the central heating being turned on, he couldn't help but notice the way your nipples poked through your shirt, hardened from the cold weather— or so he assumed they were hard from the cold weather. You felt his eyes bore into your chest and you crossed your arms over yourself, hoping he hadn't spotted your arousal. Maxwell felt his cock twitch at the sight of you and he fought the urge to bend you over and fuck you right then and there on his desk. You had an air of innocence to you, and he didn't want to ruin that. At least, not yet.

"Is everything okay sir?" Your voice was soft like honey and a small grunt escaped Maxwell's throat. He had just gotten off with his previous interviewee but you were simply something else.

"Perfect," he hummed wistfully. "Please, take a seat." You obeyed his order and slid down into the chair opposite to him. "Tell me, Ms Minerva. What urged you to lie about your identity?"

You felt your heart stop and your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Shit, you thought to yourself. He had caught on. You gulped and tried to find a quick witted yet believable response to him but it you couldn't. Normally you were great at answering back but sitting before Maxwell Lord had you feeling some kind of way and you couldn't shake it.

"Tell me, who are you really?" He urged. You contemplated his words and decided there was no pointing in continuing your long winded lie. You were surprised you had made it this far without getting caught in the first place. He was still smirking, however, and it seemed like he didn't really care at all. Giving in, you told him your real name.

"Mr Lord, if I may ask, how did you know I wasn't Barbara Minerva?" you asked Maxwell.

"I can read minds." Maxwell said darkly, staring deep into your eyes.

Oh, his eyes. They had darkened significantly— once a chocolate brown but now they could easily be confused for black. Suddenly the extravagant decor around his office had become a mere back thought and you had been absolutely captured by his handsome looks. His skin was golden under the setting sun behind him and it accentuated the blonde highlights in his hair. His eyelashes were long and dark and his lips were the perfect shape. His nose was rather prominent and curved slightly and you imagined what it would be like pressed against your face as he kissed you.

You wanted him to take you in his arms and glide his large hands all over your body, caressing you and touching you everywhere he could. Sliding his hand up your shirt and cupping your breast as he settled lazy sloppy kisses into your neck and collarbones. Realising you had been silent for perhaps a moment too long, you let out a loud laugh.

"Right," you chortled in disbelief. "Read minds. Very funny." you grinned and you even caught him stifle down a dry chuckle.

"I like you," Maxwell admitted and you felt your heart stop. "I think you'd be well suited working for me. Of course… we might have to sort out your wardrobe. I'd like to offer you a job."

He had barely asked you any questions and he already made his mind up. You couldn't believe your luck.

"Wait, really?" you asked, your eyes widening with delight.

Maxwell nodded slowly. "Did one of my secretaries have you sign an NDA on your way in here?"

"Yes sir," you bit your lip anxiously. You had wondered what the non-disclosure agreement was for.

"So you know that if you repeat any of this to anyone else after our interview is over, I can and will sue you."

Not that you had any money anyway, his cold words still made you nervous. He was one of the most powerful men in the world. Friends with the president of the USA, he had relations with practically every country who bought his oil, and now, he was offering you a job.

"Yes sir." you repeated obediently, fluttering your eyelashes at him. The way that word rolled off your tongue— He felt his cock harden in his pants. You were just so damn pretty.

"I have to tell you then," Maxwell leaned forward on his desk, interlocking his fingers together. He was inches away from you, gazing into your eyes. "I'm not looking for an assistant." His voice was dark and menacing and a lustful glint appeared in his eyes.

"You- you're not?" You stammered, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. You wondered what job you had actually gone for.

"How familiar are you with sugar dating?" Maxwell raised an eyebrow, his eyes now glaring dark and sinister.

"Su-sugar dating?"

You weren't overly familiar, but sure, you had read your fair share of erotic novels that illustrated such prospect.

Maxwell stood up from his chair and walked around his desk before perching on top of it and looking down at you. "I'm looking for a certain kind of arrangement, per-se," Maxwell explained. "You give me what I want, and I give you what you want. Money, clothes, diamonds, jewellery, cars… whatever your heart desires. It's yours. Think about finally having everything you always wanted."

Your gaze met the floor as you contemplated his words. No, he couldn't be serious. He had the wrong girl. "Sir," your voice was a timid whisper. "I don't think I possess anything you could want." you told him sadly, insecurity bubbling inside you. He was the Maxwell Lord. Esteemed, knowledgeable, reputable, and he worked amongst the most beautiful and well dressed women you had ever seen. Yet, here you were, sitting before him, and he had chosen you.

Maxwell shook his head. "No." he said simply, extending his arm and curling his fingers around your chin, pointing it upwards so you were looking up at him. He wanted to trace your pretty lips with his fingers— spread them apart and feel the warmth as he let you taste him.

"No?" You beckoned, your heart trashing against your chest. His hands were so soft but his touch was rough and he steadied the hard grip around your face. If it were any other man, you would've pushed him off you, cursing him. But this wasn't just any man.

"You have everything I want."

December Magic: @kiwi-the-first @100layersofdaddyissues @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-way @this-cat-is-dea

Permanent: @goth-topic @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #max lord #max lord x reader #max lord smut #december magic #pedro pascal christmas

191 notes · View notes

sunshineandbeyblade · 4 years

Text

Launch - Aiger x reader

Word count: 1,265 Warnings: None A/N: I wrote this in November 2019 and finished it in one day. This is personally one of my favorite beyblade fanfics I’ve written.

"3," you got into position.

"2," your stance felt just right.

"1," your muscles tensed in anticipation of the next series of movements.

"Let it RIP!" Pulling the ripcord while simultaneously performing your signature moves, the bey launched out of your launcher with top speed. A satisfying jerk was felt from the power of the launch, pushing your hand back slightly.

It circled the arena in a graceful and precise motion. A trail of light emitted from where the top traveled, creating a perfect circle before fading. This was one of your best launches yet.

"Yes!" You pumped a fist into the air at your victory. The spiraling bey was as smooth as ever, as if being propelled on a track.

Then you looked around, no one saw. It was the morning and you were using a stadium in the park that was typically unused. The excitement from a perfect launch faded quickly as staring at the spinning, unopposed bey got boring. You slouched at the realization.

"Man, this is no fun with no one else," you pouted. There wasn't really much point in a perfect launch unless there was someone to blade against. Aiger Akabane, a loud, maroon haired boy, was supposed to meet you to practice blading against each other.

"Speaking of him, where is that doofus?" you mumbled while looking in the direction of the Beigoma Academy farm where Aiger had his tent set up.

Shrugging, you swiped your bey out of the stadium while it was still in motion and jogged to where you expected Aiger to still be. Running up the hill out of the park was tiring. Guess he was making you get in your exercise. The morning air cooled your lungs. Aiger was typically good for his word when it came to training together, which meant he was most likely still sleeping. You and his sister, Naru, had to wake him up several times for important events.

Once you reached the fencing, you placed on hand on the wood fence to vault yourself over it and onto the soft grass. The sheep in the field merely gave you a look, then continued on their munching. Leaping over to the orange tent, you gave a soft knock, although it emitted no sound.

"Aiger, are you in there?" you sweetly asked.

Nothing.

"Aiger."

A snore erupted from inside the clothed shelter.

"AIGER!" That probably meant he was still sleeping and that it was safe to open up the tent.

A zip cut through the regular noise of sheep as you opened the top part of the tent's opening.

Aiger was still in his white and red beyblade pajamas. He had somehow managed to wiggle out of his sleeping bag, sprawled out with a drop of drool hanging out of his mouth. On the left side was Ranjiro, who also was out of his sleeping bag. There was quite a number of green and yellow lollipops strewn on the floor beside him.

You would have thought Aiger looked cute like that if you were not focused on having a battle.

"Aiger, wake up!" You preferred to not have to go inside to shake him awake. That would be an invasion of privacy in your opinion.

This time, he began to stir. Groaning, he started to sit up and rub his eyes.

Ranjiro woke too. "What's up?" His voice was tired.

"Just getting Aiger for the practice he promised me yesterday."

The small boy suddenly appeared wide awake and his eyebrows widened. "Oh yeah! That's right!" He sprung out of the tent. "What are we waiting for?!"

"Uh, Aiger, you're still in your PJs," you said.

"Oh, right!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

You swore that kid did not have any other volume level.

"3, 2, 1, let it rip!" Both beys flew out of the launchers. Your launch wasn't nearly as perfect that time, however it was still impressive.

It was just you and Aiger, having fun training together. Ranjiro had to go meet with the Wild Bey Gang, meaning he couldn't come just yet. Although, you didn't mind at all. One on one training was always fun.

"Go straight in!" You shouted as Aiger took the middle.

They collided heavily, but as your bey rolled off of his, Achilles simply re-centered himself. Wobbling ever so slightly before steadying himself like nothing happened.

"I see you went for the middle unlike your usual technique," you teased, only looking to him for a second then concentrating on the battle again.

"Just trying a new style," he laughed with his hands on his sides in a prideful pose.

"Well, you won't last much longer," you said. You launched a barrage of attacks, that hit Achilles from all sides.

It came out of the middle and started spinning around the stadium, but with less speed then your bey. This was your chance, you thought with a smile. Making your bey swerve, it slammed into Achilles from the side, sending it flying.

"Yes!" you cheered, expecting Achilles to soar over the edge of the stadium, hit the ground, and for you to be the victor.

Then, an unexpected event occurred. Achilles hit the top edge and managed to launch itself back into the arena, heading straight toward your bey.

A red aura former around Aiger. His blue hair tie broke, causing his hair to lift upward and turn red from the resonance while making a motion cutting downwards. "Z breaker!"

It seemed to be slow motion as the red bey slammed into yours with an incredible force. It was amazing how sturdy beys were. Yours began to fly upwards and, before leaving the stadium, burst into three pieces. You gasped as they fell with three clangs and Achilles spinning, progressing back into the middle.

"Aw," you sank to the ground. "How is your resonance so strong?" You reached into the bowl-shaped dip and gather the parts. Picking up your towel, you wiped the sweat off your forehead.

"Hey, you gave me a good fight. Besides, I'm way too awesome for you to beat me." He smiled teasingly.

You threw your towel at him with a smile. It hit him in the face and took him a few seconds to process. After he did realize what happened, he threw it back at you. Standing, you repeated the motion and the soft cloth landed back on him.

"Well, I'm keeping this now." Aiger ripped a handful of grass out of the earth and tossed it at you.

"Hey! Give that back." You copied his action, although, admittedly, very few blades of grass actually hit him. The whole time you were giggling.

Getting closer for better aim, you tossed another handful at him. He began to bend over to get more grass. You decided to stop him by tackling him. Both he and you tumbled over each other until stopping side by side next to a tree. The two of you landed on the dirt, loudly snorting at the situation.

On your backs and arms and legs stretched in an x. His left arm lay on top of your right. As the excitement faded, you both took deep breaths and stared at the clear sky, only disrupted by a handful of clouds. You were incredibly happy, enjoying his presence. Just being around him seemed to make your day and improve your mood. It felt so nice, with... a slightly strange feeling in your chest you couldn't identify. Nevertheless, it felt perfect and that was all you could think about while staring off into the sky.

#Beyblade burst #aiger akabane #aiga akaba #aiger x reader #aiga x reader #fluff #beyblade burst turbo

26 notes · View notes

nelllraiser · 4 years

Text

seal you later | lucky & nell

LOCATION: al’s diner. PARTIES: @lvcky-charms and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: lucky is on the lookout for a tracker that can find his selkie skin, and is led to nell. she knows we all get by with a little help from our (black market) friends.

Al’s Diner had always been a staple for Nell. Growing up this had been the place she’d always come whenever she had a burger or milkshake craving, and that happened more often than not with the appetite and sweet tooth that she had. Tonight was no exception as she settled into a booth, having no need for a menu. She waited impatiently for the waitress to arrive to take her order, foot jiggling in place as her stomach let out a low grumble. Was it possible to die of starvation in the span of a half hour? Of course not. But that didn’t keep the witch from pondering the dramatization of how she was wasting away in this booth, wishing for nothing more than for food to magically appear in front of her. Finally, it seemed that a man was approaching her table, and she waved eagerly before realizing she didn’t recognize this face. Had Al’s gotten a new hire? “Are you new here?” she asked with her head tilted to the side, harmlessly intrigued. Maybe this was Celeste’s replacement. After all, hadn’t Ariana said that she used to work here? It was grim to think about how easily a person could be replenished when it came to things like this. The Hunter might be gone and dead, but the world still moved on, and Al’s kept hiring new people.

Tracking someone or something down in this town was no easy feat. Lucky had been snooping around for the greater part of a week when someone had offered up a name that might provide more leads. Penelope Vural. Thankfully, after popping into most food establishments around meal times, he spotted someone that fit her admittedly vague description inside a diner. The anxiety of walking up to a total stranger had his palms clammy with...whatever selkies secreted (honestly, that one was a mystery to him still). Wiping his hands on his pants, he froze at the table when the woman there looked at him. Shit that’s right, pay attention. “You Penelope?” he mumbled, brow creasing as he concentrated on her lips for a reply. This would be painfully awkward if this wasn’t her.

Nell’s innocent curiosity morphed into a slight frown when the man asked for her by name. Had the workers at Al already been gossiping? Maybe they’d inducted him by running the names of regular customers past him. No...that wasn’t right. Everyone here just called her Nell. Instinctively her shoulders squared, and then tensed as paranoia set in. Ever since Montgomery had hunted her down, those that looked for her and she didn’t know posed possible threats, people that might also want to hunt her. “Who’s asking?” she replied defensively, giving the man a cursory once over to take in whatever information she could about him. He looked to be about her oldest sister, Bea’s age. Or maybe somewhere in between Bea and the middle sister, Luce. His lack of eye contact while she readied her reply was also baffling, though she wasn’t sure what to make of it quite yet.

Lucky mentally noted the shift in posture. That was never a particularly good sign in his experience. Usually, someone was upset, but he hadn’t set anything in particular that would be upsetting. Pushing that aside, he slid into the booth across from her, propping his elbows on the table and offering a tight lipped smile. Humans liked smiles, and Lucky wasn’t exactly sure if she was human or not, so it was worth a try. “I’m Lucky,” he mumbled, nodding. “I lost my--...a thing. You track things? Yeah?” He sniffed the air with an attempt at subtlety. He could smell a lot of things, sure, but none of them were very alarming. It was mostly food and grease; diner smells. Maybe Penelope was human? Difficult to say.

He just sat in the booth as if he belonged there, and Nell was slightly taken aback by the sheer audacity the movement required. Again she watched him carefully, wondering who the hell this guy was. By now she was positive he didn’t work here, which confirmed that he was looking for her, specifically. “You lost something?” she echoed, realization beginning to dawn. He was here for a job, wasn’t he? Or maybe someone else she’d helped had passed the word along, and he was hoping she might be able to help him, as well. “I’m Nell- but I guess you already knew that,” she said before extending her hand in an offer for a shake. “But yeah- I usually track people. Or....” She darted her head around to make sure there was no one within earshot of them. “Ah- other people-like things?” That was as delicate and vague a way to put supernatural creatures as she could manage. “What were you looking for?”

Nell, Lucky mouthed, straining to try to get the mouth-feel right. “Nell?” he questioned, aloud this time. Nodding along, he watched her lips intently, then her hand was out and distracting him. His palms were still slimy at best, so he carefully regarded the extended hand and wiped his palms on his jeans again before accepting the handshake. “Nice to meet,” he mumbled and ducked his head a little in efforts to keep his sharp teeth concealed. That was all he needed, to look like a real threat in the middle of a diner during a dinner rush. His head was still down when Nell began speaking again, so he caught just part of it. People or people-like things. Yeah, he supposed he counted as a people-like thing. Lucky’s leg began to bounce under the table and he slouched a little further down in the booth as he considered how to best answer. If he came right out and said I’m a selkie and I need my skin back, it could end badly for him. Best to ease into it. “I...had a something stolen from me. A people-like something.” Gritting his teeth, he awaited a negative response or some kind of attack, mentally preparing his best escape route. The way his body felt, Lucky was in no condition to fight back.

The more time Nell spent sat across from this man— the more puzzling he became. “Are you...alright?” she asked reflexively, not knowing how else to figure out what piece she was missing here. Nevertheless, she nodded as he said her name, providing another example. “Like Bell but with an ‘N’.” It wasn’t the most straightforward nickname, and she’d had to use the comparison more than once in her life. “Nice to meet you, too.” It was a quick handshake and then she was back to resting her arms across her chest, her confusion only growing by the minute the more Lucky spoke. For a moment he seemed to cave in on himself, growing smaller in his seat while he thought up an answer. It certainly wasn’t all that like her usual clientele. “A...people-like something that was stolen?” she echoed, trying to make sense of what he might mean. “Like...a special...pet?” If it was a supernatural creature that belonged to him, that would make sense, right? “You know we can go somewhere else to talk about this if that makes it easier,” she offered, knowing a place as public as this might not be the best venue.

Lucky leaned back against the booth, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table when no attack came. “I’m fine, just deaf,” he mumbled dismissively with a vague gesture of his hand. “Nell. Bell. Okay.” Abruptly, he leaned in closer again. How else could he get her to understand without just outright saying it? If she was afraid of talking about this in public, she wouldn’t attack him; it was the thought of what could happen outside of the restaurant that gave him pause. “Public’s fine,” he said, feeling the anxiety swelling again. He folded his hands beneath the table, wringing them as best he could while they were slick. Here goes nothing. “Looking for...my skin. My seal skin,” he clarified and grimaced, letting his teeth show as he did so.

“Oh,” Nell said without thinking, her gut reaction of embarrassment at having not noticed quickly replacing the confusion that had been dominating her expression. “Ah- I mean- sorry- I didn’t mean to-” Perhaps it was best to let that die on her lips for fear of accidentally putting her foot in her mouth. “Right. Alright. I’m glad you’re fine.” That counted as a recovery, right? His swift and unexpected movement forward, and her subsequent reflexive jerk backwards was a welcome distraction, and she found her hand gripping the outline of one her hidden knives out of instinct. Again her mind pestered her about whether or not he was actually here looking for something, the vigilant beating of her heart in her throat putting her on high alert. It wasn’t fear, but self-preservation that made her wonder. First it was the mention of his seal skin that sparked a flicker of recognition, another soft “oh” falling from her, though it hadn’t completely processed until he revealed his teeth. “Oh,” she repeated a little louder this time, understanding flooding Nell while her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Right, right your-” she cut the sentence off with another glance around them, figuring there was no need to repeat what Lucky truly was for anyone that might be able to overhear it. “It’s lost?” she asked with renewed concern as the cogs began to turn in her mind. “Someone took it?” Wasn’t there only so long that a selkie could go without their pelt before… “Shit,” she cursed aloud. “Yes. Yeah, I’ll look for that. Do you have any leads or anything? Where was it taken? How long ago?” Hunters that took from selkies were the worst sort. Of all the supernatural creatures in the world, the seal-people were arguably the least harmful. Quite literally nothing more than...seals.

Lucky slowly backed up again as Nell recoiled and made a mental note to slow his movements. Thankfully he’d stopped biting things as a casual test of danger. That would’ve gone over much, much worse. He straightened up in his seat and cocked his head, considering Nell silently for a moment. He let his lips fall back down over his teeth. If Nell posed any danger, certainly his teeth were threat enough, though she didn’t seem to want to fight him at all. He felt a sense of relief wash over him at that realization. Nell seemed intimidated--no, maybe it was an overt sense of caution. That he could respect and relate to. Lucky nodded again as Nell connected the dots aloud. “Been tracking it. Five years. Led me here, so I’m looking for more local leads. Got your name looking for a tracker. My skin might be…” he paused, slowly leaning forward again, letting the stiffness in his shoulders ebb away. “Black market?” he mumbled, more of a question than a statement. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to get connected to that particular part of town. If there was really a skin trade operation, he had to find it as soon as possible. Lucky’s stream of income was running out slowly the less he found himself able to work, and the hotel he was staying at didn’t seem like the kind to accept credit and a promise. Then again...promises seemed to go pretty far around here. “You’ll help?” Lucky perked up, suppressing a pleased wiggle, and grinned at Nell, teeth showing again. This was the closest he’d felt to finding his skin in a long while and he couldn’t help the flutter of excitement that bubbled up in his chest.

“Tracking it how?” Nell asked, wanting to know just how far Lucky had gotten. The more information she had, the easier this would be, and the higher chance of success they’d have. “What led you here? If I know where it was taken from- I could maybe go check it out even if it was five years ago.” She nodded at the mention of her being a tracker, but quickly amended the statement for him. “To be fair- I usually look for people. They’re easier to find than things.” Plus the usual spells she used didn’t find objects. Maybe she could somehow tweak it? But a skin wasn’t like any normal item. Surely it was bound closer to Lucky’s essence than a misplaced book or jacket might be. Right? She’d have to look into it. Probably experiment a little, and maybe get a little invasive with the man sitting before her. That could wait, though. For now she needed to learn the basics, the rest would come after. “But I can find your pelt,” she said fiercely, as if she could will the possibility into existence. They’d find it one way or another. Nell nodded at the mention of the black market, already knowing how to break into that. “For sure- that’d be a good place to look. I can ask a couple of people I know if they might be able to help with that part.” Felix would surely know his way around it. Maybe even Erin with all the organ trading she’d done. “Of course I’ll help!” she answered with a passion that matched the bright fire in her eyes. She wasn’t going to let the man before her just...waste away into nothingness if there was something she could do about it. “We can start right away.”

“Got a few tips on where it might be, if it was trading hands, that sort of thing. Followed it from California to here, trying to make black market connections on the way.” Lucky’s brow creased and he looked at the table for a moment, the excitement dwindling. He hadn’t been led here with much more than a comment that this was the biggest hub for supernatural activity on the eastern seaboard. White Crest, of all places, wasn’t a massive city by any means, but it was certainly an odd beacon for the strange and unusual. “Came here on a tip that the trade is good. Skins come through here often. You know about that?” Lucky looked back up at her, his eyes pained. The confidence in her voice, in her expression, was something Lucky didn’t know if he could trust. Sighing, he steeled himself again. He didn’t have any other option as he saw it, and Nell was willing to fight for him. That was something he was desperate for; someone who was in his corner. He gritted his teeth and nodded firmly, eyes matching the passion in hers. “Where do we start?”

Again Nell nodded along as Lucky spoke, mind running a mile a minute as she began to plan— trying to choose the best route that would lead to Lucky’s missing skin. It didn’t seem that Lucky’s information was all that specific, but it was still something. She’d find a way to work with it. The corners of her mouth tightened as he mentioned White Crest’s seemingly flourishing selkie skin trade, not exactly surprised to hear such a thing, but also not pleased. A memory flashed through her mind’s eye, going back to the pile of selkie pelts he and Luce had liberated from Montgomery’s disgusting trophy den. She’d known there were more out there that hunted selkies, but the undeniable proof of it sitting in front of her only made her stomach churn uncomfortably. “I’ve seen some pelts here before. They weren’t in the trade, though. And one of the friends I’m thinking might be able to help dealt a lot in selling body parts and stuff- so maybe that includes pelts.” The way he looked at her while he spoke tugged at something in her, a need to help this poor man gain back what had been wrongfully taken quickly finding a home in her. She’d seen it before in the people she’d helped while on her travels, and Nell was eager to get back on track with helping people. So much of what she’d done in the past few months had been harm, and though she didn’t regret any of it...it would be nice to bring about something good via a path that wasn’t blazed by destruction. “Why don’t you come over to my greenhouse later on? We can start ironing things out there. And I can get in contact with my friends, and then I’ll point them to you.”

Hearing that Nell had seen other pelts around town filled Lucky with conflicting emotions. On one hand, the possibility that his skin could be here had him bordering on happy; but on the other hand, the thought that other selkies could be missing such an essential part of themselves was heartbreaking to hear. It was a void not easily mended, and one that grew harder to ignore every day. What pulled him out of that train of thought was the casual mention of dealing in body parts without a moment’s pause. The learning curve of White Crest really was a sharp one. Mimes, invasive postal workers, organ trade… No time for that specific spiral. Nell mentioned a greenhouse and Lucky nodded along. “What time?” he asked, already digging around in his jacket pocket for a pen and paper. He produced both and started scrawling while looking at Nell’s lips expectantly.

Nell checked the clock on her phone before answering, trying to figure out how long it would take her to be ready to see Lucky again. Finally she settled on a time. “7:30 PM.” That would give her a bit of a window to get ready. It was a little close to a standard dinner time, though. The realization came a bit belatedly, and she quickly made Lucky an offer. “I can make us something to eat too, if you’ll be hungry. I’m assuming most any meat is a good bet, right?” she asked with the beginnings of a grin. Most selkies thrived off a protein rich diet. “You can meet me at this address,” she said before rattling off the location of Bea’s house. “The greenhouse is around back, and it’s kinda in the middle of nowhere so just text me if you get lost.” Then she was giving him her phone number as well. “We’re gonna get it back,” she affirmed once more, iron determination in her voice. “You just wait and see. Soon enough you’ll be back in the ocean before you know it.”

#wickedswriting #chatzy #ch:lucky #seal you later

12 notes · View notes

anangelicday-mrwolf · 3 years

Text

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 42 – Does This Mean I Can Hope?

“G-good evening to you, sir.”

Lunark bowed to Raizel out of gut reaction, but he gave not a single sign of acknowledgment.

He merely positioned himself, reticent and elegant, bestowing shine upon the entire balcony, so tiny and unimportant, by simply staying poised.

Like a lake in silent slumber under the moonlight.

Like a crane standing upon a snowy meadow.

Those who know him well would have seen immediately that was his characteristic way of responding to someone’s greetings.

Unfortunately, Lunark’s personal history with the Noblesse was not long enough for her brain to identify such behavioral pattern of his.

“Forgive me for making myself a guest without your permission.”

Lunark spoke, feeling compelled to defend herself once more. To her greatest relief, this time Raizel yielded a visible reply.

“...Have no concern. The door of this house is always open to my family. And their guests.”

Instantly relieved, Lunark let her shoulders slouch, and her head thawed enough to dissect Raizel’s words.

‘A family, huh?’

What a heart-warming term, thought Lunark.

During the course of her personal chronicle as a warrior of wolfkind, she could not find a chance to experience what a family is like.

It has been several centuries since she parted ways with her biological parents, and she had been admiring Muzaka and thus aspiring to be a warrior since young.

She had never allowed idleness to dare constitute her life, in a fierce, almost bloody competition against fellow werewolves, ones she would have dubbed her friends or colleagues had she been part of the human world.

Naturally, her life has come to center on her identity as a warrior and the relations based on such identity.

Including, for example, the “warrior crews” and their “components” within her race.

Or the “elders” she used to share elder’s chairs with, before her departure from the Union.

And as of now, she has only her “fellow warriors” and “lord” to bring up if she is asked to name those meaningful to her.

From her past to present, she has found relations somehow distant from “a family.”

Which is why she could not stop retracing the terminology from her mind.

And she could not stop thinking about Frankenstein, who provided a family for Raizel.

‘Ugh, not again...’

Her self-reprimand was close to a lament.

The werewolf beauty’s head dropped, and Raizel’s crimson eyes flashed with intrigue as she was exhibiting the top of her head in the presence of the Noblesse.

Which did not last for long.

She presumed Raizel was not hinting any accusation for her visit.

For such reason, she could not imagine why he would confront her now, when he was mere minutes away from a snack party with his friends.

Apparently Raizel read the question from her stare; his aesthetic lips slid open.

“A bidding I have for you.”

“A bidding...?”

The situation was so sudden, out of blue, because of which Lunark could feel her logics thinning.

Raizel kept his gaze locked upon her face as he continued.

“Frankenstein, it concerns.”

Right then Lunark could feel a pregnant weight plummeting from her head to toes.

‘Frankenstein?’

Automatically and habitually, anxiety and tremor started to creep upon her entire form, causing subtle yet definitely-there wrenches in her chest.

That was when a well-known fact about nobles knocked her memories.

All nobles are gifted with mind control, and it is common for them to utilize such endowment to sketch what lies within their audiences.

‘Did he notice that I have feelings for Frankenstein...?’

Promptly following her cognitive process, a grief almost biting shook her undivided presence.

‘Is my love so unacceptable, so outrageous?’

Muzaka already lectured her to withdraw her feelings, and she could still remember how bitter she had felt.

And now she is faced with another lecture from Raizel.

Lunark minced her lips, despising herself for lingering for the sake of her stupid curiosity.

She was hit with an urge to bolt away from her spot, but she was educated enough to tell herself that there is no way she could commit such discourtesy to the Noblesse.

Instead, she steeled the dual ventricles of her heart and intentionally disconnected her mind.

She did not want to listen to whatever Raizel had in his mouth to ruthlessly drill her heart with.

To her appallment, her eardrums disregarded her stance and sharpened themselves for Raizel’s words, perhaps because they would involve Frankenstein.

“Anything do you know about Frankenstein?”

Upon hearing him, her eyes were inadvertently drawn to his countenance.

“What do you mean by that...?”

“Quite a long time has passed since Frankenstein left this place for his individual mission. Nothing have I received from him ever since, though the distance between us I deliberately maintained, in honor of his choice.”

Raizel provided no further explanation, yet Lunark could picture what his most trusted lieutenant would have appeared upon leaving his house, as bold and determined as a patriotic general about to face off against millions of invaders to his homeland.

Lunark gave her head a few waves without realizing it, and Raizel squinted his eyes in a mysterious shape as he witnessed her action.

“Frankenstein is bound to me under our contract, breathing within our spiritual essence as a mental link. Which stays in power as we speak.”

“You mean... At this very moment?”

Lunark was mystified. She knew Frankenstein and Raizel were at least miles away from each other.

She projected a link of the Noblesse is nothing like those from the lesser nobles, until he revealed that is not the case.

“Frankenstein remains in the dark regarding this – ever since I have returned, more influential and substantial our link has grown. Now distance serves as no barrier for me to feel the climate of his heart, one of small changes I have gone through since my return; natheless, as a secret I have kept so far, for I feared I would add one more to his troubles.”

Lunark briefly wondered if he could hear Frankenstein’s heart as they were conversing.

The moment she thought of such possibility, her heart tore itself from her dominance to fire a soundless scream of inquiry: Do you know by any chance how Frankenstein feels about me?

Luckily her lip muscles remained loyal to her and secured her screech within quiet.

“Howbeit, not available to me are all of infinitesimal emotions and ruminations embroidered upon his heart. The book may be his heart, but it will not open its pages and allow its lines and characters to pour into my cognition. It will simply spill some of its most predominant words only occasionally.”

So mind control is not another name for a master key, murmured Lunark in her head upon learning something new.

The topic was quite appealing, but she was still clueless why he would mention it to her out of all people.

“And to my gravest dismay, as of late the words from Frankenstein’s book were too heavy and too dark in depth and color.”

“What do you mean by that...?”

“I am afraid too shy is the reason in treating me. It is true that I am his master by our contract of blood, but it is not in my power to pick out and examine his heart whenever I please, as if picking out books from a library.”

Lunark began to squeeze her brain for a potential theory, calculating everything she knows about him as of now.

She already knew that Frankenstein is pushing himself to his limit to find out the secret of Raizel’s return, even taking tonics to force insomnia upon himself.

And it was highly likely that the darkness within Frankenstein is the result of his strain.

‘But how come I have a feeling that there is more to this than it seems?’

Raizel is utterly respectful of individual choices and decisions; nevertheless, here he was, seeking her privacy to discuss Frankenstein’s state without his knowledge. Which suggested to Lunark that Frankenstein’s emotional state is somewhere very far from healthy or normal.

“Anything do you have to provide for me about this?”

He even asked her right in her face, because of which Lunark could see how serious the situation was.

And she felt so remorseful that there was nothing she could tell him.

Or rather, she could not tell him though she had something to tell him. She did not want at all to do something Frankenstein would not be happy with.

And Raizel would note that she is hiding something on purpose; however, she could only hope for his understanding regarding her deceit.

To her gratitude, Raizel did not pose any more question or accusation, though Lunark felt something was off.

‘Why would he ask me about Frankenstein?’

Even a toddler would be able to speculate that there had been a communication or two between her and Frankenstein, in coordination of their tasks.

‘But it looks like it’s not simply because I’m his... His ally in battlefield, to say. Or did I go too far?’

Perhaps her heart was shrieking too ardently.

Or perhaps the inquisitiveness on her face was too conspicuous.

But Raizel did not hesitate to clarify.

“For a reason and cause I have yet to explore, your name would spark in my head whenever I collect Frankenstein’s heart. It has happened in the past, but recently the occasion has turned more frequent.”

“Beg your pardon...?”

“Like I said, the pieces I can collect from Frankenstein’s heart are keywords from a book he safekeeps within. In other words, the shards of his heart that would ebb and flow into my mind are what he holds priceless to himself.”

Suddenly Lunark could feel her head spinning.

Her brain cells were busily replaying what the Noblesse just disclosed, in furious skepticism of her comprehensive aptitude.

“I do not know how you would accept this, but... I suspected the tempest in his heart is somehow related to you.”

That was when with a thump Lunark’s heart resonated in an unnatural way.

Her heart was adrift in midst of chaos, glittering in a surreal color – a color she would have labeled as “hope.”

“Hey, Rai! Where are you?”

“Hurry up! It’s almost ready!”

As she was frozen, baffled by her own reaction, a boy and a girl called upon Raizel, and his head rotated towards the living room.

“I believe it is of no manners to hold you any longer. No easy decision would have been your visit, with your pathway teeming with tasks. I wish you a safe return.”

Raizel gave a solemn nod before he turned away.

Lunark was glued to her spot, before she hopped from the balcony, her a motion very clumsy for a werewolf warrior.

‘There is storm in Frankenstein’s heart... Because of me?’

Of course, concern was the first and foremost thing that gripped her heart. After all, it was about Frankenstein out of all souls.

At the same time, she could not restrain her mind from whispering: Does this mean I can hope...?

She came to find herself looking back at Frankenstein’s house, before she gritted her teeth.

‘Snap out of it, Lunark. This is not what you are here for.’

Her job was done, and it was time to leave.

Feeling how her heart grew murkier upon her every self-rebuke, Lunark was about to kick off from where she stood, when someone called upon her.

“Wait!!!”

(next chapter)

Like I mentioned at the end of the previous chapter, this chapter centers on conversation between Rai and Lunark. This is something that troubles me whenever I present Rai in a chapter: how to make Rai’s speech eloquent as expected from the Noblesse but at the same time easily readable and understandable. And his appearance has never failed to trouble me so far lol. By the way, Lunark’s parents have never been mentioned in the original webtoon, let alone featured. I didn’t want to waste the progress giving my personally invented details about them, so I just decided they parted with their daughter long time ago (though that created another question to be left unanswered for my fic). Now this fic is moving on to the highlight of the entire plot, and I will do my best to unleash everything I have built up so far. :)

#korean webcomic #korean webtoon #fanfic #noblesse #frankenstein #lunark #frankensteinxlunark #wolfsbane

3 notes · View notes

peytonains · 4 years

Text

The Rosefield Police Department presents: 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔭𝔢𝔶𝔱𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥

Though no one knew it, Peyton was no stranger to the interrogation room. As her exposed thighs spread across the cold metal of the folding chair, she winced as the terror of her father’s demise came flooding back. The tears came rushing to her chocolate eyes as she envisioned the last time she saw her father from the stands of a stale, quiet courtroom where handcuffs bound his wrists like boa constrictors. And since that very day, she’d viewed those in authority as nothing more than a species of cold blooded reptile.

As the door opened, Peyton readjusted the hem of her skirt accordingly. She was taught from a young age it didn’t matter how she felt, it only mattered how she looked. And if her looks were going to plead her innocence, Ms. Ainsworth would certainly be pulling up to the station in louboutin heels. Though she feared authority, she’d be mighty. She’d be fierce. She’d be brave. It was showtime.

“Miss. Ainsworth, please state your name for the record.” The man in uniform wasted no time, played no games. Something he’d come to know, neither did she.

“Haven’t you already done that for me?” Peyton quipped back, her hands crossed on the table in front of her.

The officer narrowed his gaze, taking a menacing step towards her. “Full name, age, and occupation please. I will not ask again.”

“Peyton Coralia Ainsworth. Twenty-two years old. I’m an event planner here in Rosefield.” The tension in the room made her submissive, though her body language still very much read confident. Her straightened spine spoke on behalf of her inability to back down, her clenched jaw would only unlatch to speak words that reflected her truth, and her perfectly manicured hands would offer no firm handshakes, no truces or no palms swearing on soiled bibles. In this case, she knew she could trust no one, especially not the police.

“Are you aware that anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law?” The man asked. This was not so much a question as it was a command. He sunk into his seat, adjusting his suit coat as he placed a manilla folder between the two of them.

“Yes, I’m well aware.” Her reddened lips spoke in a firm voice, one the officer had probably not been expecting. She suspected he’d been in the presence of high school girls, shaking like a leaf in his presence. Their trembling hands shaking the metal table as sadness pulled at their vocal chords like the saddest of violin strings as Nathaniel’s services. Surely their lips quivered as they told their stories but Peyton’s eyes ran dry.

“How did you know Nathaniel Beauchamp, Miss Ainsworth?”

“Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure of knowing Nathaniel. We’d only ever met in passing. His family, however, speaks very highly of him. Memorializing him has been a great honor nevertheless.” A politician’s grin painted Peyton’s lips, face barely emoting as she spewed a rehearsed answer and surely he could see that.

“I understand that’s the story you’re leading everyone to believe, Peyton. But, Nate’s phone records tell a different story.” He opened the folder and rotated the papers in her direction. Although her heart picked up speed in her chest, she refused to show her vulnerability. She wasn’t going to play stupid, or play victim. She’d play a smart and strategic game. “Is that your phone number?”

“Yes.” Peyton admitted, looking over the page. “Nate and I have texted, yes, because as I said we had met in passing. How many acquaintances do you have in your phonebook?”

“You and Nate corresponded text messages late at night in the months leading up to his death. Do you care to tell me that those messages were about?”

“A proper lady doesn’t kiss and tell.” She smirked at the officer, his stoic face did not falter.

“This is not a game, Miss. Ainsworth. A kid died.”

“I never said it was. As you research has probably come to show, Nate was a dog. You can probably use your imagination to figure what Nathaniel was texting me about late at night.” She posed.

“This interrogation is not about leaving things up to the imagination. This is about the facts and you are under oath. Start talking.”

Peyton took a deep breath before speaking again. “I was new in town and Nate and I had seen each other around. I heard about him through the grapevine but avoided him because, well, he was my friend’s ex boyfriend. Cassia Crocetti, you know her, right?” She rested her chin in her palm, elbow prompting itself parallel to the table as she leaned in. “He’d ask me to come over late at night. You know how boys can be. Did I answer? Yes. What girl doesn’t like a little bit of attention? But, did I sleep with him? No, absolutely not.” She affirmed, knowing damn well that their texts were nothing more than him starting their correspondence.

You see, the texts between Peyton and Nate were always vague.

N: You up?

P: Yes.

N: Come over?

P: Could you be a bit more romantic?

The two’s love affair was pretty paperless. No ‘on my way’ messages or ‘great night’ texts. They moved in silence, they acted in silence. Whatever the police would read in those texts would lead to just that: silence.

“When was the last time you and Nate spoke? What were you two talking about?” The officer asked, a sigh escaping his lips. This investigation must have been a hard one, she thought. The teen had so many enemies, so many angry ex girlfriends, so many people he betrayed. This poor man had to arrive at dead end, after dead end, wondering who was lying and who was telling the truth. She could tell by his body language: the palm against his forehead, the slouching, the sigh... that he was defeated once again.

Peyton leaned in, a bit of cleavage exposing itself as she peered over at the dates scattered across the page. She pointed to the most recent record they had. “June 19th. 11:57pm. He said he wanted to see me and I didn’t answer, as you can see.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was with Cassia.” Peyton pursed her lips, crossing her legs beneath the table. “We were busy.”

“Ms. Crocetti said she was in her bed early that morn--”

His words were interrupted by a promiscuous giggle as she wet her lips. “She didn’t say alone, did she?”

“Confidential information.”

“Well, I was in her bed on main street that morning. She teaches dance classes pretty early so we fell asleep.” The lie fell seamlessly off her lips. But in her mouth, on her the tip of her tongue, it tasted like the truth. The investigators were two steps behind as far as Peyton was concerned.

To tell you the truth, reader, Peyton was with Nate that night. After the party, he showed up at her house, intoxicated with skewed inhibitions. The two had sex and he left shortly after. Was she shocked to discover he was dead a few hours later? Yes, so shocked in fact she swore herself to secrecy, the way her father would have expected her to. The way her family lawyers would have told her to do. The way she needed to.

“Do you know what Nathaniel was doing on a broken road on Cherry Route?”

“No, sir.” Peyton sat back in her chair, arms crossing smugly across her blouse.

“Do you know anyone who lives near 120 Cherry Route, where the body was found?

“Just his crazy bitch ex-girlfriend.” Peyton said with confidence. Though her and Emma were friends, the girl would never know Peyton threw her under the bus. “Emmaleigh Wood. I’m sure you have her name on file.”

“Do you believe Emma would have any motive to kill Nathaniel?” The officer raised an eyebrow at the redhead.

“They were on and off again. I know she recently found out she was knocked up with his ghost spawn.” Peyton shrugged, giving him just a bit of information, information he had probably already known. The police would draw their own conclusions. Did she think Emma did it? No, the girl had too much love for him. But would someone pull the trigger on her behalf? It was a possibility, anything was.

“I know you just recently moved here about eight months ago but are you aware that a couple was found dead in the same location as Nathaniel on December 17th of 2019?”

“I’ve heard the tall tale, yes. Not much happens out here so when something like that happens, the whole scooby gang comes out to speculate.” She ran a hand though her auburn locks.

“Do you think these two cases were related?” He asked, jotting some notes down in his notebook.

“Isn’t it your job to come to that conclusion? If you’re relying on the opinions of others who have no idea what they’re talking about to solve your cases, it’s no wonder why there’s still a killer running through Rosefield.” Peyton rolled her eyes, rising to her feet. The officer mimicked her motion, towering over her.

“Answer the question, Miss. Ainsworth.”

She swallowed, a chill traveling up her spine. “It’s possible.” She spoke quietly. When they were seated, the playing field seemed level but as his frame dominated hers, she felt powerless. Her demeanor suddenly changed.

“You’re free to go.” The officer emphasized, taking a few steps back. He must have seen the terror well up in her eyes once more.

And just like that, Peyton Ainsworth was gone. The only sound in the police station being the unwavering clacking of her graceful heels against the tile floor.

#rosefield:task #tasks #ahhhh here u go

8 notes · View notes

primedirection · 5 years

Text

Anniversary

Stans mob you on your anniversary

Warnings: Angst

"Goin' off like that' was completely unnecessary, I had it under bloody control!" Harry gripes slamming the front door behind him.

The loud noise is the last straw that sparks your anger all over again. If not for the absolute bullshit he was spewing, "Had I not said anything they would've been sitting at the table with you while still on top of me! You never speak up and I'm tired of it!" You shout so angry your breathing became labored.

For a moment that's all that is heard from inside the house as if a bomb went off. The tension so thick in the air it was maddening. All that remains when the dust settles is two strangers glaring at each other from across the room.

To say that this was not how the night was supposed to go would be a massive understatement. Everything was perfect until dinner. Harry made reservations at your favorite restaurant, got you the best table, set the perfect mood. But of course right after you ordered he'd been spotted by a group of girls. You hoped that they would be polite enough to atleast wait until you finished eating.

Nope!

As a matter of fact they didn't even give him the chance to decide. You watched on in horror from over your shoulder as they literally swarmed your table. Barging and barreling over one another screaming just to get close to him, and somehow in the process you got swept into it.

The most infuriating part wasn't that one minute you were sitting across from Harry and in the next you're hit from behind hard enough to be knocked on the ground. But that even as they continued to walk all over you Harry didn't notice your missing presence, too busy posing for pictures with the very demons. It's wasn't until you got back up, used excessive force through the wild mini mob, and shared a few choice words that he even remembered you. And for some unfathomable reason, maybe he was hit in the head too, he decided that you were the one in the wrong.

Bringing you to this point now.

"And I'm tired of yeh acting like a raving lunatic whenever something doesn't go your way." He mutters, yanking his arms from his suit jacket in frustration.

"Lunatic? Oh, so I should be okay with all these girls basically shoving their fucking phones down your throat, flirting with you in front of me, and grabbing you inappropriately? Forgive me for wanting a decent moment of normalcy with my boyfriend on our anniversary."

"They were just excited! For Christ sake, yeh were like that last week at Whole Foods when yeh thought that guy was Jason Mamoa." Harry plants himself on the sofa to remove his beloved Gucci shoes properly.

"Well I wasn't going to beat up his wife for the sake of a picture!" You argue.

"Of course not because yeh never do anything wrong, hmm? You're absolutely perfect?"

"Compared to those vultures I am,"

Harry makes a quick pass of his fingers through his scalp, "Oh piss off, if that were true I'd be able to— yeh know what never mind.."

Your hearing perks like a dog waiting on a treat. Surely he was aware of the trench he was digging himself right? "You'd be able to what, H? Go on say it!"

"No, jus' forget it. Don't wanna hurt your precious feelings," He grumbles slouching back into the cushions and picking up his phone. In not so many words dismissing you.

In the process irking your nerves in a way that you weren't prepared for causing you to stand directly before him and shout, "Well clearly my feelings don't matter when it comes to your rabid ass stans! You'll let them walk all over you without a peep and the moment I say something- in your defense- that rubs them the wrong way, you take the gloves off and attack me for it! But go ahead, go ahead and say what you were going to fucking say!"

Harry knows that you're upset and understandably so, but when you start to curse at him he can't help but take it personally. Dropping his phone in his lap to glare at you heatedly, "Alrigh'. Next event I have, whether it be a show or premiere or just walking on a fucking carpet! I want yeh to remember this, remember the way you're acting. Because it's exactly why I don't like bringing yeh anywhere!"

"If going with you means being okay with ungrateful people treating you any kind of shitty way just to save face, or having to watch you be unnecessarily buddy buddy with your exes to keep their careers relevant, with my own two eyes, then I don't want to fucking go anyway!" You seethe.

"With an attitude like tha' why would I even want yeh to be there?"

At this point despite being furious your feelings were hurt more than anything. For Christ sake you'd literally been assaulted! Why is this discussion like talking to a brick wall? Like screaming at the top of your lungs in room full of people and yet no one is listening. Nonetheless the love of your life, it's nothing short of disheartening. Your eyes begin to burn from the prick of oncoming tears but you refuse to let them get the best of you, "You know what, if you are so ashamed of me having a backbone then why are you even with me?"

Harry rolls his eyes throwing his hands up exasperated, "Oh my God here we go! Spare me the victim shit, yeh knew exactly what yeh were coming into. There's no excuse fo' being an asshole Y/N."

"Are you like listening to anything I'm saying because that's not the point! I expected there to be wild shit to deal with and I put up with a lot of that shit for you cause I love you! But if you're not even going to defend me when it counts then what's the point?"

Perplexed Harry sits up and leans forward resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers frowning. "So who am I supposed to defend yeh from exactly? The people that have literally done everything for me and put me in the position I'm in? I'm supposed to fight them?"

"You're supposed to fight for me!" You shout suddenly overwhelmed by his petulance— chest heaving, "You're supposed to protect me!"

Harry sighs heavily but his gaze is rendered by indifference, "But yeh weren't in any real danger, I was right there—"

Frustration licks up your spine like the crack of a whip, "Do you think that I just got down on that floor by myself? They literally knocked me off my seat and trampled all over me like a fucking stampede, Harry!"

"Yeh know what," With a peeved scratch of his temple Harry is suddenly louder than he's been all night. Tone short and unwavering, "This isn't going anywhere can we just drop this already? Please. M' sorry it happened love, truly am, but it was a bloody accident. Yeh already cussed them out and we're home now. I honestly don't know what else to say."

If you weren't burning with a fire of the sun on the inside at that, then you surely would have come to tears. Not even just weeping tears, but full out ugly sobbing. How could he even dare to say that?

From then on you're on autopilot barely holding the crippling despair at bay, "Sure."

Harry doesn't waste time changing the subject. Popping onto his feet and scrolling through his phone once more. Apparently he pulled up a menu earlier, "Thank God. M' starving think I'll get some take out,"

In a shitty attempt to ease the tension, Harry distances himself in the kitchen to place his order. Meanwhile you find yourself in the bedroom closet, throwing all your hanging belongings into the overnight duffel bag you'd initially brought them in.

If someone told you this was how your anniversary would go you would've never believed it. The man you've grown to love completely diminishing your feelings.

You don't hear from him for another several moments, and that's when you reappear dressed down in sweats in the main sitting room. Your bag tossed over your shoulder, the sharp pain from the weight of it made it clear that your adrenaline was running low. "Baby I didn't get the lo mein- what are yeh doing?" Harry frowns hard in confusion.

Grabbing your car keys from the rack you hardly stop to acknowledge him, "I don't think I'm cut out for all the bullshit Harry,"

He forces himself in front of your path to the door, "Don't be ridiculous, it's our anniversary!"

"What's ridiculous is you being annoyed at me for feeling violated." You try to side step him but he moves right along with you.

Now enraged himself, "Are-are yeh fuckin' kidding me right now? Yeh wan' to leave me over an accident? A bloody accident Y/N?"

"I cannot spell it out for you more than I already have. If you don't see the problem then I really don't see a reason to stay." You shrug with all the indifference that he'd displayed to you before.

Eventually you get past, and unbeknownst to you his panic sets in. Snowballing the further and further you move away from him. It forces him to make the shallowest attempt at calling your bluff. "Fine, if yeh wanna leave then leave, I don't give a shit!"

Unfortunately for him you don't fall for it, "Knew that already, when I had mud holes stomped into me." Storming out without so much as a glance back and slam of the door.

Behind the barrier your facade had come crashing down like the tears that overran your cheeks. In alarming pain all over but more so from within the inside. Nevertheless you got in your car and kept going.

All the while Harry was not too far kicking himself. Wishing he could redo the last hour of this horrible night, "Fuck!"

AN: Sorry it's been awhile, I hope you enjoy this one! Xx. Part 2

#Harry styles angst #Harry styles imagines #Harry x reader #Harry styles #one direction imagines #Harry Styles one shot #One direction one shot #harry styles drabble #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #all me #I write I guess

278 notes · View notes

lainellafay · 6 years

Text

AU - Maito Dai does not save the day and Gai’s team dies.

A/N: Unedited. I just want others to suffer with me.

Konoha lost a team of fresh Chuunins that thundering summer’s day. Their first B-rank, gone way wrong when an ANBU team returned to the Hokage minutes after the Chuunins had set off informing the Sandaime of sightings of S-ranked shinobi—the Seven Swordsmen of the Mist to be exact. An ANBU team had been hastily sent to retrieve them. Too late.

They returned in body scrolls, circled black. Blossoming potential wasted. That is all they were in the end, to the crowd surrounding the memorial.

A blessing none of them were from the elite clans, Kakashi hears some whispers from the back where he stands, hands tucked in his pockets. A bastard, an orphan, and the weirdo, no one cares apart from the money they could earn for the village should they have survived. More eyes stare at the man in green at the very the front, shoulders trembling as he lets loose loud roars of grief.

Konoha’s eternal genin mourns for his dead son; the son who made Chuunin despite the worthless father he resembled. Kakashi watches the man with unfeeling eyes. Genma has no one to mourn him, and Ebisu’s mother stayed behind in her house to grieve—she’s an outcast, no one is sympathetic for her loss. Maito Dai never cared, and never will. That’s how Gai grew up to be, and will never continue to be. Kakashi shuts his eyes, emitting an aura of boredom.

The ceremony ends and the crowd starts to disperse, eager to get out of the rain. Dai never ceases in his crying. Kakashi scruffs his sandal against the ground and looks at the shuddering back of Gai’s father. It’s broad and maybe that’s how Gai will grow up to be, but now he will never. Kakashi is silent as he walks up to the memorial. It has nothing to do with sentiment. He just wants to see the names, freshly carved into the rock, sharp and edged.

Dai heaves one last sob and looks at the small stature standing beside him. Kakashi ignores the man’s gaze and stares dully at the memorial stone.

“I’m a useless father, huh. A parent should never have to bury their child, not if they could have protected them.”

Kakashi tilts his head slightly to look at the man from the side of his eye. The thought is laudable, Konoha’s eternal genin protecting his son’s team from certain death. You have to bury him because you were too weak to protect him, Kakashi does not say, but the truth remains that Dai was safe in the village doing D-ranks while his son went out into the wild for his village and returned as a name stamped into a rock.

“You’re Hatake Kakashi,” Dai continues and Kakashi turns away. He doesn’t know why the man is speaking to him, he should leave. As he begins to do so, Dai says, “Gai talks about you a lot. His Eternal Rival, he always says. I’m glad you were his friend.”

Friend. Kakashi comes to a stop. The rain falling onto him is starting to become annoying. “We were not friends,” he answers.

“Nevertheless, thank you. He was really proud to be your Eternal Rival.”

Kakashi slouches deeper and resumes his walk. He is empty, void of emotions. Friends? Pride? Useless. He has a training session with Minato-sensei to get to.

Eternal Rival!

Kakashi stiffens, his feet coming to a rest. He looks over his shoulder and sees Maito Dai smiling at him, all teeth, a Good Guy’s pose in place. The man is weak, but standing there, holding a smile when he clearly wants to do anything but, he looks like the strongest man Kakashi has ever seen. Kakashi doesn’t think of the dead-eyes of his father—his father who can kill a man with his pinky—and of the blood pooling at his feet as he stares at the man he loved and grew to despise. Maito Dai is weak, but maybe battle prowess isn’t everything after all.

Kakashi gives him a slight nod, and finally, finally leaves. And when Kakashi is late for the first time ever and there is a sunflower leaning against the memorial stone the next morning, he does not say a thing.

#Hatake Kakashi #Kakashi Hatake #Maito Gai #KakaGai #not really but I'm going to tag it as that because #I would have made it that pairing but they are only youngins #Not a fan of the ending but idk how to fix it so that's what you get #angst #I guess #lainellafay writes #naruto #KakaGai drabble

40 notes · View notes

omginstantpaperbouquetblr · 7 years

Link

By Andrew Levine / Conterpunch

Photo by Carnaval.com Studios | CC BY 2.0

If Vladimir Putin is half as clever as his demonizers make him out to be, he must have figured out a long time ago that, to get inside Donald Trump’s head, clinical psychologists with expertise treating male adolescents would be more useful than the Russian hackers, real or imaginary, that Western media obsess over.

Why even bother with hackers? The little that goes on between Trump’s ears is all there in his tweets.

But, of course, if the idea is to develop capabilities for waging wars in the cyber sphere, good hackers are worth their weight in gold. If Putin isn’t working on that, he is not doing his job.

These days, hackers are everywhere — including Russia, Ukraine and other former Soviet republics. The United States has more than its fair share too, as do the UK and other Western countries. Some work for intelligence services, directly or indirectly; many, probably most, do not.

When governments do the hacking themselves, or sponsor others who do it for them, it is usually because they want to hone their countries’ offensive and defensive cyber capabilities. In short, they are developing weapons and testing them.

Sometimes, though, they do more than that. The best known example occurred some ten years ago when the United States and Israel introduced the Stuxnet virus into Iran’s Natanz nuclear facility, destroying roughly a fifth of that country’s nuclear centrifuges by causing them to spin out of control.

Needless to say, governments are not the only players; far from it. Many, probably most, hackers are not connected, even indirectly, with state intelligence services. Some of them may be “terrorists,” according to one or another understanding of that fraught and contested term. It is safe to assume that most of them are not. They hack for the fun of it or because they can.

There are legally binding, though sometimes ineffective, conventions that prohibit the use of a few especially heinous kinds of weapons — poison gas is a well-known example. Cyber weapons are not similarly proscribed. Hackers can be, and sometimes are, subject to domestic prosecution, but, between state actors, anything goes.

In much the same vein, international law does not prohibit states from interfering in the political affairs, or elections, of other states. Insofar as sovereignty still matters in our globalized neoliberal world, meddling of that kind plainly violates the spirit of the law, but it is not legally proscribed.

For the stewards of the American empire, inconvenient international laws apply to others, not the United States. It is therefore unclear what, if anything would change if cyber weapons too were forbidden.

What is clear, however, is that, for at least the past seven decades, the United States has interfered in one way or another in nearly every election that American government officials wanted to influence – either to prevent outcomes they opposed or to secure results they favored.

No corner of the world has been immune, but since the demise of the Soviet Union made meddling in the political affairs of Russia and other former Soviet republics easier, Washington has been especially intent on throwing its weight around in that part of the world – always in ways that put Russian national interests in jeopardy.

The “digital revolution” has greatly exacerbated the problem, making meddling a lot easier than it used to be.

How proficient America’s cyber warriors are at defending “the homeland,” the post-9/11 term for the former “Land of the Free,” is an open question. There is no doubt, however, that, at the very least, the United States leads the way in developing cyber surveillance capabilities.

It is no slouch either when it comes to hacking into well-protected industrial and government servers around the world – to spy or to meddle or, as with those centrifuges in Iran, to sabotage.

Russia can do those things too – perhaps just as well, more likely not, but certainly well enough.

It may therefore be time, now that the Cold War is back, to revive a version of the old Mutual Assured Destruction doctrine, updated for the digital age.

* * *

Thanks to digitalization and the many ways in which computers nowadays are able to communicate with each other, state and non-state actors can meddle – or worse – more effectively than in the past.

Inasmuch as quality emerges out of quantity, as dialecticians inspired by Hegel would say, meddling has therefore become qualitatively more problematic than it used to be.

Thus, with Cold War insanity coming back into vogue — promoted by the entire political class, no longer just by Clinton retainers, and by the media flacks who serve them — meddling is taking new forms.

Some things don’t change, however. As long as it keeps spending more money on “defense” than the Russians do, the United States will retain the dominant position. Despite the best efforts of Cold Warriors to scare Americans into acquiescence, everyone now concedes that this was how it was with nuclear weapons and missiles and much else during the original Cold War. It is how it is today too, now that cyber weapons are added into the mix.

Nevertheless, as in the past, the War Party’s spokespersons will insist that we are not spending nearly enough. Lying through their teeth, JFK and his people concocted a “missile gap” some six decades ago. No one should be surprised, with the 2018 midterm elections looming, when a “cyber weapons gap” opens up.

The death merchants and mad dog generals must be salivating at the prospect. Silicon Valley plus the military-industrial complex, Eisenhower’s euphemism for death merchants and military brass, now dominate the real economy. Over them all, there is Wall Street; a far greater menace now than in Eisenhower’s time. The too-big-to-fail-or-jail miscreants there must be salivating most of all.

It was public opinion that made the original Cold War possible, and so it is again. This is why the “liberal press” has been pulling out all the stops – vilifying Russia and demonizing its President.

But there are at least two reasons why they will have a harder time getting the result they want now than their counterparts had long ago.

For one, they don’t have a President on board this time, except occasionally when all the stars are lined up right. Unlike his post-War predecessors, from Truman on, Trump has no geopolitical goals. Instead, he wants to make “deals” that he thinks will make him look good, but that will only make him richer.

Trump is no more anti-imperialist than Cecil Rhodes, and he doesn’t have an internationalist bone in his body. But, during the campaign, he did find it expedient to strike a kind of pre-War isolationist pose.

Since that could in principle lead him sometimes to do the right thing — albeit for bad, even noxious reasons – there were a few observers who were inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Inasmuch as the alternative was a continuation of the liberal imperialism of the Obama era, who could blame them?

What they actually did, however, was give Trump way too much credit. The man has no ideological convictions to speak of. For all practical purposes, his mind is a blank slate, susceptible to being swayed by whomever he talked to last or by the last pundit he watched on TV.

However, where Russia is concerned, he did, and still does, seem to have sounder instincts than his rivals. For Trump, instincts are all; and his instincts are dangerously off on almost everything. But not on this.

No doubt, his business involvements have a lot to do with it. So, very likely, does the fact that he could care less what others think. It probably also helps that he has no ties to the foreign policy establishment or to the so-called deep state.

Whatever the reasons, Trump does seem less in thrall to the delusions that shape this latest outbreak of Russophobia in political and media circles than other politicians at the national level. Indeed, even at this late date, he actually does seem to want to diminish, not exacerbate, tensions between the world’s two major nuclear powers.

Bravo to him for that.

The other reason why Cold Warriors today have their work cut out for them, in ways that their counterparts after the Second World War did not, is that the justifications they are obliged to offer for treating Russia as an enemy are preposterous on their face.

Half a century ago, the Soviet Union was, in Churchill’s words, “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” Churchill went on to suggest that much of the mystery would dissipate if observers would think more carefully about Russia’s national interests. That insight was among the first casualties of the rush to (cold) war that Churchill himself did so much to promote.

And so, an Iron Curtain descended over the Soviet Union and its “satellites,” just as he said it would — making it possible for the “free world’s” propagandists to spin all kinds of yarns about Communist “subversion” and ill intent.

Cyber curtains are harder to construct. What could previously be kept opaque is therefore now ineluctably clear to anyone who cares to look.

This is why all the brouhaha over Russian meddling in the 2016 election would hardly even merit discussion, but for the fact that the stakes are so high, and because so many gullible people take it seriously.

Never mind that nothing actually came from the alleged meddling, except further confirmation of what everybody already knew: that the DNC, the Democratic National Committee, was working hard to assure that the Sanders insurgency would be defeated, and that Hillary Clinton would be the party’s nominee.

Leave aside too the glaring hypocrisy of the United States, of all countries, objecting to election meddling. Evidently, the consensus view among mainstream politicians and in mainstream media circles too is that, in the United States, “what’s sauce for the goose” is emphatically not also “sauce for the gander.”

Forget genuinely “fake news” reports as well; for example, the claim that the Russians hacked into electoral grids in Vermont and elsewhere. There is no solid evidence for them; and, as one would expect, they disappear down the memory hole just as soon as they serve their purpose.

Reports of Russian hacking that bear on infrastructure security, financial transactions, trade, industrial processes, and other vital economic and military concerns would, if true, be genuinely worrisome were the recently revived Cold War to heat up.

With so many of the leading lights of the American political and media establishments working so diligently to make that happen, this is a cause for concern. But not even the most determined warmongers have been able to come up with a plausible story about how Russian hacking affected the election that put Donald Trump in the White House.

War Party propaganda notwithstanding, the claim that the Russians interfered with the 2016 election is hardly gospel truth. Nevertheless, it merits investigation.

The story used to be that seventeen U.S. intelligence agencies agreed that reports of Russian meddling are correct. The official line now is that only four have weighed in decisively, the four actually in the know.

Meanwhile, Putin says the Russians did not meddle; and Julian Assange has said many times that the source of the DNC documents that Wikileaks published was not the Russian state.

It has become fashionable in mainstream circles to vilify Assange, but the fact remains that his integrity, and Wikileaks’, is well established.

Though portrayed as the devil incarnate, Putin is a skilled and worldly statesman, intent on advancing Russia’s interests, as he understands them. He is therefore a liar by vocation, just as all serious politicians are.

For profound historical reasons, slightly different, slightly less liberal and more authoritarian, norms obtain in Russia’s political sphere than in most Western countries; and, needless to say, like everyone else everywhere, Putin and his constituents are creatures of their time and place.

On the whole, though, the demon of the hour seems no less governed by moral, customary or legal constraints than others in similar positions. Even in responding to events in Ukraine and Syria, he has been more scrupulously observant of international law than Barack Obama or Donald Trump.

His word may not be as good as gold, but it is a lot better than the CIA’s. Indeed, when it comes to lying, the CIA is second to none. It has been known too to politicize intelligence when it suits its purposes or the purposes of the American government, insofar as the two diverge. The Bush-Cheney administration’s “weapons of mass destruction” is only the best-known recent example.

I would therefore venture that of all the relevant parties weighing in, the American intelligence community is the least credible. But we are so bombarded with the party line on Russian meddling that it is hard not to succumb to the belief that there surely must be some there there. That (ultimately irrational) consideration apart, there is every reason to remain skeptical of everybody’s assessments. For the time being and perhaps for some time to come, agnosticism is the only reasonable position to take.

The news that people close to Trump — his son, his son-in-law, his campaign manager — met with a lawyer whom they believed to be acting on behalf of the Russian government, and who probably was, changes nothing.

According to Donald Junior’s emails, they did it to get dirt on Hillary Clinton.

Needless to say, “opposition research” is part of electoral politics nowadays; they all do it.

The problem in this case is the involvement of someone with ties to the Kremlin. Had the story been that Trump or someone close to him hired homegrown detectives to dig up dirt on Clinton, the news probably wouldn’t even have gotten Rachel Maddow’s hackles up.

Or had the famiglia arranged a meeting for the same purpose with persons connected to some other country – Israel is an obvious example, but not the only imaginable one – that would be fine too.

Apparently, it is the Russian connection that is toxic.

For the anti-Trump political class and their mainstream media friends, Junior’s emails are the Holy Grail, the “smoking gun.”

But all they show is that there was contact between the Russian government and the Trump campaign. Except on the dubious theory that the provision of information is an emolument of the kind that the Constitution proscribes, there was nothing even remotely criminal about that meeting in Trump Tower. There was not even anything unusual; campaigns look for dirt where they can find it, and they talk to foreign sources all the time.

Trump’s flacks say that the purported smoking gun is actually no big deal.

It grieves me to say it, but they are right.

What those emails provide is evidence of the stupidity of the Trump family (no surprise there!) and close Trump associates (ditto). To make anything more of it is, to say the least, a stretch.

***

Narratives that center on Russian meddling in the 2016 election are one thing; well-researched investigations of connections between Trump, the Trump family, and the Trump campaign, on the one hand, and Russian oligarchs, mobsters, spies, and assorted sleaze balls, on the other, are something else altogether.

Inasmuch as birds of a feather generally do flock together, there probably are quite a few contacts of that sort to uncover.

Unfortunately, though, in the fog of neoconservative, Russophobic propaganda that has settled in over our shores, these issues have become confounded.

On the meddling in the last election question, the jury is still out on which liars to believe. Does it really matter, though?

It does to proponents and opponents of the War Party. The former are desperate for reasons to find Putin culpable of something, anything; the latter understand the importance of not letting them have their way.

It matters too to feckless Democrats (is there any other kind?) hoping to ride anti-Trump loathing back to power in 2018. It is all they have going for them.

But it hardly matters at all for the integrity of American democracy — notwithstanding the self-righteous blather that currently surrounds the issue.

The danger to democracy – what little of it we have — is not coming from hackers, Russian or otherwise, government sponsored or freelance. At this historical moment, it is coming mainly from the voter suppression efforts of Republican state officials and the Trump White House.

Republican donors are culpable too. They are the ones who bankroll the governors and state legislators who are leading the charge against (small-d) democracy.

How ironic that one of the things the Russians are supposed to have hacked into are state voting rolls. It is fatally unclear why they would care about that, just as it is brutally obvious why Republicans would. But this doesn’t phase the War Party’s propagandists one bit.

The story they are going with for now is that Putin wants Americans to lose faith in the democratic process. Why would he even care?

During the original Cold War, when the Soviet Union was supposedly intent on world domination, there were ways of answering that question. The answers were disingenuous, to say the least, but they could at least be made to seem plausible. Good luck with that now!

In any case, if Putin really did want to undermine faith in American democracy, he would be a little late to the gate; and he would be redundant. Who needs a foreign autocrat to do what Democrats and Republicans are already doing better?

Meanwhile, even with Junior’s emails, Trump is still there; and unless Republicans turn on him, which, for now, seems unlikely – or unless, more unlikely still, he decides he has had enough — there is where he will remain.

Meanwhile too, the Democratic Party, having made itself irrelevant, is still scapegoating Russians. What a dangerous, albeit bipartisan, spectacle – unreconstructed Clintonites working side by side with the likes of John McCain and Lindsey Graham.

All this does, though, is increase the likelihood that, in the process, the world will stumble into a war that, this time around, really will be a war to end all wars.

Is there a silver lining in any of this? If there is, it is well hidden.

ANDREW LEVINE is the author most recently of THE AMERICAN IDEOLOGY (Routledge) and POLITICAL KEY WORDS (Blackwell) as well as of many other books and articles in political philosophy. His most recent book is In Bad Faith: What’s Wrong With the Opium of the People. He was a Professor (philosophy) at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and a Research Professor (philosophy) at the University of Maryland-College Park. He is a contributor to Hopeless: Barack Obama and the Politics of Illusion (AK Press).

from Home http://ift.tt/2umxjnQ

#NEWS

0 notes