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bbangsoonie · 3 years

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good for nothing

member: juyeon genre: angst (royal au) word count: 4,635 synopsis: despite being the first born and the kingdom’s princess, you lived your whole life in the shadow of the crown prince born to a concubine. in your plot for revenge, a fool in love comes along your path. warning(s): violence

kingdom masterlist

Princess Y/n. You were the first born of the king and queen, educated beyond societal standards for girls, and incredibly beautiful. Yet, you were disregarded and looked down on since the moment you were born. Your brother, who was born to a concubine, was the crown prince and received much greater respect. The reason? You were a girl. A good-for-nothing girl as your father called you on multiple occasions.

The king was ashamed to have his first born be a daughter. He also felt threatened by your rejection of the status quo. Because of this, he grabbed every opportunity to make you submit to him.

You were exceptionally smart but no one cared to notice. Your desire to learn was ignored and you were forced to embroider butterfly patterns instead. At a young age, you realized your place. You knew your designated fate was to be a political pawn meant to be married off at a beautiful age. To protect the royal family that never considered you as one of their own, you were to marry a complete stranger one day.

However, just because you realized your place didn’t mean you accepted it. You defied the rules at every chance you saw. You remained a headache for the king, but a small enough headache to avoid his wrath.

Unbeknownst to him, you were well versed with the dirty politics of the country. Ever since you were a little girl, you would eavesdrop into the ministers’ conversations and manipulate the eunuchs to take a peak at written grievances sent to the king. You knew about the starving peasants he ignored and the bribes he received. As you grew older, you became hungry for power. When it became apparent that the king was blocking any hope for you, you were determined to take as many people down with you. You refused to suffer alone.

The king always berated you for being greedy. Greedy for education. Greedy for acknowledgement. Greedy for a life that was more than just being a good wife. He reminded you again and again that you would never have a voice in official affairs.

Every time you left his chamber after another lecture, you made sure to humiliate the embarrassment the kingdom called the crown prince. You would outshine him one way or another. Whether it be pointing out his grammar mistakes in front of the scholars or exposing his secret palace escapes to the queen, you would dampen his mood for the day. It was the only thing that gave you a speck of joy.

There was also only one thing that gave you something to look forward to. For years, you had been conspiring against the royal family. You despised the royal family and its classist, sexist, and pretentious values. You planned on getting rid of it once and for all. The kingdom deserved a leader that would rule benevolently. Slowly but surely, you gained the loyalty of several ministers. Soon enough, you would be able to execute the meticulous coup d'état.

But until then, you had to continue to be nothing but the king’s puppet. Which included meeting your fiancé. You were introduced a week ago and wedding preparations were already in full swing.

The man you would be forced to wed, Lee Juyeon, was the first son of the Chief State Councillor. You didn’t like him the moment you saw him. He was a pretty face that grew up with his father’s full love and support. He was both elegant and masculine; he was the definition of perfect and you hated it. A person had to have flaws to be likeable.

For some crazy reason you couldn’t wrap your mind around, Juyeon was infatuated with you. He visited the palace every day just to have you decline his request for a meeting. He was persistent.

Unfortunately for you, he was also crafty. He figured out that announcing his arrival to the king was an effective way to see your face. The king was delighted to see the Chief State Councillor’s son head over heels for his daughter and thus, to your annoyance, daily meetings were arranged for you two.

“Tell me, Lord Lee, what about me is worthy of your obsession?” you asked.

You were sitting at one of the gardens within the palace walls. He had insisted on the location because of its romantic beauty.

“Then tell me, Your Highness, what about me is not to your liking?” he grinned.

“Do you wish to hear the answer of the princess or the answer of Y/n?” you raised a brow, making him laugh.

“You amuse me, Princess Y/n,” he turned his head to look at the pond.

You sighed, wondering how long you had until you could return to your residence. The man next to you was oblivious to your feelings as he rambled on about the dates he wanted to take you on. He caught your attention when he mentioned sneaking you out of the palace for half a day.

“You would really risk taking me outside of the palace?” you perked up.

He was excited to see you finally engaged in the conversation and nodded profusely. He promised to set up an elaborate plan for a smooth date. Grudgingly, you accepted his offer. Your wish to see the village overwhelmed your wish to avoid your soon-to-be consort.

The next day, a court lady secretly found you to notify you of his plans. To evade the eyes of palace maids, you were to escape through a path not commonly used. She helped you scale the wall and you froze when you saw Juyeon on the other side. You sat on top of the wall and he extended his hand for support. With a tight smile, you held his hand and jumped down.

He pulled the veil over your face to keep your identity hidden, blushing when his hand slightly brushed your cheek. He hopped onto the horse and gestured for you to do the same. Hesitantly, you held his hand again to climb on.

Using the excuse of maintaining balance, he urged you to hold on tightly. You weren’t left with an option when he sped up, prompting you to instinctively hug his waist. You didn’t have to see his face to know that he was smiling like a fool.

At last, you finally arrived at the village. Fascinated at the change in environment, you looked like a child surrounded by toys. Chuckling, Juyeon admired the view in front of him. In his eyes, you were prettier than any flower and sweeter than any candy. Feeling his gaze on you, you cleared your throat and began walking.

There was so much to look at. He caught you staring at the rows of yeot and purchased the confectionery without you asking. You immediately popped one into your mouth and he laughed when your cheeks expanded to resemble a squirrel.

“Are you teasing me?” you frowned.

“No, I am appreciating your adorable and lovely appearance,” he answered as he handed you the bag holding the rest of the yeot. His words didn’t fluster you. You simply rolled your eyes and resumed walking.

His long legs were quick to catch up with you. Enjoying your presence, he watched as you fawned over little trinkets. It was a new side of you that he had never seen.

Stopping at an accessory shop, you scanned the norigaes displayed on the table. One of them caught your eye and you held it up for a closer look. It was a beautiful pale pink color that perfectly matched your current hanbok.

“It seems a norigae is better at capturing your heart than I am,” Juyeon pouted.

“Perhaps it is prettier than you,” you shrugged.

“Is this an implication that I am pretty? To a certain extent?” he beamed.

“How do my words become that?” you exclaimed.

With another laugh, he took the accessory from your grasp and went to pay for it. You blinked at the sudden sight of his back, noticing for the first time how broad his shoulders were. When he came back to your side, he held the norigae in front of you but pulled it back when you reached out for it. He pointed at the bag of yeot and opened his mouth. Baffled, you turned around to walk away.

He caught your wrist and spun you back around. He bent down and your face stopped an inch away from his. His usual shy self was gone and he had a confident smirk on his lips.

“Does your heart not sway even at a close distance like this?” he asked. This time, he caught you off guard. When you finally came back to your senses, you hurriedly shoved a piece of yeot into his mouth and stormed off.

“Y/n, you make me laugh too hard and too much!” you heard his voice call out, making you blush crimson with embarrassment.

With your upcoming wedding looming over your head, it became increasingly difficult to communicate with the ministers. There were too many eyes to be wary of. Juyeon, of course, was one of them.

As you spent more time with him, you realized how sentimental he was. He brought you small, meaningful gifts and loved to tell you about the meanings behind each flower.

“Did you know that the plum blossom is one of the indications of spring's arrival?” he asked one day. “They can bloom as early as late March.”

“I think it is quite obvious that it is spring,” you commented, pointing at the variety of flowers surrounding you.

“My personal favorite flower is the rose of sharon,” he continued. “It is nicknamed the “immortal flower” and means “eternal blossom that never fades” because of its resilience. It regrows despite harsh conditions and even after it is damaged. Amazing, isn’t it?”

You hummed, looking for the flower he was talking about.

“I used to hope that our kingdom would take after the flower. We have survived through many tragedies and I hope that we will survive through anything else that tries to beat us down,” his words pricked you for some reason. Would your rebellion be seen as a tragedy or as a heroic deed?

“Now, I like to think that our love will be like the rose of sharon. My love for you will never fade and I will continue to pine after you despite your harsh words. Even if you hurt me, my feelings will transcend time,” he smiled. “The flower does not bloom until July. My wish is to go see them with you. Would you bless me with your presence when the time comes?”

You observed his lovestruck expression and couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Again, you were at a loss trying to understand why he was so besotted with you. His childlike innocence was almost pure to a fault in a place like the palace.

“I shall consider it if you teach me how to swing a sword,” you proposed.

He couldn’t hide both his shock and happiness. He was confused as to why you wanted to ever hold a weapon but glad that you were slowly opening up to him. Without a second thought, he agreed to your proposition.

Juyeon was full of bliss at the thought of spending more time with you. Teaching you swordsmanship would allow him to be intimate with you and he was thrilled. At your first secret lesson, his heart raced at your proximity as he guided your hands on how to properly wield the blade.

A week passed by and you quickly improved each day. Eventually, you became skilled enough to land a fake jab. Seeing your proud smile, he grinned as well.

“I guess I should be on edge now. If I annoy my princess one too many times, my life will literally be at your hands,” he joked.

“Do you regret training me?” you smirked.

“Ah, was this all a part of your plan?” he pretended to gasp. “Either to kill me off or to threaten me to obedience?”

Not finding his joke funny, you blankly stared at him. Noticing the sudden chill in the atmosphere, he awkwardly laughed.

“Do not worry, Your Highness. I will always do as you say. You do not need a sword to make me behave.” he smiled.

You hated to admit it but he had grown on you. His constant attempts to tear down your wall had finally made a crack. You had to stop before he became your weakness.

For the first time in a while, you were summoned to the king’s chamber. Expecting another reprimand, you dreaded the walk there. To your surprise, however, you were greeted with a smile he hadn’t given you in years. It kind of freaked you out.

“You called for me, Your Majesty?” you bowed.

“I hear you have been getting along wonderfully with the Chief State Councillor’s son. Finally, you are fulfilling your duty as this kingdom’s princess,” he commended.

What a back-handed compliment. You wanted to roll your eyes at his passive aggressiveness. Holding back your urges, you politely smiled instead.

“I just wanted to let you know that I will be in a hurry to complete your wedding. I need the Chief State Councillor’s support to find a suitable wife for the crown prince,” he announced.

“Is my marriage merely a way for the crown prince to find a wife with a powerful family?” you shot back.

Your question turned the mood scarily sour. You felt his anger rise as he chastised you for your impudence and disrespect.

“The crown prince is the future leader of our kingdom. He is more than deserving of the immense care, thought, and effort that goes into picking his consort. His consort will be this kingdom’s queen and will be the one to bear the next king. You are nothing but a useless girl who will belong to a different family.”

“I am still a member of the royal family, am I not?”

“You are just a good-for-nothing girl that will leave this palace soon,” he spat. “Now leave. You are dismissed.”

On your way out, you ran into the crown prince who looked at you in a way you found to be offensive. You paused your steps and turned around.

“I wish you fertility, Crown Prince. After all, the kingdom relies on your performance to produce an heir to the throne,” you said, lacing your words with venom. “I would imagine you would hate having to adopt a nephew.”

You could tell you had gotten under his skin yet again and left satisfied. You loathed and condemned your family with a burning passion. You couldn’t wait for the day it would all come to a bitter end.

While you were brooding, you didn’t notice Juyeon sneaking up on you. When you finally saw him, you nearly jumped. Your hand reached out to cover your heart, trying to calm it down. Sheepishly, he apologized for startling you.

Trying to keep you from walking away from him, he held onto the hem of your sleeve. Your heart softened at the gentle manner he treated you with. Ignoring your instincts, you let him cling onto you. Instead of making you turn around to face him, he walked in front of you.

“Will you accompany me to the garden today as well?” he asked earnestly.

Knowing that the court ladies were watching, you reluctantly accepted his invitation once again. This time, he surprised you with a bag filled with yeot. He looked so proud of himself for remembering your love for the sweet treat that it made you laugh. As a reward, he grabbed a piece for himself. Unaware of the smudge it left on the corner of his lips, he was conscious of your gaze and tried to look attractive.

“Worry not, Your Highness. You will get to look at this face every day and every night once we marry,” he assured.

Despite his wise exterior, he had a goofy side to him. He was pure and innocent—everything you weren’t. You could see why the king favored him so much.

“I do not understand why you are so eager to become my consort,” you suddenly blurted. “You know that it is just a flashy title that does not award you with much privileges. It is an empty position; you cannot hold office without a special order from the king. Do you simply see yourself as a stepping stone for your father to bring honor to your family?”

“Is my love for you an acceptable response?” he asked after some thought.

“Is it truly worth your dangerous status as the princess’s husband and king’s son-in-law? The royal family has many enemies,” you warned.

“I will be the one to protect you from such enemies,” he declared.

Was he naive or has his affection for you blinded him?

“Princess Y/n,” he said solemnly as he held your hand. “I promise to love and protect you for as long as my heart beats. No, even after it ceases to beat, I will still yearn for you. I will not demand or expect you to do the same. Even if your feelings for me are not as strong as my feelings for you, I will not blame you. But will you please give me the chance to try to win you over?”

His confession triggered an alarm in your head. He was never supposed to fall for you this hard and you were never supposed to allow him to. He had no idea how cunning and conniving you really were. Only the people in the palace knew how cold-hearted you could be. You had to be in order to survive.

You refused to give him a reply and pulled your hand away. His face fell but he forced himself to smile again. In an attempt to break the tension, he made a random comment on the weather.

After you two parted, you decided to speed things up to initiate the revolt. Once you joined hands in marriage, Juyeon would inevitably end up a target as well. If you wanted to spare him, you needed to overthrow the corrupted royal family before he became a part of it.

It was officially the day before the insurrection. To be honest, you weren’t really nervous. This was what you had been anticipating your entire life.

Yet why did you have a moment of weakness when you saw Juyeon that afternoon? He approached you with that boyish smile that did wonders to your normally rational mind. Feeling what you believed was pity, you wanted to leave him with a pleasant memory.

So you ended up convincing him to sneak you out of the palace again. This time, you were a lot more enthusiastic. You wanted to try all the pastries and insisted that he taste them too.

“You seemed to have a lot on your mind these days,” he carefully pointed out. “Has the problem that has been bothering you been resolved now?”

“It will soon,” you eluded.

You stared at the man in front of you, observing his features. He was, without a doubt, good looking. You could see why all the court ladies, palace maids, and girls of the village were so smitten with him. But you still didn’t get why he chose you to fawn over. Maybe it was because of the lack of affection you grew up with but something about having someone care for you was unsettling.

You had suitors court you before but none of them were as devoted as Juyeon. He always came off as genuine. Perhaps his sincerity was what made you lower your guard.

“I promise to lavish you with such outings if that is what makes you happy,” he proclaimed, almost making you laugh.

“Why do you make so many vows?” you inquired.

“I am a man who keeps his word and you are the only one I give it to,” he grinned. You wondered how happy he had to be to smile so often. You rarely had reasons to be smiling.

He glanced down at the table and examined the rows of binyeos. Holding one up, he held the hair pin against your hair.

“May I gift you this binyeo?” he asked.

You pursed your lips, feeling just a tad bit of guilt. You were used to being showered with extravagance but with Juyeon, it was different. There was an emotional value attached to each present.

“Only if you promise me one other thing,” you negotiated.

“Of course. I will do anything you ask of me,” he responded.

“Promise me that you will not visit the palace tomorrow,” you said sternly. He looked at you with curiosity.

“Tomorrow is… a day of mourning for me. I do not wish to see you until the day after,” you lied.

“This is the first time you have expressed your desire to see me,” he lit up at your last sentence. “I will prepare a magnificent date for when I see you over-morrow.”

You almost felt sorry for his naiveté. And you almost—just almost—felt sorry for deceiving him.

The fateful day arrived at last. You stood, taking one last glimpse at your reflection. Subconsciously, your hand reached out to touch the binyeo in your hair.

The roars of the royal guards and the clanks of combat rumbled throughout the palace. With a determined look, you left your chamber. The sword in your clenched fist dragged across the ground as you made your way to the throne hall.

When you finally busted through the door, the king sat as if he had been waiting for you.

“I should have known that this was your doing,” he scowled. “Was your luxurious life as a princess not enough for you? Could you not fight the temptation of avarice?”

“Nothing about my life was ever comfortable,” you corrected. “I always had to play along to match your mood in order to avoid being married off to an old man just out of your spite. You tried to drill your toxic mentality in me because my individuality terrified you. You made it a point to constantly tear me down. So I made it a point to see your demise.”

“You have always been this sly ever since you were a little girl. I knew I would regret your birth the moment I saw your eyes. And I was right. You are nothing but a vile bitch.”

“For the longest time, I thought I was deserving of your hatred. But I came to the realization that you simply belittled me just for being a girl. Do not forget, Your Majesty, that the womb inside me is the same as the one that bore you the crown prince.”

Mockingly, you approached the throne. It was incredible how that one seat gave its owner immense power.

“Speaking of which, why is it that only men carry on the family name?” you questioned. “Do you not realize that women are the ones who carry on the precious bloodline you always speak of? It is the body of women that conceive and grow another human inside them. It is the body of women that suffer through labor to deliver you children and nurture them to good health. The only thing you do is spread your seeds like a fruit. And then blame women for your own infertility.”

“All throughout history, it has been men who carried on the royal bloodline. What makes you think that you are worthy of special treatment?”

“Bloodline, bloodline, bloodline,” you rolled your eyes in irritation. “Do not fool yourself. It is not blood you care about but name. Men may carry on the nameline but we are the ones who give you the royal blood pumping in your veins.”

You sloppily lifted the sword to the king’s neck, smirking.

“I knew you would be the one to bring my downfall,” he glared.

“Well, how does it feel to have all your fears come true, my king?” you taunted. “You were always afraid that I would either surpass you or ruin you. Now, I will be the one to end this damned bloodline. This good-for-nothing girl will take back the royal blood that was given to you by a woman.”

With that, you slashed his neck. Blood splattered across the wall and on your face. You grimaced, wiping away the warm liquid. You were surprisingly calm in front of such a gruesome sight. That was, until Juyeon came bursting through the door.

After he had parted from you the day before, he could not get you out of his mind. Something about your eyes had been melancholic. Your words sounded like a foreshadow and it left him feeling disturbed. So he broke his promise and went to the palace to see you again. He was alarmed to see the chaos ensuing and immediately searched for you. However, he never expected the situation he stumbled into.

“P-Princess Y/n,” he stuttered, making you aim the weapon at yourself. You never intended or wanted him to witness this.

“Do not come any closer,” you warned.

“Your Highness, please. Put the sword down,” he begged.

“I cannot,” you gulped. “This is how it must end.”

“We-we can run away. Together. We can leave everything behind and I will keep you safe,” he said as he tried his best to stay calm.

You wanted to both laugh and cry. Your life was a suicidal mission. You knew from the beginning that you would not be able to survive. If you failed, you would be executed for treason. If you succeeded, you would be executed to officially end the royal bloodline.

You had to admit, you slightly wavered at one point. Juyeon’s promise to make you happy was enticing. To someone who never strayed close to emotions before, he was like a miracle. He made you feel all sorts of things that you were glad to have experienced.

“I apologize, Lord Lee,” you sadly smiled before you stabbed the blade into your stomach.

“No!” he screamed as he ran to your side.

You slowly fell to the ground with Juyeon’s arms wrapped around your body. His hands shook above the wound as he cried, knowing that he couldn’t take it out without ensuring your death. He never thought that what he taught you would be used against yourself. If he had known that this was what you planned on using your skills for, he never would have taken your offer.

“I am afraid I will not be able to go see the rose of sharons with you,” you said as a tear escaped your eyes.

Your vision began to cloud and you felt the life in you leave with every breath you took. You didn’t even realize that your hand was gripping his clothes, crinkling it. Another tear rolled down your cheek as your head fell back, your neck unable to support it any longer.

He desperately clung onto you, holding your head in his bloodied hands.

“I will bring the flowers to you,” he affirmed.

“Another promise,” you chuckled.

“This one I will be sure to keep,” he stated as his own tears fell to your face.

Next to the weapon embedded in you was the norigae he bought you the first time you escaped the palace together. He looked up to see that you were wearing the binyeo he bought you as well. He sobbed, holding onto you tighter.

“I hope to be reborn as a rose of sharon. That way, I can come see you every spring,” you whispered before you closed your eyes for the last time.

tag list: @dearseungie @cuppasunu @reverienostalgia @elcie-chxn @parfaitz @lovelyutas @mochinyu @leejaeyeons

#deobiwritersnet #the boyz #tbz #juyeon #the boyz angst #tbz angst #juyeon angst #the boyz fics #tbz fics #juyeon fics #the boyz imagines #tbz imagines #juyeon imagines #the boyz scenarios #tbz scenarios #juyeon scenarios #lee juyeon #the boyz juyeon #tbz juyeon

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kodzumie-archived · 3 years

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please can u spare a couple of mikan hcs w an s/o who adores her?? please my crops are dying,,, tysm

❝ADORATION❞

Synopsis; Mikan with an s/o that adores her.

Featuring; Mikan Tsumiki x GN! Reader

Warning(s); None! Just fluff with best girl, Mikan.

Kodzumie’s Note; Your crops shall live for another day! I always, always, always will spare writing for Mikan. Ahh, thank you so much for requesting for her! I hope you’ve had a great day today. Take care, anon! <3

➤ MIKAN TSUMIKI

⤷ To say she was astounded is an understatement. Mikan is truly unable to fathom how you someone like you could like her. Much less, adore her.

⤷ But, from the bottom of her heart, she appreciates it and cherishes every ounce of your affections entirely. And she attempts to reciprocate it in full, but it’s hard to compete with your overwhelming conveyance.

⤷ Showering her in metaphoric seas of compliments, it’s never a challenge to fluster the tenuous nurse. Her delicate, pallid features brushed upon with roseate as she attempts to withhold her composure. But your ministrations are too much for her poor, little heart to handle.

⤷ For every time you’ve made a momentary stop at the nurse’s office between classes, she swears her heart melts with every moment she sees you. Some breaks, you walk into the office with a rose twirled between your thumb and index finger, holding it out before you towards the bearer of your heart.

⤷ Of course, Mikan will deny taking the flower at first, claiming that it’d be much better given to someone else rather than her. But you silence her upon clasping your hands above her own, ever-so gently placing the florescent blossom between her fingers. Truly, it mesmerizes her the sheer dedication you’ve shown to someone as meek as her.

⤷ Some days, you stop by the office with a piece of paper between your hands; a drawing. Presenting it to your girlfriend with an eager grin upon your face, you explain that it was, in fact, a drawing of her.

⤷ Instantaneously, she begins to compliment your drawing, regardless of your skill level. She’s genuinely enamored that someone would take the time out of their day to draw her, of all people.

⤷ But her questions are answered with your rambles; your rambling about her. It’s strange. Foreign, even. It’s an entirely new situation for her to be put in as she listens to you gush about all that you admire about her. Vividly describing that the enchanting flecks of stardust within her eyes were simply too beautiful not to draw.

⤷ From your words alone, Mikan’s heart resonated within her chest as she attempted to muster coherent sentences, but the shock was still fresh within her mind. You thought she was beautiful. And, by your very own words; “No drawing or photo could ever capture your beauty, Mikan.”

⤷ And yet she’s surprised to say that-that isn’t even the best of them. You’ve surpassed her expectations and have smothered her in a love she’d deemed foreign; care she could only describe as exotic.

⤷ The days in which you’d stop by the nurse’s office with empty hands were her favorite; that day, you’d brought nothing. Only yourself to greet her presence, and yet, you still manage to engulf her in your adorations with a tidal wave of pure passion.

⤷ Those days, you’d draw her in close. The smile settling upon your lips was once she hoped to be blessed to see for years to come, a gentle smile reserved solely for her eyes as you cradle her face within your hands. Your touch was delicate; holding Mikan’s face as though she were glass, ready to shatter. And sometimes she truly believed that under your intense love, she’d crumble.

⤷ And that’s what she’d adored about you; the way you’d overwhelmingly underwhelm your affections so that she could handle them. You understood that sometimes the abundance of affection was hard to handle, flustering her to the brink of a mental breakdown as she processes the―unfortunately―foreign compassion.

⤷ Thus, you envelop her lips within yours, pulling her in for a serene, fleeting kiss. Within that moment, time had slowed. The seconds ticking in subtle reverse as she savors the sensation of your lips atop her own, occasionally parting to overlap once more.

⤷ And yet, even as you leave, the love that frolics within your eyes doesn’t cease. In fact, it intensifies. The glow of adoration emitting from your hues as your lips part from hers is a hypnotic sight for her, nearly forcing her within a trance as she swallows in the affection within your gaze alone.

⤷ So it surprises her that your affection never seems to cease; an eternal flame of your desire burning solely for her. An ember in which she promises she’s undeserving of, yet you cling onto the belief—the truth she’s been hindered blind to—that she is deserving of this love. She is worthy of affection.

⤷ Even as you take her out to the café she’d subtly informed you of, hoping to visit it one day, she’s perplexed as to why you’d bother keeping in mind such an unimportant detail. Furthermore, why would you take her to the place she’d claim she’d been hoping to see?

⤷ But as you take her hand within hers—gently—allowing her to let go if she wishes, you inform her thay you wanted to see her reaction. To be able to witness her excitement from a front-row perspective, and bask in your girlfriend’s excitement over the pastries.

⤷ Mikan attempted to insist that a date spent on her would be a mere waste, but you’d opened the door for her with a grin before she could protest. Bowing your head in caricature to formality, giggling as your girlfriend hesitantly entered, following after her.

⤷ Amidst the comforting atmosphere, baristas calling out names of customers per order and the lofi beat droning within the background of the clatter, the café had been comforting. Mikan’s tender, lavender hues inspecting the confinements of the shop with the faintest of smiles.

⤷ Resting your chin within your hand, you gaze upon her features. All of which illuminated by the hanging lights of the establishment, accentuating her regal locks as she twirls a strand around her index finger. Her gaze fixed upon the doodles of the chalkboard announcing today’s special.

⤷ She appeared at ease; delight engulfing her within the confinements of the café. And with your eyes trained upon her contentment, you couldn’t help but bask in her ripples of joy that’d passed upon you in wishful washes; a wish to capture this moment forever.

⤷ So that’s exactly what you do. Retrieving your phone from the compartments of your bookbag, you swipe left of your lock screen, opening the camera app.

⤷ And without a moment of the ethreality to waste, you raise your phone and snap a picture; capturing wht you deemed as the essence of true beauty. Yet upon the shuttering of a camera, Mikan swiftly directs her head towards you, a somewhat panicked expression upon her fragile features. You almost feel bad for startling her, however, the photo within your phone album is the sight of a lifetime.

⤷ With furrowed brows, Mikan questions what you’d taken a picture of. To which she hadn’t expected you to flip your screen towards her, displaying the photograph before her very eyes.

⤷ It was her. Sitting across the table with a far-off gaze upon the front counter, within her hands resides her own phone as a faint smile laces her lips. Her free hand twisting her hair between her fingertips as she seems so peaceful; at last, she’s at ease. It was a picture of your girlfriend—Mikan—amidst her most serene of moments.

⤷ At first, she’s silent. Simply gazing upon your screen as though she were attempted to decipher whether or not she was encaged within a dream; a vividly torturous dream in which she’d been fooled with the illusory affection you’d always provided her.

⤷ But that silence morphs into mumbles; questioning. It’s a repetitive and Pavlovian reaction from your lover, yet you never seem to alter your answer to her inquiry; why had you taken a picture of her?

⤷ Because why would your answer change? If there was one thing you’ll leave this world with a true belief in, it’s that your girlfriend is an enchanting individual. Her heart a garden of kind blossoms for those in need; eyes painted with stardust as the underlying euphoria within her orbs rivaled every constellation; the brush of her fingertips upon yours eliciting a jolt through your heart. In every way imaginable, Mikan was utterly celestial.

⤷ So, with your head held high, you reply with such confidence it’s as though the words that escape your lips are from the heart—in which they are—spoken only to her. “Because you’re beautiful, of course.”

⤷ And it’s words like these that Mikan has noticed you’d chant. Time and time, again, you insist that she’s one-of-a-kind; a treasure truly unforgettable.

⤷ With such frevor, you douse yourself in the mantra of her worth, promising her value is beyond that of what she’s been deluded to. It’s your persistence—your unwavering sense of veracity—that pushes Mikan to believe that perhaps she’s beyond that of a disposable being.

⤷ She’s pushed to believe that perhaps there’s a mutual gratification within your love; she’s not the only one who’d fawned upon the possibility of being wanted, especially by someone of the likes of you. She’s pushed to believe that perhaps the love you’d withheld for her was true.

⤷ A bond—in its entirety—as genuine as the feeling of your hand atop hers within that very moment. Clasping your hands atop hers, you cradle the limb with such an overwhelming amount of care, Mikan couldn’t fight against the quiver of her lips as you tenderly gazed within her eyes.

⤷ Your voice subtle as it barely resonated within the encompass of the café, yet ever-so assertive. Without a fraction of hesitation—gaze unwavering from her own—you allow the Pavlovian words to escape from your lips. Yet, unlike every other moment you’d voiced them, for once, they’re processed.

⤷ Months spent in denial of your fragility towards her; your contrasting tending to her needs; indulging in her wants; smothering her in endless conpliments; lovingly longing gazes cast upon her. After months of having spent within the confines of doubt, it seems that the shackles had finally been broken.

⤷ In that very moment, within the café you’d took the liberty to remember in order to appease to her personal interests, you’d confessed once more; “I love you.” And it’s a confession finally processed by your lavender-eyed lover; a confession finally processed after months of denying the veracity of your love.

⤷ And as you cradled her hands within your own, the ever-lasting love laced within your eyes as they meet hers, she reciprocates your affections at long-last as the words that doused her lips interlocked with the tears cascading from her eyes. “I love you too.”

#sdr2 x reader #dr2 x reader #mikan x reader #mikan tsumiki x reader #danganronpa x reader #mikan imagines #mikan headcanons #danganronpa imagines #danganronpa hcs #danganronpa scenarios

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moon-lixie · 3 years

Text

in this story aphrodite is not a woman but a man, and a simple mortal like you is much more in his eyes.

genre: fluff, mild angst.

word count: 2.020k

Fingers softly pressing on the strings that rested against the neck of the violin and precise movements made with the bow to bring to life a sweet melody. It was quite a sight to take in, how the tip of the bow would always be millimeters close to grazing the strings but never would, because you knew better than to let any other part other than the hair of the bow touch the delicacy of the small instrument resting against your shoulder.

He was particularly mesmerized by the way in which you would close your eyes while playing because you seemed to particularly enjoy it more that way, along with the fact that he could see you had no need to rely on the music sheet to play. Because you played with your heart; every note and every silence were brought by the memory of what your heart loved the most.

His eyes were glued to you and he found himself often coming down to earth, not as a god but a mere human, just to see you from afar. It was wrong and he was well aware, but you had stirred in him something that he hadn’t felt in centuries. The kind of curiosity and interest that would never be sufficed by just watching from afar at how you fell in love with someone else. That’s why he had been selfish all those months ago when he first felt hypnotized by your peculiar ways and decided against helping you fall in love.

He was the god of love so there was no wonder that jealousy lived fervently inside his heart as well. But he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t wish to face the undeniable fact that he had robbed someone else from the happiness of being with you and forced the soul that had captured his attention to live on their own, maybe forever. Because he had decided long ago not to approach you; if he did then it would be a futile attempt at making you happy in the way he knew he couldn’t.

Such irony made him laugh, the god of love knew himself to be incapable of loving. That was his price to pay for being who he was and doing what he did.

His steps guided him outside the place where you had been performing this week, every single day at eight pm, the same hour in which he would abandon whatever he was currently working on just to come see you from afar. He would always take the third row in front of the stage, at the right corner. Because that was where the violins were positioned, right beside the violas and cellos that were on the other side.

The street was particularly dark around the area where the back door of the building led to a small alley. As he passed in front of it, he saw you, head hung low and someone in front of you talking with a calm face about the things you had done wrong today. There had been some small mistakes when you were on stage today, the one that caught his attention more was a slip of your fingers that caused you to open your eyes and glue your gaze to the music sheet. Which had led him to wonder if there was something bothering you.

Oh, how he hated himself and the heart he didn’t have, for making him feel like he should do something to tug up the corners up your lips as you walked towards the main street where he stood. He hated the idea and yet he made a bouquet appear out of thin air and approached you with a shy smile.

Your eyes opened slightly in surprise as he cleared his throat and started talking to you with the same naturality that air makes its way through the world. “I got these for you. Just wanted to tell you that your performance was beyond any expectation I could ever have.”

He noticed the soft smile that grazed your lips at the same time your brows furrowed slightly with confusion. He took notice of how your hands reached forward to take the flowers he was offering and at the same instant that your fingertip touched his hand slightly his world seemed to stop. The weirdest feeling took hold of his stomach and the confidence he held suddenly vanished in between your soft thank you.

Who would have said that the god of beauty would find himself stuttering and giggling in embarrassment in front of a simple mortal? Who would’ve even insinuated that such a deity would find himself sitting in front of you talking for hours with the simple excuse of grabbing a cup of coffee?

He wondered why all the words that managed to escape your lips caught his attention as if they were the greatest stories to ever exist and why was he even there if the situation was already messed up. But he couldn’t even think about leaving, because when he mustered enough courage to grab your hand lightly in between his, he felt alive for the first time in his neverending existence.

Sure, it was wrong and not meant to work but that thought wasn’t heavy enough to stop him from smiling as you walked by his side on the empty streets. Your laugh filled his ears and existence, and for the first time ever he wished to be nothing but a human.

He thought that he might have started to lose his mind when he found himself contemplating the words that many times had led humanity to foolishness.

For you I’ll sacrifice everything I have. Such sweet and heartfelt words that had been the beginning of millions of love stories. But they were wrong in his head, because he wasn’t his. He was equally yours as he was of the rest of humanity and that had never bothered him before, until right now as you stood with a sheepish smile in front of your house.

He wanted to reach his hand forward, reach out for you but he couldn’t. Humane thoughts were attacking his head all at once and it felt like too much. He wondered if he was allowed to kiss you, at least just this one time. Or would you perhaps think of him as weird? Would that make him want to stay more than he wanted to now? Was a simple and innocent kiss meant to lead him to doom or was it just a mindless peck that would ignite nothing at all in his heart?

He wasn’t the god of curiosity but he might as well be as he moved forward to press his lips against yours. And when you returned his kiss he thought it was most suited for him to be the god of doom because he loved every second of it and he knew he would never stop coming back for more.

Sweet and tortuous predicament, the one he found himself in when he walked away from your house, trying not to look back every single second. He felt like he was in the clouds, in a metaphorical way. Because he knew clouds all too well, he had felt them with his fingertips and yet you made him experience everything that was around him like it was the very first time.

Excitement filled his mundane and vulnerable figure at the same time that fear took over his mind. He was screwed and under a magical spell, the one that coated the world around him with a special glint. Experiencing the world in the same way humans did wasn’t as impossible as he thought.

Happiness isn’t everlasting and when he goes back from the mortal realm to the colder place that he called home, the smile in his lips fades. Because what greets him there is the deity with blonde hair and a cheerful smile. And his presence isn’t exactly what bothers him, what unsettles him are the words that escape his lips.

“I’ve been noticing you’re visiting the mortal realm with more frequency lately.” His friend, the god of harvest, asks and in return he just nods slightly, hoping for his comment to be a simple observation and nothing more. “You seem rather happy about it.” The deity of passion had nothing left to do but shrug at his freckled friend whose comment made his palms clammy. “If I noticed, eventually they will too .” That was his last comment before leaving with a sweet smile and the god of beauty is left with a worried hole in his chest.

His friend meant well, he was aware of that as much as he was aware than perhaps he shouldn’t go back to see you. But he prefered to play dumb and be a curly haired boy on earth rather than a lonely soul on the sky.

Life is much more enjoyable by your side. He’s like a kid discovering everything all over again and experiencing things that before had seemed too mundane to catch his attention. By your side he learns to appreciate and love every single graze of your fingers with the back of his hands as you walk, relish on the beauty of every laugh that escapes your lips without the need of a big reason, stare at the stars not as a creation of his fellow divinities but as gentle specks that make being with you more enjoyable that he ever thought it could be.

After spending time with you he realised that there was no rush. Even when your days were counted you still found time to stop and smell the sweet and fresh scent of flowers like time would stop just for you to be able to fully enjoy. And he, who had the rest of eternity in front of him, had long forgotten to enjoy every single day as if it was the last. Somewhere along the way the beauty of some blushing petals lost sense to him.

The god of beauty had forgotten how it felt to find such in every corner he could dare look at. But now as the only thing he saw was you it all started making sense again without the need to put much effort.

But things aren’t as beautiful and easy as they seem by your side. His friend was right and after what were the best months of the existence of the immortal being, he was forced to leave you behind. Because even when he got on his knees and begged the rest to let him live as a human and die by your side, they reassured him it wasn’t possible for him to do such a thing.

With his heart on his fist he went back to earth and walked to the place where he knew his heart belonged. Tears formed at the brim of his eyes and he wondered what was such a strange feeling robbing him of breath. The pain that took place inside his chest only grew bigger when he saw you open the door with a hopeful smile plastered on your lips.

He wanted to stay there forever and forget that he ever had a bigger responsibility than making you happy. He wished to be selfish one more time and think only about his happiness but he couldn’t just give up all that he was just like that. For you I’ll sacrifice everything that I have and am.

“If you trust me then close your eyes.” He watched as your lids covered your pupils without hesitation and he couldn't help but chuckle lightly. He sure was going to miss you.

A kiss on the forehead, that’s the last thing you felt before opening your eyes to be met with nothing but the familiarity of your front yard. You wondered what you were doing out there and why you felt a void in your chest?

Guess you’ll never know.

#stray kids #kpop #stray kids imagines #bang chan #bang chan imagines #skz imagines #skz angst #skz fluff #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction #bang chan angst #bang chan fluff #bang chan fic #bang chan fanfic #stray kids fic #skz fic

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spell-cleaver · 4 years

Text

DAY 5: WHUMPTOBER: Where Do You Think You’re Going? - Rescue @whumptober2020

DAY 9: WHUMPTOBER: For The Greater Good - “Run!”

and

DAY 10: WHUMPTOBER: They Look So Pretty When They Bleed - Trail of Blood

Spell’s October Writing Aims

Another one set in The Pirate Son AU! I’ve written this to cover three prompts, for days 5, 9 and 10, which is why it’s longer; I’ll be reblogging it on those days!

The letter was clear.

I have your comrades, Skywalker.

Come to me on the island of Bespin. For every sunrise that you do not, I will slit one of their throats. Their blood will be on your hands.

Stop running. Stand and face me. It is time to meet your destiny.

Luke knew who that note was from—if the method of delivery wasn’t clear enough. A burnt rowboat from one of the captured Rebel ships, empty of evacuees, holding only a chest with an envelope with an ultimatum.

And Luke knew he had no choice.

So here he was.

Bespin was a tiny island in waters half-frozen in winter, not too far from Hoth, where Vader and Luke had last faced each other. Luke was sure that his father—his father, he still couldn’t believe what Obi-Wan had told him, the man hunting him so ruthlessly was his father—was waiting for him eagerly, wrapped up warm against the cold, while Luke’s Rebel compatriots were left to shiver and possibly die in it.

So he came as fast as he could.

They sailed like the wind from the moment they received the message, until Bespin was a faint smudge on the horizon. The midday sun blazed down on the water and made Luke’s eyes hurt. The Imperials on the island had no doubt seen the ship by now, but it wouldn’t go any closer than that; Luke grasped Wedge’s hand, exchanged a grim look with him, then they tossed the rowboat over the side and Luke climbed down the rope ladder.

He had his sword. He had a knapsack—of rations, of supplies, even a spyglass. But nothing important, nothing they could risk falling into Vader’s hands. And he had the oars.

He rowed to the island under the cold sun, eyes almost fully closed against the glare, then he hit the sand, grimacing. He climbed out, spent a few minutes of exertion to pull the rowboat above the high tide mark—he didn’t trust that Vader would supply his friends with transport off the island, if indeed he let them go at all—then went on his merry way.

The sand ground against his feet where it slipped into his sodden boots, but he kept trudging forwards, into the woods beyond the beach. There was a faint path that he followed, towards a ramshackle building atop a hill on that island; when he climbed onto a rock, he caught a glimpse of a pale face watching him ascend from out one of the windows.

Then he reached the house, its fine gardens, and realised it was an old manor. It looked familiar, in a way he couldn’t quite place; perhaps it had been built by Alderaanian settlers, since the architecture resembled what he’d seen when he visited there.

But that wasn’t what was important.

What was important was that in the gardens stood Vader, with five people kneeling blindfolded at his feet. Wes, Hobbie, and a few others from that ship Luke hadn’t known personally.

Luke stepped forward, carefully, hand on the hilt of his sword. White-armoured troopers parted to let him through, and guard the perimeter of the garden; Luke took the chance to observe the battleground.

A large garden, paved in cracked stone slabs, arranged in rings around a central fountain, in front of which the prisoners were kneeling. The wind blew hard and the white flowers planted in every bed blew with them, littering the ground with petals like confetti at a wedding.

Or a funeral.

“Skywalker,” Vader’s voice boomed, and Luke flinched. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to face his father.

But he was here. He was here, and his friends needed him.

This was a poor rescue, but it was a rescue all the same.

He raised his voice. “I’m here, Vader!” he shouted. “Let them go!”

Except, now… He saw blood staining the cracked grey paving slabs, he saw blood splashed over the side of the fountain. He saw—

“I came before dawn,” he said. “I came within the day. And you already started killing?”

Vader said, “Darklighter made a nuisance of himself. Do not make a nuisance of yourself, or the others might share his fate.”

Luke wanted to be sick. The water in that fountain wasn’t running, and now he could see that the basin was an unsettling pink. There was a trail of blood across the stones.

He said, “These are not the terms I agreed to come on.”

“And yet you have come. That is what is important.”

Luke drew his sword.

All the troopers tensed—suddenly there were dozens of pistols trained on him, from the windows of the manor and the edges of the garden, but Vader made a lazy gesture with his hand, drawing his own massive sword in the same fluid motion. “Is this how you want this to go, Luke?” he asked.

He hated hearing his father say his name like that.

He hated the possessiveness curled around that one syllable.

“Let them go, now, and it doesn’t have to,” Luke said.

“And if I don’t, you’ll challenge me with my own blade?”

Luke’s sword—his father’s sword, that was right—trembled in his grip. “It’s just a tool,” he said. “You made it well. And it’s all I have.”

“I am willing to give you much more.”

Luke set his jaw. “I don’t want it. Let them go.”

Vader said, stepping away from the prisoners, “No.”

He arced his blade up and down so fast that Luke nearly lost his footing in the scramble to get there, the blade crashing off and away from his crewmate, who stood staring at him with wide eyes. Vader pressed against Luke’s blade for a moment and Luke held it, already tired from the walk up the hill—then Vader disengaged, and took a step back.

“Not unimpressive,” he praised. “Not—”

Luke slashed out, two steps forwards, then leapt onto the lip of the fountain so he could regain some extra height. Vader scoffed as he saw and slashed low.

Careful, careful strokes. Like a dance. Like his father wanted to see what he was made of, but didn’t want to hurt him.

His father had already hurt him.

Luke slowly crept back, watching Vader. He was tall, monstrous and masked, but he could feel his intent gaze on every twitch of Luke’s muscles, every rasp of his breath. Luke’s hand was wrapped so tightly around the grip of the sword it ached.

The wind blew again. A blizzard of petals blew with it.

Then suddenly Vader was there, slashing down out of the cloud and Luke screamed; threw himself back, shouted. The tip of Vader’s sword carved a shallow furrow from his hip to his heart, blood stinging and staining his damp shirt, spurting to splatter on the blustering petals. Another strike; Luke caught it on his blade and tried to parry but it forced him back, back—

A fist: Vader backhanded him, fiercely, and pain exploded along his face.

His foot went in the fountain and he went down.

Blood pinked the water. His nose burst red like a ripe berry, his eyes blurred and blinked; he scrambled to his feet, gasping and spitting, and flung himself out the other side, until the statue in the fountain stood between him and his father. He could hear distant laughter.

“Stop fighting, Luke,” Vader said. They both skirted the fountain, keeping it between them, Vader following in Luke’s wet, bloody footsteps. “I do not want to hurt you.”

Luke wanted to flush, wanted to scream, wanted to cry—this was not how this was meant to go. But it was going, and he needed—to—adapt—

He reached his friends, ripped off his blindfolds and slashed through their bindings. “Run,” he said. “Hobbie, Wes, run—”

They took one look at him, tried to protest, then he promised, “I’ll be right behind you.”

And they ran.

“Was that wise, Luke?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin.

He’d stopped for too long. His friends were gone—and his father was right behind him.

He pivoted on his foot, slashing blindly—and Vader was expecting it. He caught the movement with his blade and twisted, until Luke cried out and his sword clattered to the floor.

Vader bent down to pick it up. “This is my blade,” he observed bitterly. “Obi-Wan has stolen so much from me.” He turned his gaze on his son. “But you were by far the more precious thing.”

Luke was trembling. He was soaked to the bone, in pain, and cold. He was shaking so hard he thought he might fall over any moment.

At least his friends had escaped, he thought to himself. At least—at least they were running—

He heard the distant sounds of pistols.

Ten shots, perhaps, then silence.

Smoke rose over the garden.

No.

Vader sheathed his sword. “I am sorry, Luke,” he said. “I could not allow them to return with news of what occurred here.”

“What—” Luke got out. “Why are you like this?”

“I have missed you, Luke.”

Instead of replying, Luke raised a finger to his face. His lip was split. His nose wept blood. His eyes saw through a translucent scarlet haze.

“Luke?” Vader laid his hand on his cheek. “Stop fighting, my son. You must—”

Luke’s legs collapsed from under him. When he opened his eyes again, his cheek was to the dirty stone slabs and his father was kneeling before him.

“Luke, it will be alright. This is not the fate you think it is. You need resist it no longer.” Words washed over him and he thought he heard the seagulls of his hometown caw. “Rest, now. You will know to join me when you wake.”

A black-gloved hand went over his eyes and Luke knew no more.

#whumptober2020 #whumptober #luke skywalker #darth vader #for darkness shows the stars #the pirate son #thepirateson #my writing #random words on a page #flash fiction #flash fiction: star wars

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detective-with-one-arm · 3 years

Text

Alien Verse Headcanons

Rachel

Her planet is very far from the Milky Way Galaxy. The planet Essek.

Her name is pretty much completely unpronounceable to the human tongue as is her language, but she can very easily and very quickly learn languages.

In appearance, she’s very tall. At least ten feet from the pads of her feet to the top of her head. However, compared to other members of her species, she’s actually a runt.

She’s very fascinating in appearance, having skin, scales, and carapace in various places.

Her head is very snakelike, with expressive fans on either side of her face that act as radio dishes to channel sound to her ear holes that give her an incredible sense of hearing.

From the crown of her head grows a large protective crest that cranes off the back of her head made of a carapace that shields the waterfall of sensitive thick tentacles that drape down her long and graceful neck. These tentacles detect various subtle changes in the atmosphere, such as temperature, pressure, toxicity, and various other subtle elements.

Her mouth splits open into a set of three jaws, each with a row of teeth that can be dislocated and each with a long forked tongue and Jacobson’s Organ that gives her a very keen sense of smell.

On each side of her head is a set of three eyes that each move independently, giving her an extremely wide range of view and the ability to focus on multiple targets at once.

From her chest down is mostly made of carapace, acting as thick armour to protect her soft insides. Her limbs as well are also insectlike, having armourlike segments to protect her flesh beneath.

Her hands and feet are zygodactyl, two digits in front and two digits in back, with sharp retractable talons.

Her back has two protective shells that can be dislodged to reveal two large leathery wings nearly twice her size that allow her to fly.

From her back are two long tails that taper to stingers at the end, each equipped with paralyzing venom that can last for up to six hours.

She is also capable of breathing vapour that can do various things depending on the intent, her mouth equipped with various glands that can change the potency and effect of it. This can range from poisonous gases, to anesthesia, to sleep smoke, to a sweet perfume that lures targets towards it. There are numerous purposes to it.

Her race are all actually the exact same sex. There is no physical distinctions among sexes or genders and gender is entirely up to the individuals to discern and aren’t even always static.

Howard

The Khakhalls’ planet was destroyed. He was the only surviving member. It was an unknown planet from very far on the edges of the universe.

His only vestige is his giant ship. He had it built in case anything happened to his people that was an extinction level event. As such, his ship is meant to act as its own sort of homeworld, complete with a deck specifically for holding and raising offspring.

Which leads to how he interacts with other species of other planets.

Because his planet was destroyed, he’s solely responsible for repopulating his species. That means finding other creatures to do that with.

One would describe him as a giant golden arthropod, made of carapace and with multiple arms and legs, multiple pairs of eyes, and mandibles.

His shell is a reflective gold colour, his skin being a black inky colour between his segments. His claws and teeth are also black.

He’s vaguely humanoid from the waist up, but beyond that is his insect-like body, long and perfect for skittering and scuttling about.

The underside of his belly is completely transparent, meaning that if you were beneath him, you would see the countless eggs he carries inside of him.

His eyes are a beady black colour, but they glow a piercing green that hypnotizes and freezes his prey.

His mandibles fold over his large fangs and from between his fangs are his long tentaclelike tongues, of which there are many and they are very long.

There are two places where tendrils grow out of him, his head, simulating long hair or something like dreadlocks, and the back of his abdomen. The ones at the back of his abdomen are prehensile and act as such, designed to grab onto and hold onto things.

His mandibles are capable of injecting venom that paralyzes or renders his victims unconscious. Depending on the potency and how much he injects, this can range from sluggishness and drowsiness to complete immobility and loss of consciousness. This also affects the time it takes for the venom to wear off.

Despite his planet being destroyed, there was a hierarchy. The planet was ruled by the queen who is responsible for breeding and controlling the worker drones. All of their eggs come out as worker drones and their responsibility is to bring food and mates to the queen.

However, if the queen dies, the worker drone who happens to be closest to the queen when they die will become the new queen and begin growing larger and will start producing eggs.

If the entire species dies, if there is a survivor, they become the new queen.

NSFW

Rachel

Since there are no physical distinctions between sexes among this race of aliens, all members are equipped with the exact same reproductive functions.

They all have a cloaca which houses both an ovipositor and a receptor.

All members are capable of producing and accepting fertilized eggs. Whichever member decides to carry the eggs is entirely up to personal preference. It is not even dependent on the gender of the individual. It is simply up to personal preference.

Because of the physical nature of their reproductive systems, mating is not restricted to members of their own species and they can mate just as successfully with other sapient and intelligent species.

Howard

Queens have specifically one purpose. To breed and create more drones to build their nest and expand their empire.

Queenhood is not restricted to gender. It is purely a hierarchical role and their physical differences from the drones reflects their purpose in society.

Drones do not mate with their queen. They capture other species for the queen to impregnate with their brood.

Queens are much much larger than the drones.

While drones do not mate with their queen, they are capable of mating with the breeders they bring back for their queen, though this does not result in impregnation. Some drones will do this simply for their own pleasure and to make them more compliant and willing to be bred by their queen.

Queens have a large ovipositor concealed in their abdomen within the ‘flower’ that is the series of tendrils that protrude from their backside. It is where a queen will deposit their brood inside their mate.

Once a queen has deposited their eggs inside their brood, the queen will then pass off their brood to the drones for them to properly inseminate the eggs. The queen can do this herself, but it’s more efficient for breeding multiple broods in rapid succession.

The tentacles inside a queen’s mouth deposit sperm.

This species’ sperm and saliva acts as an aphrodisiac, ensuring that their victims remain compliant throughout the breeding process.

Aside from size, there are other differences between queens and drones.

Drones do not have as large of abdomens as the queens do and their undersides are the same colour as the rest of their bodies.

However, once a drone begins to physically change into a queen, they will start growing and shedding their carapace and their abdomen will swell in size as well their undersize carapace will begin to become transparent as the eggs begin to be produced.

The actual birthing process is quite painless. These species keep their mates in pods until it’s time to breed them or it’s time for the eggs to hatch. These pods keep them nourished so that they never starve or go thirsty.

They never insert more eggs than a body can physically handle and they can sense when the limit has been reached before stopping. Because of how many eggs a queen can produce at a time, it’s rare for them to completely empty during a single season.

#dbh ocs #oc headcanons #alien verse #alien verse headcanons #tw oviposition #{Rachel}#{Howard}

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96thdayofrage · 3 years

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BEYOND THE MONUMENTS: RACE AND AMERICAN DEMOCRACY IN THE NATION'S CAPITAL

From schoolchildren to historians, visitors to Washington, DC, are drawn to the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, and other marble monuments to American freedom. These shining symbols of our democracy reflect our nation as we aspire for it to be. But they tell us little about who we are, to say nothing of the city in which they are located. Venturing beyond Washington’s monumental core to explore DC and its neighborhoods, you’ll see that no city better captures the ongoing tensions between America’s expansive democratic hopes and its enduring racial realities. We’ve arranged four “stops” in an imagined itinerary to tell the city’s story through space and time. This is not a walking tour as such, but a visit to any of these areas will help you understand the city and its struggles for racial justice and democracy.

Stop 1: Old Town Alexandria (c. 1800–62)

Today, Alexandria is in Virginia, but in 1800 it was part of the original 10-mile square that became the seat of the federal government. In the 1820s and 30s, Alexandria was home to several slave-trading firms, including Franklin & Armfield, the nation’s largest and most profitable. Its three-story office stood at 1315 Duke Street and served as the nerve center of a massive operation that sold more than 1,000 enslaved people annually.

Early Washington benefited immensely from slavery and the slave trade. Enslaved people worked on every major public construction project, they waited on the men who ran the nation, and they were bought and sold within sight of the Capitol. Even as slavery itself waned in Washington—by 1830 free black people were a majority of the city’s black population—the nation’s capital became America’s largest slave-trading city.

Abolitionists made Washington their top priority. The nation’s capital, they argued, should not be tainted by the sin of slavery, and they deluged congressional mailrooms with thousands of petitions calling for an end to the slave trade in DC—Congress, not the local government, retained ultimate control over the city. As abolitionists gained strength, white Alexandrians engineered an 1846 vote for retrocession, whereby the area west of the Potomac was ceded back to Virginia, taking nearly a third of the District’s land mass. When abolitionists won a ban on the slave trade in DC as part of the Compromise of 1850, the city’s slave dealers simply crossed the Potomac and continued their business in Alexandria. Slavery itself remained alive in the truncated District until April 16, 1862, when Washington’s enslaved people became the first in the nation to be legally emancipated.

Stop 2: LeDroit Park (c. 1865–1941)

Across the Potomac, north from downtown Washington, and across Florida Avenue (formerly Boundary Street) is the neighborhood of LeDroit Park, with Gothic-inspired cottages and elegant Italianate villas sitting back from narrow roads.

Now enveloped by the city, LeDroit Park was Washington’s first post–Civil War residential suburb. The segregated enclave was at the forefront of massive demographic and spatial changes that reordered DC’s racial geography in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Because all city residents, black and white, had been disenfranchised in 1874, following a brief flowering of interracial democracy during Reconstruction, real estate developers, urban planners, and congressional leaders could act without local democratic accountability. The city became a “national show town” featuring a monumental core of federal buildings surrounded by neighborhoods increasingly segregated by race and class.

When abolitionists won a ban on the slave trade in DC as part of the Compromise of 1850, the city’s slave dealers simply crossed the Potomac to Alexandria.

But the imposition of a new segregated order was never static or uncontested. By the mid-1890s, black residents began to trickle into LeDroit Park and white owners began to trickle out; by World War I, the neighborhood was almost exclusively black. LeDroit Park became home to the city’s best-known black leaders, including educator Anna Julia Cooper, poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, and activist Mary Church Terrell, whose crumbling home at 326 T Street NW is a National Historic Landmark but cries out for restoration.

Washington at the turn of the 20th century remained a magnet for black migration from the rural South. The city boasted the nation’s largest black community (nearly 87,000 people, almost a third of the city’s population) and offered relatively more opportunities for education and economic advancement than the rest of the South. Home to a small but influential black elite, a thriving black middle class, and strong black public schools, DC embodied the hopes of black America. Local NAACP leader Neval Thomas wrote, “The white man keeps the full weight of his superior numbers, oppressive spirit, and unjust monopoly of political power, hard pressed against this suffering, yet beautiful little world of striving, but we grow to fuller stature in spite of it all.”

Stop 3: Southwest (c. 1874–1960)

Successful strivers have commanded historians’ attention, but three-quarters of black Washingtonians were working people: domestics and hod carriers, janitors and nannies. Many lived in Southwest Washington. Dubbed “The Island” in the mid-19th century, Southwest historically has been isolated physically and culturally from the rest of the city, separated first by the infamous City Canal, then by a set of unsightly railroad tracks, and today by a confusing network of highways and exit ramps.

Southwest was the home of Perry Carson, a hulking former saloon keeper whose black working-class coalition dominated local Republican patronage politics and infuriated DC elites, black and white, in the decades after disenfranchisement.

Home to 23,000 residents, Southwest remained a vibrant working-class community into the mid-20th century. Urban planners and city boosters, however, saw only “blight.” Working directly with unelected city commissioners and local business leaders, they made Southwest ground zero in a national movement for “urban renewal.”

Beginning in 1954, federal officials bulldozed all of Southwest between Interstate 395 and the waterfront, displacing essentially all the previous residents. Award-winning apartment complexes, such as Charles Goodman’s futuristic River Park development along 4th between N and O Streets, rose atop the rubble of working-class row houses. The area’s demographics flipped. In 1950, Southwest had been 70 percent black and predominantly poor; by 1970 it was nearly 70 percent white and mostly middle-class. Ezekiah Cunningham, the 84-year-old owner of a small grocery store in Southwest since 1907, summed up urban renewal’s effects: “Well, it seems like they’re handin’ out a passel o’ joy and a passel o’ sorrow.”

Stop 4: 14th and U Streets NW (c. 1960–present)

Urban renewal helped catalyze an era of grassroots activism in the 1960s and 1970s. Much of this activism percolated around the intersection of 14th and U Streets NW, the bustling transit hub of a black commercial district that offered blocks of restaurants, theaters, and clubs that catered to black customers. In the 1960s, the area was home to organizations such as the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), and Pride, Inc.

Increasingly impatient with the slow pace of liberal reform, many black DC residents raged against local authorities and the segregationists who oversaw the city in Congress. Washington Post reporter Ben Gilbert recalled that in 1967, “street disorders requiring police action became regular, almost weekly, occurrences.” The most destructive of these conflicts erupted in April 1968, after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. The riot, which began at this intersection, claimed 12 lives, reduced the city’s black commercial districts to rubble, and required more than 13,000 federal troops to restore order.

White business owners and some middle-class African Americans fled, but a rich assortment of civil rights and Black Power organizations remained, joined by predominantly white New Left activists. They waged pitched battles against exploitative landlords, brutal cops, freeways, rats, and racism. And in 1973, they helped secure for the city the local self-government it had lacked since the end of Reconstruction.

Today the corner of 14th and U Streets is nearly unrecognizable to those who knew it during the heady, hopeful days of a generation earlier, when funk impresario George Clinton dubbed Washington the country’s preeminent “Chocolate City.” After two decades of gentrification, the area boasts high-end condos, upscale businesses, and a robust “foodie” scene. The old SCLC office on the northeast corner of the popular intersection is now occupied by a “boutique steakhouse” offering a $52 rib eye and $13 signature cocktails.

Like the rest of DC, the neighborhood is becoming younger, whiter, and wealthier. More than 70 percent black in the 1970s, Washington no longer has a black majority, and it faces gargantuan and growing racial disparities in wealth and employment—an Urban Institute study found that in 2014 white wealth in DC was 81 times greater than black wealth. Astronomical real estate values make it increasingly difficult for low-income residents to remain in the city.

These changes have rekindled questions of race, power, and accountability that have marked Washington since its inception. As you make your plans for January, we hope you will find time to visit the city beyond the monuments to explore how Washingtonians have grappled with the dilemma that is American democracy.

Chris Myers Asch and George Derek Musgrove are the authors of Chocolate City: A History of Race and Democracy in the Nation’s Capital, due out from the University of North Carolina Press on November 6.

Editor’s note: The 132nd Annual Meeting of the AHA will take place in Washington, DC, on January 4–7, 2018. In the run-up months to every meeting, Perspectives highlights aspects of local history and points of interest in our host city. Because we will convene in our hometown this year, we’re delighted to be able to present deeper takes on the Capital City’s history and culture. Welcome to DC (as locals call it)!

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searchingwardrobes · 3 years

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Fic Year in Review

Thank you for the tag, @optomisticgirl !

Total number of completed stories: Ten! Which really shocked me, to be honest. I didn’t realize that some fics I started in 2019 - This Girl Ain’t Going Anywhere, Priceless, and Start of Time - weren’t completed until 2020.

Total word count: Almost 315,000! And that doesn’t count the original novel I just published!

Looking back, did you write more, less, or about what you expected this year? Way more! I knew I was finishing and publishing my second book this year, so I thought I would write way less fanfic than the above. Plus, I wasn’t doing my Fandom Birthday Playlist project. My plan going into 2020 was to focus on my book and pull back from fandom. I guess the lockdown changed things!

What’s your own favorite story of the year? Well, obviously my book, the One Who Sees Me. In fanfic, however, it would be The Early Leaf’s a Flower, my Captain Swan Re Write a Thon fic.

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the next year? I honestly don’t know at this point. Getting The One Who Sees Me out was a huge drain on me creatively, so I really need to sit down and figure out where to go from here. I have a third book planned for The Front Row Series, and I still have two WIPs in the fandom, so I definitely have plans to finish those, but beyond that? How do I continue to write without exhausting myself? That’s what I’m wrestling with. I also have plans to promote The One Who Sees Me a bit more.

Most popular story of the year: According to Ao3, by both hits and kudos, it’s The Convenient Groom.

Story of mine most underrated by the universe, in my opinion? Definitely The Early Leaf’s a Flower. I am so stinkin proud of how hard I worked on that rewrite. I captured the mood that I was aiming for and had lost in the original (Someone to Watch Over Me). Playing with the Neverland mythology was also fun.

Most fun story to write: Just as He Always Has. It was so different, yet at the same time it just flowed out of me. The muse was just ON, and you can’t plan that, you know? Plus, it just ended up being a sweet story despite the subject matter.

Biggest surprise? Just that I wrote so much!

Tagging: @snowbellewells @xhookswenchx @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @hookedonapirate

#fic review #fic year in review

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ursus-mari · 4 years

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@turtlegirl521 i don’t know if that tag worked? anyway, thank you so much for sending me she by dodie! the song is so morgwen it hurts. as does the pining they will be doing shortly. i hope to have sufficiently captured the spirit of the song in this

you can also find this on Ao3

Gwen falls in love gradually, stupidly, over a period of years.

Morgana is brash and kind and sharp and heartbreakingly brave and Gwen wants to gather her into her arms and never let go.

It starts with glances that linger a bit too long, admiring Morgana in her silks and fancy dresses but also in the trousers she wears to do things Uther disapproves of and when she’s covered in dirt from her latest act of rebellion. Morgana has this smile, a smirk but not really, when she’s pleased and she seems to glow. And sometimes she gives Gwen these looks, soft and adoring like Gwen’s something precious rather than her servant, and Gwen aches.

Gwen can’t stop staring for the life of her, and she knows there’s something wrong, lines of propriety and class blurred and crossed, but she can’t remember what it is when Morgana looks like that. Who wouldn’t stare?

Morgana herself doesn’t help, treating Gwen as an equal rather than her handmaid, and it is so, so hard to remember her place when Morgana gives her conspiratory looks or confides in her or asks about her father, and how could she possibly deal with that?

But for all their breaking of the unspoken (and spoken) rules around the relationship between a noble and a servant, Gwen knows how she feels is a step too far. So she tucks her feelings away, burning hot in her chest, and makes her peace with having as much as she does.

Gwen takes care of Morgana as best she can, stays to wake her from her nightmares and brings her flowers and helps her sneak out of the castle when she’s had an explosive row with Uther. She helps her take off that cold, cutting armor she wears and then helps her put it back on when the time comes.

It’s enough, she thinks, as she watches Morgana from her quiet, unobtrusive place as a servant and tries her best to believe it. Morgana is so far beyond her reach, is the thing. Gwen helps Morgana put herself back together when she falls but then she’s right back at it with her sights set on the sky. Gwen feels insignificant in the face of that, invisible.

Still, still, it’s worth it, every second. Burning from the inside out is so worth it for every time Morgana gifts Gwen with one of those rare genuine, blinding smiles.

…

Morgana is in love. Deeply, truly, irrevocably.

It starts with a girl, a girl who knows how to disappear but should never have to, because she is lovely. Gwen is kind and careful and wise, when Morgana can get her to share what goes on in her head.

Gwen brings her flowers after bad nights and holds her as she wakes up screaming and puts her back together when she shatters with steady, careful hands.

Morgana wants to take care of her, but she can’t quite figure out how to. Morgana wants to know Gwen as well and intimately as Gwen knows her and soothe her fears and give her what she needs without her ever having to ask. She wants so, so much, wants so much it hurts.

Gwen doesn’t allow that, though. She answers Morgana’s questions with short, cursory answers and an absent smile, never revealing what hurts or bothers her so Morgana can banish it far, far away. She deflects any of Morgana’s attempts to do things for her, kindly, always kind, but firmly as well.

There’s a mistake people often make when they look at Gwen: they think her soft and miss the steel she hides at her core. If Morgana wears armor of cutting words and scorn and defiance to cover the softness underneath, Gwen masks her strength with the appearance of a shy, soft, kind servant. And like Morgana, she is the thing she wears on the outside, but she is more as well.

Morgana wants to know that core. She sees flashes, glimpses, and she’s grateful for that, but she wishes Gwen would stop being so proper and composed and let Morgana in. Morgana wants to know all that the strength and the pain that must have caused it and she wants to let Gwen know that while she loves her for her strength, she can let those guards down sometimes too. It’s a gift Gwen gave to Morgana, but Morgana doesn’t know how to give it to her in turn, especially when Gwen doesn’t seem to want it.

And Gwen doesn’t want it, is the crux of the matter. So Morgana lets it lie as best she can. She treasures what Gwen gives her and is so deeply grateful for what Gwen does for her and she will take what she can get.

Morgana has Gwen with her, in all her softness and her strength, and that is more than enough.

Morgana is deeply, truly, irrevocably in love with a girl lovely both inside and out, and it destroys her just as much as it builds her back up.

#bbc merlin #morgwen #morgwen playlist #mine #mari writes stuff #you cheer me up #it does occur to me that this has slight merthur parallels yes

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altumvidetur · 4 years

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Haikyuu!! Fic Recs (MatsuHana)

Fic Recs Masterpost

So, I was thinking about the coronavirus pandemic and what I could do to help people out. I’m isolated because I’m at higher risk, so I can’t really offer to go out for my elderly neighbors or my family… but I thought I could try to help keep people entertained.

Because I don’t have an AO3 account right now, I’ve been compiling fic recs for my own amusement for a year or so. And I thought – maybe that’s the time to share these with everyone? So everyone will have plenty of things to read while they have to stay at home, or even to escape anxiety a little bit if you’re forced to go out.

Of course, these cater to my own tastes, so you may find stuff you don’t like around here. I never include works in progress. The Mature and Explicit works will be in italic. I ask you to READ THE WORK’S TAGS before continuing, so you won’t find anything that makes you uncomfortable.

I’ve decided to split it in a series of posts, starting with my OTPs. So here we go with some MatsuHana!

rated m for, by orphan_account

He should have known that there was a Specific Reason™ why it was so absolutely vital that he and Matsukawa specifically meet for a reading of the script. He should have known that there had to be some evil catch beyond sitting in a tiny, cramped studio with his newly sworn enemy.

Hanamaki stares at the title of the script he’d so gracefully neglected the night before.

FORBIDDEN PARADISE

“Excuse me,” Hanamaki starts, raising a pen in the air while staring blankly at the packet in his free hand. “Just to clarify, you want me to record a boy's love CD with Matsukawa?”

of weather, of leisurely tensions, by b_minor

Two boys share an umbrella.

Don’t Lie, Bright Eyes, by tookumade

“Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

It’s nearly one in the morning and Matsukawa, tucked up comfortably in bed next to Hanamaki, is on the verge of drifting off into blissful sleep when the question stirs him.

“Why are you trying to give me a late-night existential crisis?” he mumbles.

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 4 - leaving home)

Roses, by h_lovely

(Summary by me: slow burn, friends to lovers, things are kinky, I’m pretty sure this is the best MatsuHana I’ve ever read.)

You’re in Pink (and I’m in blue), by Hyeyu

Takahiro held his gaze a few seconds in silence before he sighed. "...It's only been a week, okay? S'not serious yet."

“Not serious yet?” Something jumped in Matsukawa’s jaw and he abruptly released Takahiro’s hand, sending the petals cascading to the ground. Takahiro was going to have to clean them up before the others started streaming into the clubroom, and wouldn’t that be fun. “You’re coughing up fucking flowers, Hanamaki.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

Hanamaki Takahiro has 99 problems and Hanahaki flowers make up 98 of them.

Good Bad Ideas, by tookumade

When Oikawa asks his friends to help out at his nephew’s birthday party, they get a little more than they bargained for.

(written for Haikyuu!! Rarepair Week - Day 1 - beginnings, celebration)

texting (with a capital S), by parenthetic

Hanamaki breaks his No Texting In Class rule, and it's all downhill from there.

Wet Your Whistle, by darkmagicalgirl

Hanamaki gets a job as a bartender. Matsukawa likes his uniform. (Alternatively: Matsukawa tries to ignore his huge crush on his friend-with-benefits. He fails.)

[obnoxious clucking noises], by parenthetic

On the last night of their last training camp together, Oikawa has a bad idea, Hanamaki goes along with it, Iwaizumi sort of wishes he had better friends, and Matsukawa proves himself to be particularly adept at intimidation tactics.

Love Doesn’t Come with an Instruction Manual, by plumtrees

Seijou 3rd years (now college freshmen) go to ToyCon. Oikawa has a spaz attack over Star Wars, Iwaizumi is his designated babysitter, Hanamaki is adorable, and Matsukawa doesn't know how to deal.

Here Today And There Tomorrow, by tookumade

A first meeting on opposite sides of the volleyball net, and chance meetings afterwards without it.

A Ring of Cream, by plumtrees

Hanamaki has never been one for grand romantic gestures, has never been one for romantic gestures at all, but Matsukawa's a stubborn guy.

Who can't bake for shit.

Iwaizumi and Oikawa (mostly Iwaizumi, really) to the rescue.

Morning Glory, by darkmagicalgirl

On their days off, Hanamaki and Matsukawa's mornings follow a sort of routine.

Even Though It All Went Wrong, by plumtrees

It hadn’t always been so cold. Matsukawa remembers a time where the sun shone high, its rays bright and its heat pleasant like a blanket against his skin. He remembers Hanamaki holding his hand, remembers his cheeks hurting because he’d been grinning so much. Hanamaki had opened his arms wide, and Matsukawa ran straight for them, like he’d been magnetized. He picked up Hanamaki easily and twirled them around, danced with him until they both tumbled along the grass, laughing like idiots.

He remembers because it’s all he can do now.

Crescendo, by plumtrees

Day 1 for MatsuHana Week: Online

The voice continues to feed him instructions, the deep rumbling purrs reverberating across his body, each hiss and click of a consonant like a sharp bite, each roll of his tongue a slide of silk against his overheating skin.

Fuck, he loves it.

Somewhat Well-Kept Secrets, by tookumade

“Why don’t they just… date already?” said Iwaizumi.

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 2 - cream puffs, in the background)

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, by plumtrees

Day 3 of MatsuHana Week: Tattoos and Flower Shops

Hanamaki, cheeks as pink as his hair, says, "I was drunk."

"Okay?" Matsukawa prompts.

"And it's way too expensive to laser something this big."

Holy shit. "Okay?"

"Look, can't we just go with 'I made horrible life decisions in college that are now coming back to haunt me' and move on?"

morning, noon, night, by b_minor

A day in the life of two losers in love.

on the anatomy of crushes, by carafin

A part-by-part dissection of their relationship. Medical school AU.

‘See you tomorrow?’ Hanamaki asks. He’s still smiling faintly, still carrying about his usual air of quiet self-assurance, but there’s no mistaking the hopefulness in his voice. ‘On the bus, I mean.’

‘Yeah,’ Matsukawa says, and tries not to make it sound too much like a promise. ‘See you tomorrow.’

(Falling in love is really, ridiculously easy.)

Dating Is Not A Nine-To-Five, by tookumade

“What if,” said Hanamaki in a whisper, “we walk in and there’s a yakuza member getting his tattoos done, and he tries to kill us because we saw his face?”

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 3 - tattoos and flower shops, coffee shop)

To Fit Myself In The Spaces Between, by tookumade

It's late, a boring movie is on TV, and the remote control is nowhere in sight—and that suited them just fine.

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 4 - midnight, no control)

It’s not even close to your birthday, by squidmemesinc

The shoes look like they could be some kind of gothic lolita item, with thick, tall heels and Mary Jane straps that have little silver hearts on them. The socks are simple except that they run all the way up to his mid-thigh; the crisp white makes enough of a contrast with his skin that the colors flatter each other, rather than subdue them. Then there's the dress. It's just plain black, short and slim, though the skirt flares out at the waist. Takahiro's eyes run up it, stalling where it cuts off around the shoulders and has a wide boat neck trim with a thick ivory collar. The final piece is a simple pink ribbon—not even a necklace, just a ribbon—tied around his neck with the bow in the back.

Where Was I, When The Rockets Came To Life, by tookumade

In a city like this, there wasn’t much of a chance that they would meet again, and given Hanamaki’s current career of choice, if they did, then it was more than likely to be because of a cruel joke set up by fate. He was not about to let his heart be broken now. He had more important things to think about…

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 5 - glasses, piercing)

not like the movies, by bravely

“Here,” he says, offering the thumb back to Hanamaki. Absentmindedly, Hanamaki licks it back off. “Thanks.”

Then he blinks.

“Wait,” he says. “Shit, wait. Was that supposed to be romantic just then?”

“ — Well.” Matsukawa clears his throat. “You tell me, I guess?”

No One Else Like You, by auber_jean

"It’s not at all liberating to finally have it said out loud, because it makes it all that more real, and Matsukawa was doing really well pretending that he wasn’t in love with his best friend."

With the turn of graduation, Matsukawa finds himself choosing between a future that he has planned or something more.

live it up, drink it in, by puny

Hanamaki's not a detective, just a wing spiker with a hangover, but he's gonna figure out who gave him all these hickeys if it damn well kills him.

Begin, by Karasuno Volleygays

It's the last day of their high school years and the first day of the rest of their lives. As they spend the night under a blanket of stars, they can't help but wonder where will they go from here?

Playing Doubles, by squidmemesinc

“We always said we were going to fuck at every possible time of day,” Takahiro says, rolling his hips gently over Issei’s.

“I do remember saying that once. Do you have the calendar on hand?”

Captured Light, by plumtrees

“The smile you’re wearing in this photo,” Hanamaki continued, just a little bit sad, “you haven’t smiled like that in a long time.”

Matsukawa looked at the photo again. It was awkward; it always was, seeing himself through Hanamaki’s lens. He’d never really focused on himself whenever he looked at the photos Hanamaki took of him, but now his eyes actively trailed over his face, the crinkle of his eyes, the twinkle in them from the light reflecting off of his cellphone, the smile wide enough to show an entire row of teeth.

He tried to emulate the expression, only to realize how foreign it felt on his face.

A love story like most love stories, stuck between busy days and too little time spent together.

Matsukawa learns to take it easy, and Hanamaki is his teacher.

Marks, by Andramion

The room is quiet when Issei gathers the pillows under his arms and lies down. He presses his nose into his shoulder, closes his eyes and focusses on the barely-there touch of fingertips to his skin.

Hanamaki always does this, every single time.

Sure, by kiyala

Beginning university brings a lot of changes with it. As Iwaizumi and Oikawa deal with going to different universities, Hanamaki thinks about his own relationship with Matsukawa.

nebulas, by tothemoon

“You'll have to let me think about it,” Hanamaki says to him while they're looking at soup stocks in the supermarket one evening, because he knows being with someone is not as simple as he'd like it to be.

(At this, Matsukawa does not fret. He goes for the snack aisle, instead.)

Settled, by kiyala

Hanamaki and Matsukawa go for a walk in their hometown in the middle of the night, and reflect on the things that have changed since high school.

Staking a Claim, by iwaizumemes

"Do you think they can tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That we've fucked in all their bedrooms."

something of a disaster, by latenights

“This is the part where you make a wish and blow.”

“Now, let’s not get too hasty—“

“I meant the candles you bastard.”

that’s you get (for waking up in vegas), by skittidyne

“There was an Elvis?” Hajime asks.

“He was the officiator. It’s the cliché, right?”

“…Officiator of what?” Tooru asks with a look down at Takahiro’s hand.

“You can borrow my phone to pull pictures from for our wedding album.” Issei reaches over and grasps the hand with the ring on it. Everyone is staring at their clasped hands like a three-headed lobster just crawled onto the table. “You were both the best men and I was very, deeply touched by how affected you both were at the ceremony,” he says in a perfect deadpan.

(( or: iwaizumi does not want to be the responsible one, and thus they suffer the consequences, or, perhaps, 'suffer' is a bit too strong of a word ))

Wilds, by AngryKitten

Makki waded back to him, two handfuls of stones dripping lake-water. He was grinning, like he always did, like their lives were one great joke that Matsukawa only occasionally understood. Hanamaki tipped his hand, and the rocks tumbled out into the bottom of their canoe.

“For later,” Hanamaki said.

Parting Words, by kiyala

Matsukawa confesses his feelings for Hanamaki at graduation, knowing that they're unrequited. Hanamaki's not so sure about that.

we could be the greatest team, by anyadisee

Oikawa mock-gasps. “Makki! You should know that I was genuinely planning on talking about strategy! I just thought it would be polite to wait for Iwa-chan and Mattsun to get back. But since you brought the topic up”—Hanamaki opens his mouth to protest, but is ignored—“have I told you how amazing Iwa-chan is? Like, he’s just the best boyfriend ever.”

“Wow, I never would’ve guessed what with, you know, how much you’ve been talking about it,” Hanamaki deadpans.

Oikawa waves a hand airily. “Don’t be jealous that my boyfriend is so sweet and romantic.”

Now it’s Hanamaki’s turn to raise eyebrows. “Excuse me, but did you just indirectly drag Issei?"

[in which hanamaki and oikawa get competitive, matsukawa and iwaizumi are good boyfriends, and the rest of seijoh somehow get involved.]

chocolate, by tellalie

“We have to do something,” Mattsun says.

Tides That Bind, by rubyfiamma

Matsuhana Fluff via prompt #19. Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were.

Room to Talk, by holdontoyourhulahoops

In which one snarky comment from Yahaba makes Hanamaki realize he's been a dirty hypocrite all this time.

The Best/Worst Places to Cry in the City, by AngryKitten

“Okay this is going to sound weird, and I get it if you want to say no, but I know a good place to cry and it’s only like a block from here. If you need to, um, let that out or something.”

Matsukawa gets hit on while crying in public and it might be the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Or it might be the best.

plus one, by orphan_account

"Did you know we're dating?"

"What? Says who?"

"Says everyone apparently."

"Oh," Hanamaki frowns for a few seconds before shrugging and turning his attention back to the chocolate fountain. "Nice."

Making Sense, by kiyala

Sharing an apartment does very little to help Hanamaki deal with his feelings for Matsukawa. Perhaps that's not such a bad thing.

and indeed there will be time, by plumtrees

Between volleyball and the looming end of their high school years, Hanamaki thinks he’s already dealing with more than enough, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, no one else gets the memo.

Alternatively: “I am not in love with my best friend!” says Hanamaki Takahiro. Nobody buys his bullshit.

snakes, meth labs and something like love, by orphan_account

"Did you know snakes can give birth to between ten and 150 babies at any one time?"

Matsukawa tenses. "And how many have you, um— How many have you found?"

"Four," Hanamaki sighs, voice shaking slightly with what sounds like pure, unadulterated defeat. "So far."

Flamingo, by JanaRumpandRCJawnn

Summary by me: series with Trans!Makki, dealing with transphobia, and a nice lovely characterization of Ushijima.

it’s cold out there, by bishounen_curious

Seijoh's parties are always a mess, but this one takes the cake.

he’s a looker but i really think it’s guts that matter most, by respectableflourish

His fellow first year loves volleyball, has a chill factor verging on glacial, partakes in the type of verbal repartee Takahiro has only ever dreamt of finding in another person, and just so happens to exhibit an eyebrow and eyeliner game that is on another fucking level.

my heart beats for contract law, by orphan_account

"You had an emotional breakdown in a McDonalds drive-through."

"Mmm."

"And proposed to me."

"Shhh."

"In a McDonalds drive-through, Hiro."

Takahiro huffs out a nervous laugh, keeping his eyes closed. "You love it," he repeats, nuzzling closer.

services i can provide, by commovente

“So, what’s this?” Matsukawa asks. “An apology?”

Hanamaki drawls the words out, but he’s rambling. “I mean, I was actually going for a bribe, but. You know what, Mattsun? I’m nothing if not adaptable, so. Yes. Consider this an apology.”

it’s easy being with you, sacred simplicity, by earlgrey_milktea

a conversation at half past three.

poolside, by tothemoon

At eighteen, it'd been a matter of wading.

At twenty-five, Hanamaki tries not to fall in headfirst.

need a little sweetness in my life, by orphan_account

The smell of freshly baked bread, watching his cakes rise, listening to customers endlessly praise his desserts? All that is great but, Matsukawa thinks as he shuffles closer to the counter to greet him, the best thing about his job is the man standing in front of him.

And he doesn’t even know his name.

Lemonade, by carriecmoney

“Seriously, after Oikawa’s Oikawaness, Iwaizumi with the shoulders and the intensity and the caring about people shit and you with…” Takahiro gestures at Matsukawa’s everything. “That. What am I?”

Sing For Me, by rideahorse

The first time he hears Matsukawa singing, it’s in the shower, post-practice, when Matsukawa is likely positive no one’s around to hear it. Takahiro doesn’t even know what to think at first; Matsukawa sings just as he talks, voice a low timbre, barely changing pitch as it navigates through some melody that is so familiar yet unreachable in Takahiro’s mind. It’s English, too, so Takahiro wouldn’t understand it anyways, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that the locker room suddenly feels ten times hotter and Takahiro feels like he might melt into a puddle of very gay and very confused sludge.

Realisations, by kiyala

In which Hanamaki realises that Matsukawa is a werewolf, and has a few other realisations while he's at it.

Magical Mishaps and How to Deal, by plumtrees

Hanamaki Takahiro loved Matsukawa Issei. Sometimes. Mostly. When he wasn’t being bull-headed or overly-difficult. Which wasn’t a lot of the time now that Hanamaki thought about it. Shit. But he digressed.

Demon-mating was a for life kind of deal. Certainly not a decision one could make out of the blue, without years of prior thought and much meditation. The day he asked for his mother’s blessing, the day he planned to ask Matsukawa to be his mate, she had told him If you’re sure you’ll be happy with him, then all I hope for is that he says yes and by some miracle he did and here they are now and Hanamaki could say with all the certainty in the world that he loved Matsukawa Issei with all his heart and soul(s).

But some days…dear gods, some days…some days he just made it really, really difficult.

Or: Matsukawa accidentally turns Kindaichi and Kunimi into babies and guess who has to help him clean up his fucking mess.

Pink and Yellow, by hotcocoa

Hanamaki is beautiful, Matsukawa is supportive, and both of them are the luckiest boyfriends in the world.

hang out fall in love, by carafin

In which Hanamaki's humble medical practice is threatened by an intractable asshole a witch doctor who's just moved into the shop down the street. Medical/Witchcraft AU.

As far as Hanamaki’s concerned, and as far as bad life decisions go, setting up your witch clinic right next to an actual, proper, medical clinic is practically akin to setting up an all-you-can-eat buffet right next to a gym. Or a sex toy shop next to a church. Or a vegetable patch next to a goat farm. Or – yeah, the point is, this Matsukawa guy has totally cornered the market in Terrible-Life-Decision-Making-Skills.

Baby It’s Cold Outside, by dancingwithwings

Matsukawa looks round. And – heaven help him – he’s greeted with the guy from a couple of apartments down, the guy who dyes his hair to look like a strawberry for reasons unbeknownst, looking so disgruntled, so bedraggled, so akin to a drowning cat, that it almost makes him laugh out loud. The guy is barefoot, wearing only a towel. And the look on his face might turn Matsukawa to stone.

In which the fire alarm goes off, Hanamaki is in a towel, and Mattsun just really needs to study.

Zenith, Nadir, by tookumade

A former god realises that it's time to say goodbye.

Parallel Lines, by orphan_account

Yesterday night, Matsukawa had told his parents that he was joining math club, which lead to several confused smiles from them as they tried to figure out his change of heart.

“Didn’t you say you were allergic to competitive math?” His mom had asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re very supportive of your decision, but-”

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they’d let it go because no sane parent prevents their child from joining math team, which is intellectually beneficial and looks very nice on college applications. This, in turn, prevents Matsukawa from having to explain that he’s joining- dear god- because of a crush.

this isn’t exactly how i thought i’d spend my adult years, by jadedpearl

When Hanamaki coughs–hacks–the guy, who's been near comatose this entire time, opens his eyes and looks over a little, seemingly with the least amount of effort possible. "Bless you," he says, but his eyes are still sleepy. Hanamaki turns his head and stares at him. "I didn't sneeze." The guy looks a bit surprised. "What?" "I coughed." "So?" "Who the fuck says bless you when someone coughs?"

The Courage of Stars, by FairyLights101

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Then again, not many things were.

sugar pink liquor, liquor lips, by h_lovely

His lips still taste like sugar and liquor; they’re rosy and plush as they fit softly against Matsukawa’s own.

What would you do (if I told you that I la, la, la, loved you?), by Frenchibi

5 IwaOi moments as seen by Hanamaki and Matsukawa ... +1 moment of revenge :'D

Shoulda Known, by fxvixen

He quickly composes his face to look concerned. “What’s the matter there, sport?”

The groan cuts off.

Hanamaki lifts his head, a few strands of hair flopping onto his forehead. He narrows his eyes at Matsukawa’s attempt of a poker face. “Never call me that again.”

~or~

matsuhana feels and cuddles

Time and Distance, by kiyala

Matsukawa is attending university in Kyoto. Hanamaki comes to visit.

Kaleidoscope, by tookumade

Fall in love in five cities.

press play, by airblends

“Makki, you want in on our intro?” Oikawa gestures with his hand.

“Nah, I already promised Issei we’d do one for his channel. There are only so many intros a man can film in a day.”

“Issei, huh?” Oikawa’s lips settle into a knowing smirk. Iwaizumi coughs into his fist, gently prying the camera from Oikawa’s hands to turn it off.

Hanamaki’s face burns up, his cheeks a fiery red. “We’re just friends,” he says, the phrase rolling off his tongue by sheer reflex. He has lost count of how many times he’s typed it into the comment section beneath his videos. At this point he might just start to believe it himself.

New Ground, by kiyala

About new cities and new relationships.

Trusting Things Beyond Mistake, by twinkrevali

"‘I–’ Hanamaki starts, then stops, turning to face the lake and frowning as the words fail to reach him.

Matsukawa pushes himself up to look at Hanamaki properly, hands resting in his lap.

‘You,’ he prompts, and Hanamaki looks at him, eyes shining.

This must be, he thinks, what they call a moment of clarity."

Would You Rather, by jadedpearl

“Y’know,” Hanamaki says, stretching his arms above his head, “I don’t even get why Oikawa is the popular one. If this was an anime, I’d be the main character.”

The setting sun burns his edges gold, alights the sharp planes of his face. Matsukawa looks away, faces forward, towards the houses that wind out of sight.

“What makes you say that?” he replies easily, because things have always been just that, with Hanamaki.

too scared to say (that i want you), by urieskooki

"How could he not hate me if he knew?"

Falling in love with your best friend sucks.

one-way ticket, by noyabeans

post-chapter 258.

in an alternate universe, they would be the ones on that screen, feet solidly planted on the smooth ground of the tokyo gym and the smell of air salonpas around them.

take my hand, take my whole life, too, by earlgrey_milktea

matsukawa and hanamaki, a few years down the road, and years to go, together.

all our stolen moments (i’d spend forever with you), by earlgrey_milktea

quiet moments between matsukawa and hanamaki.

it's all worth it, in the end.

Switched Jerseys, by chromyrose

After practice on an afternoon shortly before the Spring High tournament begins, they’re the last two people changing in the club room. The weather is starting to turn for the colder, and Hanamaki sighs when the cool air touches his heated skin after he takes his jersey off. He feels a warm hand on his back, and looks over his shoulder...

oh we’re fading fast / i miss missing you now and then, by earlgrey_milktea

It’s strange, missing someone. You find them in every thing you do, and you think you want them back, but you don’t. Not really. Not now, not like this.

issei and the quiet that hanamaki left behind.

i thought i could tame these memories to keep me company like a housecat, by earlgrey_milktea

So he stayed here, in a house that hasn’t been a home in a long time, with a cat that keeps looking out the window as if waiting for someone that isn’t coming home.

takahiro and the empty house and lonely cat that issei left behind.

those days are dead and gone (but we’re still here), by kythen

They're graduating today and Hanamaki doesn't want to get out of bed.

stranger things, by tinypersonhotel

In 2012, the men’s national volleyball team took home the bronze at the Asian Cup. Tokyo Skytree opened to the public. Also, the dashing Hanamaki Takahiro and painfully cool Matsukawa Issei started a radio show out of Aoba Johsai’s abandoned A/V room and accidentally became the two most popular guys in school.

Daily Password: [ ], by tookumade

“Neko Atsume?” Hanamaki says sleepily when he recognises the song coming from his phone. He opens his eyes with a mystified smile. “You’re still playing?”

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 1 - music)

tell them i love you, by tookumade

“Are you two serious about it, though?” Oikawa says dubiously after training when they’re leaving the clubroom together. “Could you seriously tell each other ‘I love you’?”

“Of course we’re serious!” protests Matsukawa at the same time Hanamaki says, “Of course we can!”

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 3 - romantic gesture)

like a river, by astersandstuffs

“Is that a confession? Are you actually confessing to me right now?”

“Hm. Yeah.”

Or, they still have a lot to learn (and maybe that's the thing about being together).

Baby(sitting), Maybe, by tookumade

“One day,” says Hanamaki, “we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

“Mm-hm,” Matsukawa hums.

“It’ll be a cute little story. We’ll tell our friends, and they’ll laugh along with us. They might even be sympathetic.”

“Mmmm…”

“You’re absolutely right, sympathetic is reaching way too far.”

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 6 - children, bonds)

Matsuhana Week 2017, by h_lovely

Day 1: music//relationship goals Day 2: competition//petty Day 3: romantic gesture//fairy tale Day 4: in danger//leaving home Day 5: food//science Day 6: children//bonds Day 7: on video//surprises

A God for Every Season, by timkons

Mortals have all kinds of foolish tales, like how Hades and Persephone's annual reunion causes the seasons. Matsukawa knows better.

Habenaria Radiata, by tookumade

Hanamaki turns onto his side so that they’re facing each other, and his smile is warm; Matsukawa feels his heart skip a beat, as it always does whenever this happens, and he wonders when he’ll ever get used to it, when it’ll become normal enough that he doesn’t get butterflies in his stomach every time Hanamaki smiles at him.

(Probably never, if he’s being honest with himself. He is content with this.)

take my heart and put it in your pocket, by Frenchibi

Issei blinks. “I ain’t drinkin’ any of your froofy Christmas Latte thingies.” “Orange Caramel Mocha.” “What?” “Vanilla Chai Latte.” “Ew.” “Cinnamon Hot Chocolate.” Issei rolls his eyes, resigned. “Fine. That doesn’t sound too awful.”

Remind Me, by tookumade

For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, their first meeting consists of a small accident, a terrible first impression, and the start of something new—maybe something better.

(In which they learn to keep trying, and to try again.)

like twinkling lights and the warmth of your hand, by earlgrey_milktea

mattsun and makki go on an impromptu date.

in a daze, by wyverning

The sound of a camera shutter goes off, and Issei lazily cracks open an eye to see Hanamaki grinning down at him, phone held loosely in one hand.

“That was the best Kunimi impression I’ve ever seen,” he says by way of explanation.

Clueless, by Elleh

If anyone had asked Issei how he’d thought his night would end, he’d have never said: catching my best friend moaning my name while fucking himself.

There’s an odd second, between Issei entering their room and sliding the door of the bedroom open, in which Issei is still oblivious. Skin prickling, a sudden dryness in his mouth, but oblivious. He’s taking his shoes off when the first moan catches him.

He stills right on the spot, a shoe hanging from his finger, the other hand half-way to opening the bedroom. Issei swallows, images of Hanamaki with a girl from the hotel, that’s why he didn’t want to come with us drink, the bitter taste that realisation leaves behind. Issei shouldn’t care Hanamaki’s having sex with someone, but the sourness turns into rage—and maybe disappointment. He’s gonna have a serious conversation about boundaries and, you know, could you let me know in advance, so I find—

“Issei… Mmmh, fuck.”

IOU, by Karasuno Volleygays

Matsukawa Issei goes in for a tattoo and ends up with an interesting new friend in Hanamaki Takahiro. Soon his visits to his tattoo artist's studio in the back of a restaurant become a highlight of his days, and that's before feelings start to wriggle their way into the picture.

take a screenshot, it’ll last longer, by h_lovely

It’s all fun and games until someone pops a boner in a staff meeting.

lapsus linguae, by astersandstuffs

“I’m literally your best friend,” Matsukawa says.

Takahiro pauses. “Shit. You’re right.”

Reflex, by hiuythn

Nobody likes to talk about how Hanamaki and Matsukawa met, which is a shame, because they both think it's the funniest fucking thing to ever happen to either of them.

my way home, by tookumade

Matsukawa has been sitting at their freshly-placed dining table and staring at his copy of their new apartment keys for at least an hour.

(Hanamaki checks his watch. Okay, five minutes; same thing.)

first light, by tookumade

Iwaizumi and Oikawa immediately break out into booing and gagging noises, because as much as they both think themselves mature and reasonable people, they are honestly idiots. Matsukawa just grins and takes a sip of his own beer, pleased, but Hanamaki is frozen, eyes wide and a blush creeping across his face in a way that had nothing to do with the beer.

Tactical Retreat, by Karasuno Volleygays

After years of getting their asses handed to them by the seemingly psychic Iwaoi bond, Issei and Takahiro opt to spend the rest of their paintballing trip engaged in other activities.

Mirror Flower, Water Moon, by h_lovely

Matsukawa’s gaze lingers on Hanamaki. He’s talking about something, ranting on and Matsukawa isn’t sure about what at this point. He should be listening really, how rude of him. But spring has just sprung and the little pink petals dotting the sidewalk match so pleasantly with the strawberry shade of Hanamaki’s short-clipped hair.

(Or, a study on timing and how to get it right.)

quidditch gloves, parchment, and custard cream, by h_lovely

After class, Matsukawa finds Hanamaki in the tall cushy grass by the lake.

#haikyuu!!#fic recs #matsuhana #matsukawa issei #hanamaki takahiro #otp: swapped jerseys #please warn me if any links are broken #and reblog it if you can so more people will see it

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Shadow Over Seventh Heaven Review, Part I: Last Night I Dreamt I Went to Maljardin Again

Once, April Tennant had been the greatest screen star of all. Even now that this stunning creature was gone, the victim of a hideous accident, her name still cast a magic glow. And nowhere was her haunting spell more alive than within her great walled estate of San Rafael.

It was here that April had lived in her storybook marriage with famed actor Richard Morgan. It was here that her memory was worshipped still. And it was here that lovely young Jenny Summers came as Richard Morgan's new bride--to discover the terror behind the tinsel in this place transformed from a paradise of the living to a hell of the undead.... (inside front cover)

Welcome, fellow Strangers and all others who happen upon this post. This week, I have decided to begin a new series exploring the Gothic novels written by co-creator and first headwriter of Strange Paradise, Ian Martin, under the pen name Joen Arliss. Mostly, the purpose of this series will be to compare the plot and characters of Strange Paradise and those of his novels and what that may indicate about his original intentions for the overarching story of the soap opera.

I got the idea to start this series while writing my review of Episode 26, after the contents of an article referenced in one of the scenes reminded me of the events in this book. On his now-defunct website Maljardin.com, Curt Ladnier covered some of the similarities between “Here Goes the Bride,” the CBS Radio Mystery Theater drama from which this book was adapted, and Strange Paradise, but I wanted to dive deeper and do one of my characteristic overanalyses. So fly with me to the grand southwestern estate of San Rafael and together let’s explore Shadow Over Seventh Heaven--and let me warn you, there will be spoilers for the entire Maljardin arc of SP.

As noted above, Shadow Over Seventh Heaven is an adaptation of a radio drama that Martin wrote for CBS Radio Mystery Theater. CBSRMT is, perhaps unquestionably, Ian Martin’s most famous work. Created by Himan Brown in 1974 and running for 1,399 nightly episodes, Martin wrote a total of 243 (including many adaptations of literary classics) and acted in 255, typically in supporting roles. He continued writing and acting on the series all the way until his death in 1981 at the age of 69. Given my tendency to procrastinate, which sometimes makes it difficult to write just one episode review a week even when I’m not busy, I envy him for being such a prolific writer. I suspect that all the soap scripts he wrote got him into the habit, and he just couldn’t break it.

Even more extraordinary is that he wrote and published five novels during the same period that he worked on CBSRMT. His first was Nightmare’s Nest (1979), an adaptation of the CBSRMT play “The Deathly White Man” (and not the other drama, also by him, of the same name), which is his answer to Jane Eyre and which also has some interesting connections with SP which I plan to explore in another review series. Next came this novel, and then Beloved Victim (1981), adapted from “A Lady Never Loses Her Head,” which I don’t recall having anything noteworthy in common with SP, but I may need to re-read it to make sure. He also wrote two mystery novels, The Shark Bait Affair and The Ladykiller Affair, for the Zebra Mystery Puzzler series, but those are both very rare now and I haven’t yet read either, so I can’t say anything about them. The book Mystery Women: An Encyclopedia of Leading Women Characters in Mystery Fiction does, however, provide some information on their protagonist, Kate Graham, along with short plot summaries. As someone with two trunk novels from the last decade and about fifty pages of a third--which I mostly stopped working on after I started this blog--I also envy him for this. How on Earth did he find the time?

But I digress. Like that of “Here Goes the Bride,” the plot of Shadow Over Seventh Heaven draws heavy inspiration from Daphne du Maurier’s famous Gothic romance Rebecca, but with some major differences in plot and characterization. The novel fleshes out the radio drama some more, adding additional details and plot twists that aren’t present in the original play, which arguably make it more interesting. One gets the impression that he had a lot of story in mind while he penned the original drama, but knew he could only squeeze so much into a 45-minute radio play and so had to leave many of the most interesting details out.

But that’s enough background information. Let’s begin our analysis and see what Ian Martin’s later work can tell us about his original intentions for Strange Paradise.

Introduction

The face is lovely, matchless....

Opening like some gigantic and exotic flower as the camera zooms in...

It fills the screen, flawless, enticing....

The lower lip glistens, pulled away from those perfect teeth, trembling ever so slightly, promising undreamed-of delights for the man brave enough to taste its forbidden fruit....

The skin glows with an inner light....

The eyes beyond the thick fringe of dark eyelashes shimmer with the deep violet of a tropical night....

The pitiless exposé of the camera is defeated, no matter how close it probes in close-up....

This is beauty without blemish....

This is everyman's dream woman--sex symbol of the nation, and most of the world....

This is April Tennant!

Strange to think of her dead, for on the screen she is captured forever in all her vibrancy and stunning beauty....

Impossible to think of her lying, mangled and bleeding on the rocks, while the hungry sea licks out as if to possess her.

Incredible to think of her cold and in the grave. Which she has been for twelve months--or this story never would have begun (p. 5).

The first page of the novel introduces us to April Tennant, this novel’s Rebecca and also its Erica Desmond. Like Rebecca, she is the first wife of the protagonist’s love interest, whose tragic death will cast a shadow over her former estate. Like Erica, she was a famous actress--probably more so than Erica ever was--but the cause of her death is not the same as the alleged cause of Erica’s. In Episode 5 of Strange Paradise, Erica’s grieving husband Jean Paul claims that she died of eclampsia while pregnant with their son, although evidence uncovered by other characters in later episodes leads them to contest that claim. Instead, April’s death resembles that of Huaco, the wife of Jean Paul’s ancestor Jacques Eloi des Mondes who died when she fell from a cliff on Maljardin, Jacques’ island estate.

In this introduction, we also see what will become a theme of the novel: gaze. Not just the male gaze--the obvious POV of the introduction--but, more generally, the viewing of April Tennant almost exclusively through the eyes of other characters, both male and female. We never learn much about her inner life, even as we learn those of Jenny (our protagonist), Richard, and others. April is largely a mystery, a larger-than-life figure of ideal beauty who, in the eyes of the public, is more a legend than she is flesh and blood. It’s the same mystique that surrounds celebrities in real life that often makes other people forget that they, too, are human--if, indeed, that’s what April was. Or is there more to it? I guess we’ll have to find it.

Chapter 1

The first chapter begins with a detailed description of San Rafael--and by detailed, I mean that Ian Martin spends one and a half pages describing its wall, followed by two on the mansion itself. I won’t type out too many passages from this book for copyright reasons--for, unlike Strange Paradise, this book is still under copyright--but I will include some highlights. The wall surrounding the castle “was thick enough at the bottom to withstand any tremor of the California earth...topped by a corona of jagged broken glass and it ran for a mile and three-quarters in a great semicircle away from the rocky Pacific coast and back to it again” (p. 6). On its gate,

The ironwork swept and swirled in great balanced curlicues, and the frame was heavy and studded. The studs held great sheets of blackened steel, heavy enough to withstand a battering ram, blocking any vision of the grounds the wall concealed. And the vertical members of the scrollwork reared high above the frame of the door and the top of the wall in a bristling array of spikes, sharp as swords, arched forward to further discourage any hardy trespasser who might try to climb their height (pp. 6-7).

In case you haven’t already figured it out, Martin loved his purple prose. If you don’t like Byzantine descriptions of architecture, ironwork, clothing, or anything else, you probably shouldn’t read this book or any of Martin’s other novels. (Nightmare’s Nest is far purpler, however, than this one. There’s an entire chapter in there devoted to describing the protagonist’s lush Edwardian finery.) Fortunately for me, I love this kind of thing and will gladly devour description after description of gates covered in iron curlicues. My literary tastes tend toward “more is more” and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

We learn that San Rafael is a reconstruction of an old Spanish mission, commissioned by April and built in part by Richard himself, “who personally took charge of putting in all the glass that fronted on the sea.” The gardens that surround it give it “a riot of color--bougainvillea, hibiscus, passionflowers, trumpet vines--all enhanced and set off against the majesty of rows of carefully spaced Italian cedar, or Lombardy poplar” (pp. 7-8).

Despite all this radiant beauty--and as one might expect for reconstructed ruins from the era of Spanish colonialism--the estate is believed to be cursed, at least by “the superstitious peons who built the walls” (p. 9). (That’s what the book uncharitably describes the Mexican builders--some parts of this book haven’t aged well, as you will see.) Two men died while rebuilding it, followed by April herself around a decade later.

Surprisingly, we learn at the end of this chapter that Richard Morgan’s background differs from that of Jean Paul Desmond. An actor himself, he “was king of the theater, and of East Coast entertainment. Their marriage was a royal one, and it vaulted both of them to new and undreamed-of heights of popularity” (pp. 9-10). It was this popularity that drove them to wall themselves in at San Rafael and use the police and guard dogs to keep rabid fans and paparazzi away--which, ultimately, didn’t work and only led to “a new wave of interest and snooping” (p. 10).

Chapter 2

Here we meet Richard’s sister Lisa, who is...well...quite an interesting character. She’s a beautiful woman with short hair, a deep voice, and--most importantly--an unusual, creepy level of attachment to her brother.

Cersei Lannister Lisa Morgan.

Lisa has just received a phone call from the Philippines where her brother is. The call has left her “literally stunned” (p. 11), which means that the modern slang meaning of “literally” dates back 30+ years longer than I thought. Surprisingly, she isn’t drinking wine to calm her nerves like Cersei above, but that’s her loss.

As she gazes at the ocean to the west, her housekeeper, Conchita Aguilar, enters. Chita (as she is usually called) has not just worked as April’s housekeeper for most of her life, but also "she and her husband, Juan, had quite literally brought up April” (p. 13); as a result, she is fiercely loyal to the family of her deceased mistress. Here is a portrait of her:

Looking at the tiny woman with her bright button eyes, the black Indian hair swept stiffly away from her face, parted in the middle and tidily put away in a tight bun low on the back of her neck, Lisa was surprised at the sudden urge to go and take this familiar person in her arms--or better still have Chita take her in hers.[...]Chita might be tiny, but she was all steel and whipcord (p. 13).

Sound familiar?

Yes, Chita bears a resemblance to our beloved Raxl. They even have a similar background, for Raxl, too, comes from a people indigenous to Mexico, according to Episode 23. Like Raxl, Chita is very old and has a mysterious magnetism that draws some people to her (which, in Raxl’s case, includes me). There are some minor differences--Chita doesn’t worship the Great Serpent, she uses gratuitous Spanish instead of gratuitous French, she has a living husband and grandson--but they are, in most ways, the same character. It’s clear that Ian Martin didn’t want to part with Raxl, and I don’t blame him one bit.

Also, for whatever reason, he was oddly insistent on both of them having a specific hairstyle. If you read the original script for the show’s pilot, you will see that he was almost as specific about Raxl’s hairstyle, mentioning “her hair tightly drawn over her ears to a small bun,” but less detailed about those of the other characters. Just an odd detail that probably bears little significance, but that I noticed.

Lisa tells Chita that Richard is on his way home with a new wife, a young, very wealthy orphan named Jenny Summers whom he met in the Philippines. This angers the ancient housekeeper, who argues that Jenny can never come to San Rafael

Because there is no place for her here--en la casa de La Señora! Everything here is hers--she still lives here, and will always live here. Her perfume is in every room, her pictures are everywhere, every ornament and ashtray and book I keep just the way she last touched it. There is no room for any other wife here! Oh, she will feel it, she will know it, because La Señora would never permit another woman to take her place (p. 16)!

Lisa insists that, despite the risk that Jenny won’t want to live on the estate and despite her equal displeasure about the situation, Chita keep an open mind regarding her and try not to be such a Mrs. Danvers about the situation. (OK, so she doesn’t actually say the last part; that’s just my paraphrase.) She also tries to pressure Chita into helping her take down the mementos of April at Richard’s orders, which she objects to, both for sentimental reasons and because they don’t have time to have the enormous fresco of April that adorns the former chapel. (Symbolism!)

“It was a breathless and yet terrible beauty. For any woman who stood next to it had to be eclipsed” (p. 20).

Yes, you read that right: they rededicated the mission’s former chapel to the silver screen sex goddess April Tennant. After their wedding, Richard had a giant fresco of her painted there in place of its former altar. This is a clear indication that one or more of the people in this household worship April, whether literally or figuratively. More than that, the portrait glows like that of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES, and seems, like Jacques’ portrait, to be alive, the living essence of a dead person. “Most haunting of all was the feeling that this was the woman--that she could not have died, that any moment she would step off the wall, and her silver laughter would fill the house again (p. 20).”

I’m sorry, Jacques. ;)

Coming up next: Jenny arrives at San Rafael and tries to adjust to living on an estate where almost everyone but Richard acts like they hate her.

{ Next: Part II -> }

#gothic fiction #cbs radio mystery theater #ian martin #joen arliss #shadow over seventh heaven #cbsrmt #strange paradise #related media #review #other reviews #ian martin's novels #analysis #gaze #rebecca #speculation on ian martin's original story #symbolism

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yesloverboy · 5 years

Text

Something in the Way She Moves (Axl Rose x Reader)

Requested: Anon

“Could you do a story about Axl rose where the reader is a singer ( i was thinking like sadie from across the universe type singer) and he sees her play live for the first time and falls for her? And they end up getting together and performing together all the time and it's all gushy and hot bc their voices go together so well? Thank u!”

Note: My first Axl request is finally here! Sorry for the wait, but I’m finally back at university so hopefully I can start an upload schedule soon to help keep my ass accountable. However, I’m really proud of how this request turned out so lmk what you think! Love y’all

word count: 2,032

[Warnings: swearing, alcohol, and disgusting romance]

permanent tags: @colsonbakersnoseringmain, @lululovesgwtw, @kingbouji3

No matter how many times you walk out on that stage, you find your heart thudding in your chest as if it were the first time all over again. You love everything about performing; the bright lights, smoky clubs, and smiling faces of all the lovely people in the crowd. Each of them came to have a good time and, as always, you’re just happy to play a part in it. Unlike most aspiring artists, you don’t need an adoring crowd to get your blood pumping. All you need is the thud of the bass in your feet and a song to sing.

The crowd is usually a secondary element to your performance, instead you prefer the company of your band and the energy their music brings. This particular night, however, something feels different. There’s an electricity in the air that you don’t recognize and, as you go up to sing, you catch your eyes wandering through the crowd for the first time.

It takes a while to adjust to the smoky haze that drifts through the beaming stage lights, but eventually you can make out some faces. As usual, the patrons of the club look happy and carefree. Each of them a total stranger, and yet so hauntingly familiar at the same time.

You allow the music to overtake you once again as you sway across the stage. The long, flowing sleeves of your shirt drift through the air as you vibe and shift along with the rhythm. Hair falling in your face, you allow the blues to move through you and push out your voice from somewhere deep within.

As the song hurtles toward a spellbinding guitar solo, you feel the urge to look out into the crowd once again. While people came to the club to hear music and have a good time, you were always just background noise. Somehow, someway, it finally feels like someone is watching you– and you’re determined to find out who it could possibly be. You frown to yourself as you scan the crowd, realizing that the glare from the lights is far too bright to see anywhere beyond a few rows back.

Little do you know, there is a man seated at the end of the bar that couldn’t take his eyes off of you if he tried.

He had been passing by the club with a band of his very own when your voice captured his attention. You had just wailed out the song’s first note, and all he could think was that he’d never heard anything like it. The man insisted on stopping to listen just a little bit longer, ignoring the gripes and groans from his scruffy bandmates. As he pushed his way inside, he hadn’t even noticed that his band left him to find something better to do. All he cared about seeing was you.

Now, as you’re floating effortlessly across the stage, the man is awestruck to find that you’re even more beautiful than you sound. As a singer himself, he’s completely blown away by how effortlessly you allow the moment to overtake you. Engaging with an audience full of fans is an experience he thrives off of, and yet here you are dancing and swaying like an adolescent girl alone in her bedroom. You don’t have a single care in the world.

When your set finally comes to a close, you give each of your bandmates an affectionate squeeze and scamper off to the bar. It’s a personal tradition to reward yourself with a cocktail every night after a show. Long ago you realized that drinking before or during a set only made you emotional and self-conscious, making you ultimately decide that drinking would be a gift to yourself– not a necessity.

Before you’re able to beckon over to the bartender, a sudden presence at your side makes you turn your head in vague curiosity. You feel the air leave your lungs as you lock eyes with the stranger next to you, wondering how in the holy hell you didn’t notice him from your place on stage. He’s a little taller than you, with eyes the color of soft denim and poker-straight hair that hangs loosely on the middle of his chest.

“Hey,” he breathes, flashing you a smile warmer than summertime. The leather of his jacket crinkles against the bar’s glossy finish as he leans comfortably against it.

“Hey, yourself,” you reply coyly, peering up at the incredibly handsome stranger from beneath your eyelashes. The man in front of you doesn’t look like the club’s usual patrons, he chooses the confinement of leather and acid wash over silk and corduroy. He’s different and you like it.

He clears his throat, and although his posture radiates confidence, he bites his lip with a nervous uncertainty. “You were amazing up there, you know. Never heard anything like it.”

“How much did you see?” your voice is barely a whisper in the hum of the bar, and you feel yourself leaning in closer just to be heard.

“All of it,” he grins, instantly soliciting a blush from your already rosie cheeks.

Your eyes fall to your feet, and you catch yourself chewing on your lip as you kick your moccasins absentmindedly against the linoleum floor. “I’m guessing you must like music a lot, then.”

The man laughs, eliciting a rasp from the back of his throat that carries a musical quality. “Well, sweetheart, I suppose you aren’t wrong about that– can I get you a drink?”

“I don’t even know your name, music man,” you giggle, feeling reduced to nothing more than a giddy schoolgirl. You don’t mind though, because for once it finally seems as though you actually feel at ease with someone who isn’t one of your bandmates.

“Axl. Axl Rose,” he replies, holding out a ring encrusted hand for you to shake.

His calloused hand is rough against your skin, but the touch he offers is so gentle that your rapidly beating heart stutters in surprise. The feeling is so tender and comforting that you find yourself unable to let go. Axl seems to share the same sentiment and slides his soft grip to the tips of your fingers, holding you in place as a gentle thumb swipes delicately across your knuckles.

“With a name like that, you oughta be some kind of rockstar,” you quip, making a big show of raking your eyes from the top of his strawberry blonde hair to the tips of his motorcycle boots.

“That’s the idea, honey,” Axl gives you a sly wink and moves in a little bit closer, your chiffon sleeve lightly brushing against his leather one, “but, if you asked me, I’d say there’s only one rockstar in this whole club.”

“Oh yeah? And who would that be?”

“Y/N,” he purrs, reciting the name arranged on the old marquee he saw coming into the club, “You may not know it yet, but she’s gonna be the raddest act in town.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but remind me to thank them later,” you chuckle, peering up at Axl through the thick of your eyelashes.

“Just a feeling,” he smirks, “but if you have the time– I could tell you more about it. What do you say, sugar?”

“Lucky for you, music man– I’ve got all night.”

...

After that serendipitous evening, you and Axl become nearly inseparable. Your music man comes to every show possible, using whatever minutes he could spare between his own sets on the strip to catch a glimpse of you singing. The only thing Axl seems to love more than watching you sway effortlessly on stage, is the way you float onto the floor of his very own performances with the same ease.

You are as carefree of a lover as a musician, and observing the chaos of the world bending to your will makes Axl feel as though he might be able to contain whatever part of that chaos dwells within him. Although a poet at heart, Axl’s temper has a red hot edge that only you seem to extinguish. You’ve become his perfect match– not because you are opposite him, but because you compliment him. If you’re a daisy chain, he’s the bruised knuckles tying you together.

Despite how different yours and Axl’s music tastes are, you find yourself growing fond of Guns ‘n Roses; although you’re still not sure what firearms and flowers actually have to do with each other. Much to your surprise, the rest of his ragtag bandmates seem to like you too– even if you stick out at their shows just as sorely as Stevie Nicks in a cemetery.

It takes weeks of late night escapades and dizzying weekend benders, before one lazy Sunday morning brings you and Axl together in a way that seems so impossible and yet so obvious.

Singing.

It’s a morning like so many others, with you flipping pancakes in one of Axl’s cropped shirts while he remains tangled haphazardly in the sheets. You hum along as Across the Universe buzzes through the crackle of the kitchen radio, becoming so in the moment that you eventually start singing softly to yourself. It’s no stage, but something about swaying in the morning light feels delightfully intimate.

Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my open ears, inciting and inviting me–

Axl eventually stirs himself out of a dead slumber, feeling exceptionally hungover and absolutely starving. Dragging his shirtless form into the bright kitchen light, he’s immediately captivated by the smell of frying batter and the soft rasp of your voice. Captivated, all he can do is stand and stare. You’re floating again, bouncing lightly on your toes as the music moves you.

Limitless undying love, which shines around me like a million suns–

Absentmindedly, Axl allows a soft hum to grow in the back of his throat. The melody is familiar to him, comfortable, and before he knows it, his feet are carrying his tired body over to you. The sound of bare feet padding behind you makes you turn, the sight of Axl bringing a blinding smile to your face. There’s something gentle sparkling in your music man’s eyes and, even if the two of you haven’t said it yet, you can feel the love swimming behind those irises.

It calls me on and on, across the universe–

Without a second thought, you reach for his hand and begin to sing to him. Much to your delight, he invites the touch and pulls you gently to his chest with a boyish smile. What most people don’t know about Axl– your Axl –is that he has a soft side hiding beneath his rough exterior and over the top antics. Moments like these make all the petty struggles feel insignificant, and for a fleeting second, you don’t think it can get any better. That is, until Axl starts singing with you.

Nothing’s gonna change my world, Nothing’s gonna change my world–

In your brief time as a professional singer, you had never been able to find someone to match your voice. It’s not that you’re too good for anyone, you’ve just always been told that your voice was far too unusual to have anyone singing beside you. Now, as your arms entangle with your sunset-haired love, it becomes clear that your voice is meant to exist alongside his.

Nothing’s gonna change my world, Nothing’s gonna change my world–

The rasp of yours and Axl’s voices compliment each other in the same way your personalities do– if Axl wants to fly above the music with the harmonies, you’re willing to be the melody tethering him back to Earth. Ever since the night you’d met, being with Axl has felt as easy as breathing and as natural spinning around wrapped in silk.

The two of you may have found each other in the dark, but there’s no doubt that you are both falling hard and fast under the morning light. With a tattooed man in your arms and the smell of scorched pancakes in the air, you find yourself feeling at home for the first time– and nothing can ever change that.

Masterlist

#again #sorry i'm a slow writer #it's because i love y'all and don't wanna put out anything shitty #writing #requests #axl rose #guns n roses #gnr #izzy stradlin #duff mckagan #slash #steven adler #axl rose imagine #axl rose oneshot #motley crue #classic rock #80s #80s rock

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deputy-sarah-sux · 5 years

Text

Here

Joseph/Male Dep request from @masastiy:

Maybe deputy is sneaking into Joseph's compound at night in hopes of finding out more about the plans of the cult and accidentally stumbles across Joseph, and them having a conversation and a quiet moment alone in the church. Or maybe deputy accidentally spots Joseph while he is swimming in the river naked, you know, like Greg in a live-action trailer. Or better yet, it would be cool if you combine these two ideas together.

Warnings: None, there’s brief mentions of nudity on Joseph’s part but nothing explicit

Dep hadn’t been prepared to see Joseph again. When Sheriff Whitehorse had told him the night they went to the project that they were arresting Joseph Seed he’d been shaken to his core. After their paths separated when Joseph and the Project fled Rome, he honestly hadn’t expected to see or hear about Joseph again.

Now, unlike before, he was on the opposite side of the man who had once given him a home when he had none. Now he stood at the head to the resistance actively trying to destroy everything Joseph had built. Everything he’d once been offered.

He was frozen where he crouched at the compound, mostly hidden from sight by the flowers he’d used as cover. He’d snuck into the compound to search for anything that might help the resistance defeat the cult. He’d only come because all the intel he had said Joseph wasn’t here. There were only supposed to be a few cultists that he could easily kill as long as he did it quietly.

He should have known something was up when he spotted the extra guards all stationed along the fence line. No one inside the compound was walking around, everyone either having taken defensive positions or camped out in the cabins. He should have figured it out when he heard what sounded suspiciously like Joseph’s voice singing.

No, instead he’d slipped through a gap in the fence and ran in half-cocked, praising himself for coming up with such a genius plan. Two minutes ago he’d been decided how he was going to celebrate this small victory over the cult. Would he spend the night at the Spread Eagle with Nick or make the drive out to 8-Bit and kick Sharky’s ass in go-fish over a lukewarm beer?

Now though, he was regretting not following up on the information he’d gotten about the compound. Of course, he of all people would be the one to stumble onto Joseph. He was beyond grateful that he’d at least had the sense to come while it was dark.

Dep held his breath as he watched from his hiding place as Joseph swam closer to shore. There was a moment’s hesitation on the older man’s part where he dunked his head into the cold water once more before standing.

Dep had to take a sharp breath as Joseph emerged from the water, the moonlight glistening off of his bare skin. He hadn’t realized before that the man had been swimming naked, though he should have figured it out when he saw the pile of clothing near the water earlier. He didn’t bother looking away as he was safely hidden from Joseph’s gaze, and there was no way for him to know he was lurking.

“I know you’re there,” Joseph spoke as he pulled on his discarded shirt, the water dripping from his hair leaving the already thin material borderline see-through. His voice was almost hypnotic. “Come out and no harm will come to you.”

Against his better judgment, Dep stepped out of his spot and into the moonlight that illuminated the compound. He didn’t bother averting his eyes as Joseph pulled on a pair of pants, they were way past something as trivial as privacy.

“Joseph.” He said in place of a greeting, Joseph narrowed his eyes and took a few steps towards him.

“Why are you here?” The cult leader asked, allowing Dep the opportunity to lie or say anything but the truth. Of course, that wasn't exactly his style.

“I came for information. No one was supposed to be here tonight.”

Joseph hummed, seemingly content with the answer and started walking towards the church. Dep watched him for a minute before following, it seemed like the right move as Joseph held the door open for him.

Dep stood around for a minute, waiting to see what Joseph was going to do before acting, the older man just sat down in the first row of pews and closed his eyes, tipping his face towards the ceiling. After a few more moments of shifting his weight from foot to foot, Dep joined him.

“It’s been a long time.” Joseph’s voice was quiet, so quiet Dep almost didn’t hear it.

“You remember me?” He honestly hadn’t expected the man to have any memory of his brief stay with the cult, it was so long ago and Joseph had gained so many followers since then.

“I remember everyone, but I admit my memory of you is stronger than of the others.”

“Why?” His chest felt warm at the man’s words. He wouldn’t admit it out loud yet, but his memories of the Project and specifically Joseph were ones he looked back on fondly and often.

Joseph tipped his head to the side in thought, opening his eyes and staring at a Project cross. A sea of emotions flickered across his face in a matter of seconds, he didn’t seem to know what to make of them. “I can’t answer that.” He finally said, the words honest

“I never really got a chance to thank you. I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t found me back in Rome.” Dep couldn’t conceal the sincerity in his voice, he owed this man his life. “I’m sorry, about all this. Wish things were different.”

Joseph smiled to himself, perhaps remembering one of the better days they'd spent together. “It was always destined to be this way, I just couldn’t see it. I was too blinded by your light to see the path that lay beyond it.”

The deputy felt a swell of emotions, all of which held disastrous consequences and threw caution to the wind. He had only ever felt this way once before, back in Rome when he’d watched Joseph as he preached about forgiveness and love, the last time he’d see him before fleeing Rome in the chaos.

He reached out and grabbed Joseph’s chin, pushing his head sideways so they were face to face. Joseph gave him a curious gaze, but Dep had already begun to lean forward and captured the cult leader’s lips. Joseph went still, his hands lifting and stopping a hair’s length from Dep’s hips, unsure.

Dep pulled away and met Joseph’s eyes, he thought that he might happily drown in the color. It was a familiar thought, comforting even.

“Why?” Joseph asked, leaning away with his expression guarded.

“I can’t answer that,” Dep said, a grin creeping onto his face. “I just know I wanna do it again.”

Joseph didn’t seem to like that answer and turned his face away so he was looking at his pedestal at the head of the church.

“This is sin.”

“We haven’t sinned yet, Joseph.” Dep pointed out, a little concerned that he’d stepped over a line.

“My children, if they knew…” He trailed off, a distant look in his eyes. “If they knew I had developed feelings for the enemy they would turn on me.”

“Screw them if they do. Screw that resistance shit.” Dep reached out and placed a hand of Joseph’s knee in what was hopefully a comforting gesture. “They’re not here right now, I am.”

Joseph stayed silent for a few moments more and panic had begun to stir in Dep’s chest when he finally took a sharp breath and turned back to him. He placed his hand over Dep’s and leaned closer.

Without another word, Dep swooped forward and met him again. This time Joseph melted into the kiss, moving in sync as little moans escaped his lips. Dep moved the hand from his knee up to Joesph’s neck while the other undid his ponytail so he could run his hand through his hair.

“You certainly know how to create a distraction.” Joseph chuckled between pants when they’d broken apart for air. Dep couldn’t help the laugh that burst from his lip but rolled his eyes at the comment. He’d thought about kissing this man for a long time and it was everything that he’d imagined and more.

He leaned forward for another kiss then jerked back quickly with a small smile. “Wait, how’d you know I was outside?”

Joseph laughed and Dep was struck by the genuine beauty of the sound. “I saw you slide into the bush. Seemed a bit drastic don’t you think?”

Dep shrugged carelessly and pulled Joseph closer again. “Maybe, I’m glad you saw me though. Means I get to do more of this.” He whispered against the man’s slips, unable to keep the almost giddy smile off his lips.

#far cry 5 #joseph seed #male deputy #joseph seed/male deputy #fluff #i never get to write fluff often #its so much fun #i really loved watching this #request

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la-fille-en-aiguilles · 5 years

Text

The Beautiful & Damned (6/7)

Female Reader x Young!Remus Lupin | Female Reader x Young!Sirius Black

Chapter 6: Selflessness and Camaraderie, That Know No Bounds

A/N: And we are nearing the end, my loves. The thought kind of saddens me, but I am also beyond happy for the warm reception this story got. Thank you very much, it’s you who kept me writing into the night these past weeks!

Also, I know that maybe Minnie’s a tad too merciful in this part. Let’s just say she loves them boys as much as we do, ‘kay? :)

As always, please enjoy!

New to the series? - Accio Chapter 1: The Golden Couple - Accio Chapter 2: No, Definitely - Accio Chapter 3: Misread - Accio Chapter 4: Bravado Falls - Accio Chapter 5: Marauders to the Rescue

Not to brag, but you were always considered quite an accomplished speaker.

Everyone who knew you - even superficially - were quick to realize: that pretty little face of yours came with a tongue so sharp it cut like a Sectumsempra charm.

Almost never rude (only if the situation really called for it), usually calm & always very clear, you could be very persuasive, be it with the girls that you shared your dorm room with, or with your professors when they made mistakes, correcting your essays.

You nearly always managed to talk Sirius Let’s-Throw-A-Bloody-Tantrum Black out of whatever adventure he had decided to go on, for Godric’s Sake, - that should have meant something, right?…

Right?…

Yet despite your gift of the gab, all the hints and nearly blatant dismissal, this blockhead of a Slytherin Penn Parkinson just didn’t seem to get the message.

“Hey Y/N,” he came all the way to where you were sitting at the Gryffindor Table - and judging from his expression, for that strenuous effort on his part alone, you should have jumped his bones. “Lookin’ good, poppet, as usual”.

The chatter and the laughter, echoing across the Great Hall, watered down significantly as Parkinson pushed his way onto the seat just across from you, nearly knocking your interlocutor, Xenophilius Lovegood, on the floor.

“Get the fuck out of my way, you freak!” Parkinson barked, before turning back to you with a self-adoring smirk.

Narrowing your eyes at the Slytherin, you exhaled slowly, trying to keep your composure with every bit of self-control that was left in you. After the emotional rollercoaster that Remus Lupin had put you through last week, your patience were wearing real thin. The amount of anger and bitterness you were able to take on up to this very moment was truly sensational in its proportions; it would have sufficed a minor failure in one of your classes for your self-composure to burst at the seams.

Luckily, Penn Parkinson and his gigantic ego happened first.

You didn’t want anyone to get wrong ideas - some of the most brilliant and sharp-witted wizards whose company you truly enjoyed were proud Slytherins. It’s the odd specimen like Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy, to name a few, that were responsible for the not-so-likeable reputation of the house. None of the dignities common to human behaviour seemed to cross the skies of those four, clouded thick with judgmental exclamations and selfishness, that in truth, you knew, were the manifestations of the inferiority complex.

Remus is nothing like that. The thought electrocuted your brain like a bolt of lightening, coming out of nowhere.

Focus, you scolded yourself, staring at Parkinson, unblinking.

“I strongly suggest that you apologize, Penn,” your voice came out smooth and levelled, and you mentally patted yourself on the back. “And then feel free to get the hell out of my sight”.

Woahs and Ohs resonated in the air all around you, as the three of you instantly became the center of everyone’s attention. Staring daggers at Parkinson, from the corner of your eye you saw Lovegood give the people around you an awkward smile, as if apologising for the commotion that he thought he caused. That look on his face, the fact that he thought that he was the one that had to apologise, made you see red.

“Oh come on, poppet, don’t be such a prude, that’s a major turn-off”, the second the words left Parkinson’s lips, you knew where you were going to spend the rest of your evenings - scratching those nasty cauldrons in Slughorn’s class clean during eternal detention - yet nothing could stop you now. “‘sides, you better learn how to choose friends properly - first that gutless Lupin, now this loony Lovegood…”

Parkinson didn’t know what hit him. The thump with which his body landed on the ground was ear-splitting, the echo of the Petrificus Totalus curse whispering to the walls of the Great Hall until it was interrupted by a reverberating exclamation.

“Bloody hell, that was hot!…”

Standing over the table and Parkinson’s stupefied form behind it, you instantly reacted to the Potter’s outburst, turning your head. The pang of pain pierced your heart so deep you almost sat back down.

Peter, James and Sirius were staring at you with their eyes alight; but the way Remus looked at you, standing in between long tables, several feet away!… The way every woman wanted to be looked at by a man. Admiration, awe and you could swear on it, deep affection coloured his eyes vivid greenish-brown, soft yet burning, it almost hurt to watch.

Remus had always been a huge mystery to you, that you would kill to spend your life unraveling. He always looked sleepy, soft and innocent, but Merlin knows more than half of the legendary Marauder pranks were based on his ideas. He had always been the shy non-talkative one in the crowd of people, but whenever he told a joke or shot a witty comment at them, the entire room burst out laughing. Too self-conscious, Remus refused to acknowledge just how many girls and boys were secretly pining for him and his melancholic kind of vibe, his smile that held a sort of surprise in it, like a warm day in the middle of December.

From the moment you first laid your eyes on him you wanted nothing more than to become his friend. When he first shared his chocolate with you during one of your study sessions, Sirius couldn’t hear the end of it till the day Remus allowed you to steal food from his plate. You honestly thought Sirius would kill you for your constant blabber, or rat you out to Moony at the very least, but he never did such a thing.

Then at the end of last year, Padfoot told you that young Lupin might fancy you. You laughed out loud in his face, thinking he was doing the best friend’s job of trying to comfort you in the time of need. Over the days, he insisted, again and again that Remus carried a torch for you, and that “the signs were obvious”. You begged him not to probe, because Sirius was just about as subtle as a mandrake root pulled out of its pot in a library, and as amused as he’d been, he agreed.

Then you both went to that Ravenclaw party when he whispered the fateful words in your ear: “I told you so”. From that moment on, you couldn’t think of anything but of that young Gryffindor student that carried his scars like flowers, blooming in the sun.

When you finally worked up the courage to tell him about your feelings, as expected, it turned out a colossal disaster. Everything that could go wrong, went nuclear, and not wanting to reject you in front of everybody, Remus fled, and nipped in the bud every attempt of yours to talk to him afterwards.

You were confused, angry and disappointed, not only because Sirius turned out to be wrong all along, but also because Remus thought you’d be too of a wimp to take his rejection like a strong, powerful witch that you were.

And now he just stood there, thunderstruck, looking at you like you were his religion. What the hell was wrong with him?!… The wave of anger rose in your chest again.

“This is for “the loony Lovegood”, you, revolting parody of a wizard!” you spit in Parkinson’s face, finding an outlet for your exasperation. “This - Locomotor Mortis! - is for the “gutless Lupin”, you bitch”, you watched with a chuckle as Slytherin’s legs locked together, “And this! - Levicorpus! - is for the “poppet”, imbecile!”

“That’s my girl”, you heard Sirius snicker, before the sound of it drowned in the row of applause, cheering and whooping.

You’d only got a second to admire your handiwork - Parkinson’s numb body hang head-down high above the ground - before the Marauders nearly jumped you, their grins encircling you.

Peter chirped compliments like a little bird, Sirius and James, with their heads thrown back, laughed rowdily, with pretty wrinkles in the corners of their eyes…

Everything around you disappeared the moment Remus’ captivating eyes caught yours.

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N, you are… out of this world,” he spoke softly, his face inches away, chocolate on his breath making your mouth water.

It took you a minute to deal with your hormones, as you gazed at him blankly, your face unreadable. With the ability to speak, came the desire to shout, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

“Oh, so now you want to talk to me?!” you flared up, anger eating at you like fire at a piece of parchment paper. “Enough people for you here, Moony?”

“Y/N…” Remus face fell, his big beautiful eyes full of repentance. “Please, let me explain…”

“I don’t need your explanations,” your voice was dripping with almost tangible hurt. “I’m not an idiot, you know, I actually have a brain!” Remus made you lose control, and while you could deal with the outbursts of hurt, affection or lust in the past, you’d seemed to have reached your limit. “You could have told me! You could have just told me you didn’t like me in that way, it would have been okay. I respect your feelings, Remus, you shouldn’t have to love me back! We could have….”

The rest of your thoughts died on Moony’s mouth as it captured yours. Your body reacted to him instantly and naturally: you found the bitterness of coffee dozing on his lips, as if they’d never been away. Your entire body seemed to reconnect to every inch of his, your fingertips relishing every long, lean line of his back, the broad expanse of his shoulders… In his arms, you were home.

“I know we have a lot to discuss,” he murmured against your lips, his silk eyelashes caressing your skin. “I want you to know that I loved you since I met you, and…”

You didn’t let him finish, resuming the kiss - you already knew what he had to say, because you felt the exact same way. At this point, words were superfluous.

What you didn’t know however, was that Remus had finally realised what made you so special. What made people want to be around you, talk to you, hear your laugh. It was, indeed, your dazzling beauty. Beauty, that came from within.

“…Is that…. Is that Mr. Parkinson?!” the crowd of students who hated the Slytherin and his idiotic gang started to quickly thin out the moment they spotted Professor McGonagall making her way to the place of public hanging. She now stood side by side with James and Sirius, their eyes still glued to Penn.

“Why yes, professor,” Prongs agreed proudly. “In the flesh. Or should I say in the air?…”

Potter and Black exchanged glances, grinning wide. Unfazed by their antics, McGonagall raised both of her hands and slapped them both lightly on the back of their heads.

“I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Potter!” she announced, producing the wand from her robes and slowly bringing Parkinson’s numb body to the ground. Sirius opened his mouth in order to ask why the hell wasn’t she disappointed in him, when she cut him a stern look from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t even get me started on you, Mr. Black. I suggest you move your possessions to Professor Slughorn’s bureau, with your troublemaking habits you might as well start living there!” Sirius bit his bottom lip hard and turned away.

“Professor McGonnagal!” upon hearing Minerva’s voice, you untangled yourself from Remus (with great effort!), and hurried to where she stood, Remus hot in your tracks. “They didn’t curse Penn, Ma’am… I tried to get him to apologize… It was…”

“Me, Professor,” with his chest puffed out, Remus stepped in front of you readily, facing Minerva. You couldn’t help but gasp at his boldness, grabbing his arm instinctively in an attempt to pull him back.

“Rubbish!…” you exclaimed, trying to attract McGonnagal’s attention, and for a brief moment you did. She lowered her stare, studying you scrupulously. Just when you were about to elaborate, James bloody Potter had to intervene:

“Oh come on, Remus, Y/N’s right. Quit showing off,” you half expected him to stick his tongue out at Lupin, but luckily, he must have had a change of heart under Minerva’s piercing stare. “I was the one who Petrificus Total’ed the Slytherin baboon, Professor. The evidence is there!” he shook frantically the wand he produced from his robes. When James Potter set his mind on something, it was a losing game to try and fight him on whatever it was. “Had you heard the way he talked to Y/N and Xenophilius, you would have done much worse! I had to simply content myself with a difficult numbing spell...” In order to appear more convincing, Prongs took on a serious expression and motioned towards the unmoving body.

“Now, don’t get too excited, Potter,” Sirius huffed. “It was yours truly who locked the legs together… And that my friend, was a far more sophisticated charm!…”

From the scandalised expression on Minerva’s face, you realized you weren’t going to be the only one to be expelled or to spend the rest of your life in detention, and however paradoxical that might have sounded, the thought made you want to smile. Pursuing your lips in order to suppress a laugh, from that moment on, you decided to lay back, relax and watch the show.

“That is exactly what happened, professor,” Moony nodded, biting his bottom lip, and taking an air of a man who didn’t regret a thing he did and was ready to pay the price for his actions. “And after Sirius finished with him, I Levicorpse’d him for a good measure… But that shouldn’t come as a surprise of course… Since it was my idea to hang the Ravenclaw prefect from the Astronomy Tower”.

The confession produced such a spectacular effect that James, Sirius, Peter and you gasped collectively this time, both impressed and shocked at Moony’s audacity in the face of the only professor you ever truly respected and, truth be told, feared.

“I was the one who…” James wanted to soften the blow (or to add to it, with him you never knew), when McGonagall raised one of her hands, effectively shutting him up.

“Please spare me the details of your heroisms, Mr. Potter. The same goes for the four of you,” she eyed each and every one of you with a very admonishing look. When her gaze rested on you, she continued:

“Sixty points will be taken from Gryffindor for the dangerous barbarity one of you has committed!” she paused, waving her wand and thus sending the Parkinson’s body to Madame Pomfrey, you presumed. “Whoever it is, he, or she,” she gave you a pointed look, “should consider themselves extremely lucky, for I could have sent them packing. I will be writing to all of your parents tonight!” you bit your lip so hard it hurt, and instantly felt a warm, calloused hand squeeze your own.

Without even looking to your right, you knew it was Remus.

“Also, five points will be awarded to Gryffindor,” when all four of you raised your eyes in surprise, you could swear you saw a mischievous glint in Professor’s stare. “For the selflessness and camaraderie, that know no bounds. The four of you will fulfil seven consecutive weeks of evening detentions, which will surely only reinforce the bond you share.”

And just like that, with the rustle of her robes, McGonnagal walked off, with a barely-there smile on her thin, righteous mouth, that she thought no one would notice.

But you did, watching her with a bright smile of your own, relishing the warmth’s of Moony’s hand.

Last chapter’s coming soon!

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