#i mean whatever year i last remember starting to read books
Note
"is there any chance i can fix this?" where james and reader are best friends since birth but he begins to pull away and spend less time with her in favor of the boys, so she just cuts him out of her life and after a while he doesn't know how to deal with it anymore. hiiiii
sad beautiful tragic
james potter x fem reader (angst)
a/n: sorry about any grammar mistakes, english isn’t my first language (also i’m pretty bad at writing angst but i tried my best) also immediately thought of the title because of the taylor swift song, so hope you don’t mind the association. also the first kiss part came to my mind because of a tiktok i saw a few weeks ago but i don’t really remember who’s it was to credit them
warnings: friendship distancing, kissing, fighting, cursing, a bit short (sorry), happy ending
“i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry, honey, please. is there any chance i can fix this? just tell me, please”
you knew james potter and he knew you. knowing meaning comprehending each other, meaning that you stood by each others side for as long as you can remember.
he was your first friend. he was your neighbor and you both grew up together, it was expected that you both would know each other better than anyone.
sure, it felt different when you both started hogwarts and suddenly he had new friends, but so did you. you spent the time you could together, always saving a bit of your days for each other.
during the sixth to seventh year summer vacation, he had spent the whole summer with you, you both would hang out all the time.
until he kissed you.
it was the last day of summer and you both had spent the evening in his room. you were talking about a book you had been reading recently and he listened quietly, like it was the most interesting thing he had ever heard of. until you paused for a brief moment and he moved closer to you. you were sat on the floor with him, the carpet tickling your legs as you played with the fluffy yarn under you.
“honey” he said, you looked at him, doe eyed waiting for him to continue. “a phrase. two words, six letters, two vowels. guess.” he said lowly whilst looking at your lips. your mind went blank.
one vowel for each word. you still didn’t get it.
“what are the vowels?” you whisper back, he smiles.
“i and e” he answers, not taking his eyes from off of you for a second. you knew.
“kiss me?” and so he did. his lips met yours abruptly, his hands grabbed your hips and yours went straight to the back of his neck. it completely changed the way you ever saw him, hell, it completely changed your expectations to a kiss. it was better than anything you’d ever experienced and you loved it.
when you got back to school, it seemed like he didn’t do that, actually, it seemed like he didn’t even talk to you the whole summer.
sure, he did casually say hello in the halls and you might’ve shared one or two conversations, but what the hell? he kisses you like that and expects you to just forget about it? that was the most fucked up thing anyone could’ve done. as the semester went on, your mind was absolutely torturing you over that kiss.
it made you overthink every single thing you ever did around him. but maybe he didn't have time, maybe he was really busy with his studies and quidditch, right? that was probably it.
he saw you every once in a while, said an awkward hi or whatever that thing signaling head thing he did was.
the crush you had developed for him didn’t help at all. it made you crave his presence in your life, even now that you hated him more than you ever thought you possibly could. you missed his pet names for you, ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’ sounded so amazing coming out of his mouth.
but from the moment he started to ignore you, you decided he was absolutely done. he was never going to see a smile coming from you ever again, he was never going to get another hello, nothing. james potter didn’t deserve a single thing from you.
your friends agreed. they thought he was a piece of shit and said you should’ve cut him off a long time before.
life went on without him, you barely thought about him. your studies were going well, everything was great.
christmas break came up and when you saw james at the train station, you were pissed. you knew he was going to be there for christmas dinner, he was always invited alongside with his family. you didn’t know how he was going to act then, was he going to pretend it never happened?
when you got home, your mother instantly started asking you what you wanted for dinner and you were glad to be home, you just hated that he was in the house next to yours.
a few nights after you both got home, you were invited for a date by steven, who worked at a bookstore near the city park. you said yes, he took you to see a shitty movie and tried to kiss you after dropping you off at your front porch. you dodged it and gave him a good night kiss on the cheek. james saw it all.
once the date left, you heard him yelling from his porch:
“who’s that?” you ignored him and went inside, sure, you weren’t going to see steven again but james didn’t deserve to know that.
on christmas day you went to the potter’s for dinner, your parents insisted for you to go, even though you tried to fake being sick. sirius was there too, you politely greeted all of them them and didn’t bother to answer james’ “hey”.
when you sad at the side of the living room table james sat next to you, even though that wasn’t his usual seat. you played with your dress awkwardly and ate less, being there was making you so irritated you lost your appetite.
after taking a bite from your desert, you thanked euphemia for the food and told your parents you were feeling a bit sick and that you were heading home, telling them to enjoy the rest of their night.
as you were opening the door to head out, you heard footsteps behind you. you knew james was there and you had no interest to talk with him.
“don’t” you simply stated, stepping out and shutting the door lightly on him, he followed you during the small walk between both your houses.
“hey!” he shouted, trying to get your attention. you were about to shut the door to your house on his face, but he held it with his foot, going into your house.
he pulled you by your wrist but you tugged it away from him.
“don’t touch me!” you shouted at him, staring into his eyes for the first time that night.
“now you can talk to me, huh? ‘the fucks up with you?!” he shouts back, brows furrowed. you couldn’t believe him, what a fucking nerve he had.
“whats up with YOU?!” you step closer to him, throwing your keys on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “you’ve ignored me for the whole semester and now you wanna talk?” he had never seen you like this. you had never been this angry at anyone or anything around him.
“i’m sorry?” he had no reaction, he knew he was wrong, he just couldn’t deal with it. with anything. he didn’t know what to do after he kissed you, he couldn’t handle any of it. he knew that if he spent more time around you he would fall harder, he couldn’t risk it.
“i’m sorry! now that you don’t have anyone else near for you to talk to i’m worthy of your attention? i’m so lucky, right?!” your eyes started to tear up, but you held it in, he was not getting to see you cry.
“honey, i’m sorry i didn’t talk much with you these past few months, but i tried to speak with you tonight and you didn’t even bother to answer me!” he ran his hand through his hair, looking at you as you sat down on the couch, staring at your hands.
“you didnt even look at me. the entire fucking night. one lousy ‘hey’ is not trying to do anything” he handed you a piece of paper, it was crumpled up in his jeans’ pocket. you knew he was bad with words, but the paper was written front and back. what was he even trying to do? did he think a letter was enough to fix the damage he had done?
“really? you’re a little too late for this, don’t you think?” you said, looking at him angrily.
“fine, don’t read it then. just keep it, okay?” he knew you were about to cry. it was the worst feeling he had ever felt.
“you don’t get to do this to me, james” you hold back tears once you say it.
“i know, honey, i know” he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, cupping your face as you try to not melt because of his touch. he kisses you, but this time you pull away.
“no. don’t do this to me” you say, a single tear streaming down your face, he wipes it off but more tears just keep coming
“im sorry, im so sorry for everything i did and-“ you interrupt him.
“could you just try to listen?!” you shout, pulling away from his touch again. “what makes you think that i want this? after all you did, better, all that you didn’t do?! you kiss me and expect me to forget about it? expect me to be okay with you ignoring me all the time just because you kissed me again? i can’t be okay with any of this unless you actually explain to me what happened. i really try to understand you, but all of this doesn’t help!”
“i love you” he says “i have loved you all my life and i didn’t know, after i kissed you it all hit me and i couldn’t trust myself around you anymore, i didn’t want to hurt you so i pulled away, i just didn’t know it would hurt you more like that. i’m sorry, but im here now and i want to show you how much I do love you” he pauses and sits next to you on the couch.
“i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry, honey, please. is there any chance i can fix this? just tell me, please” he wipes the tears from off your face again. you knew he meant it, you just didn’t know how to trust him again.
“i don’t know” you whisper, looking into his eyes, you had never seen him look this sad. you wanted to trust him, you really did, but how could you? how could you know he wasn’t going to pull something like that again?
you couldn’t be sure of anything, you could only hope for the best and be careful. so you gave it a shot.
“come here” you say lowly, pulling him in for a hug. he buried his face in the crook of your neck and gave you small kisses.
“i’m so sorry, baby” he whispered.
“i know” you whisper back, he looks at you and gives you quick kisses all over your face. you can’t help but smile.
it was going to take a while for you to trust him again, but you knew you could.
#james potter x reader#james potter fic#james potter#james potter x y/n#james potter x you#james potter angst#james potter oneshot#james potter imagine#james potter fanfiction#mrsaluado#lila writes#silencesscreams
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Title: Bared Fangs.
Commissioned by the very lovely @ohsotearful.
Pairing: Yandere!Childe x Reader (Genshin).
Word Count: 3.0k.
TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Modern/Serial Killer AU, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment, Blood/Gore, Reader Gets Hurt, Obsessive Behavior, Gun Violence, and Unhealthy Relationships. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
You should’ve known something was wrong as soon as Childe asked you if you wanted to go outside.
Honestly, you should’ve known something was wrong as soon as he found you reading in front of his fireplace, as soon as that crooked, schoolboy grin found its way to his lips and he forewent his usual routine of draping himself on top of you like some muscled, zealously homicidal weighted blanket in favor of ruffling your hair and toying with the collar of the flannel you were wearing (his flannel, technically, but you tried not to let yourself acknowledge how accustomed you’d grown to wearing your captor’s clothes or, more troublingly, how long it’d been since the last time you’d felt disgusted by it). “Snow should be done for a couple hours,” he started, nodding towards the frost-coated windows. It might’ve been a more charming sight if not for the scratches carved into the surface of the glass – souvenirs from there the first time you got your hands on one of his axes. “I’m thinking of stepping out, doing a little hunting before the storm kicks up again. Wanna come with me?”
You narrowed your eyes at your book, trying to hide the way your heart beat a little faster at the suggestion of being able to leave his claustrophobic cabin. But, with Childe, you were usually better off staying safely tucked behind the bars of your rustic cage. “Is this going to be a normal hunting trip or a you hunting trip?”
He only hummed. “’fraid I don’t know what you mean by that, princess.”
“Are we going to be hunting animals, or…” You trailed off, swallowing down the bitter taste that came with remembering why you were here. “… or, you know. People, or whatever.”
“This time of year?” He let out an airy laugh, like you’d asked to go skiing in the middle of summer. “There’s nobody on the mountain ’cept me and you.”
Still, you dug your teeth into the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to try and think beyond your near-overwhelming desire to be anywhere but here. Childe was a murderer, a sadist, a kidnapper, but he wasn’t the type to play mind games. He tended to divide his reality between the world outside – where people could be hunted like quarry, their bodies left to rot in tents and rivers with only the occasional token taken as a keepsake – and the world inside the walls of his cabin – where he sat you down in front of a low-burning fire and told you stories about ice-fishing with his siblings and pouted when you admit his (admittedly, not entirely inedible) cooking could use a little more seasoning. After that first night – the worst night of your fucking life – he seemed to want to keep you resigned to the latter, at least until he came home covered in blood and desperate for something warm and familiar to fuck until he passed out.
Eventually, you sighed, closing your book and sitting up. “Fine. When do we leave?”
His grin widened, head lulling forward as he pressed a kiss into the top of your head. “The front door’s already unlocked. I’ll give you a head start, a full five minutes. Actually, make it ten – just to make it a little more fun for you.”
There was a beat of silence, then another. “Childe, you’re making it sound like you’re—”
“Like I said, there’s nobody on the mountain but me and you.” He pulled away, turning on his heel. “I’ll be nice, too – won’t use anything with more than a twenty-foot range.”
“But, you— you can’t just—”
“Tick-tock.” He clicked his tongue, winking at you over his shoulder. “Unless you’d rather cut straight to the good part.”
You should’ve known something was wrong, and now, running through the frozen wilderness desperately lost and barely dressed, your ten minutes spent and a killer undoubtedly chasing you down, you were paying the price for it.
You didn’t have time to be tactical. The snow was fresh enough to make every interruption unbearable obvious, meaning that – even if you were willing to stop and spare the seconds it’d take to hide your tracks, it wouldn’t have done you much good. Your only option was to run, but even that was easier said than done. Childe preferred to keep you in a state of hand-crafted domestic bliss, meaning what few clothes you did have were either picked out by or borrowed from him. Currently, all that separated you from the cold was his flannel, an oversized shirt, and a pair of his boots that you’d snagged on your way out. The chill snapped at your cold legs like the teeth of some unseen predator, the frigid air burning holes in your lungs, but the thought of what Childe would do when he caught you was enough to keep your feet moving, to keep you sprinting blindly through the forest. He wouldn’t kill you. You had to believe that he wouldn’t kill you, but—
A high-pitched holler, the sound of branches snapping underfoot and foliage being pushed aside somewhere behind you. You hadn’t stopped running after your first trembling steps away from the cabin, and yet, he couldn’t have been more than a few hundred feet behind you – half a mile, at your most generous guess. You started to curse under your breath, then thought better of it, biting down on your bottom lip with enough force to draw blood and pivoting to the left, where the forest seemed to be just a little thicker. If you couldn’t get away from him, you could at least try to hide before he got to you.
It was a haphazard, half-baked plan that was cruelly and immediately cut short as your foot caught on a root hidden by the snow, tearing away your right boot and leaving you sprawled over the frozen ground. Dampness sunk into your thin clothes, and you shut your eyes, trying to listen for Childe’s footsteps, but there was a reason none of his victims ever seemed to hear him coming. The forest’s minimal white noise was enough to swallow him entirely, the sound of birdsong and distant car engines disguising his presence despite your best attempts to—
Your realization was delayed, but intense.
Cars.
Cars meant roads. Cars meant civilization. Cars meant people, people who could take you away from here, away from Childe. You clambered to your feet, but failed to take so much as a step before a sudden, stabbing pain bit into your calf, your leg immediately buckling underneath you. You would’ve fallen entirely if it hadn’t been for the adrenaline running through your system, numbing the agony and choking the ragged scream that threatened to rise from the pit of your chest into a cracked whimper. It was one of Childe’s arrows – you would’ve been able to recognize that black steel from a mile away – but you didn’t let yourself linger on the implications. With grit teeth and balled fists, you limped forward, leaving a thin trail of crimson in your wake. You would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been looking, but it was there – a thin, wobbling, unpaved dirt road, only marked by two thin rows of tire tracks that sliced harshly through the otherwise unmarred blanket of snow. God, you never thought you’d be so happy to see dirt.
There wasn’t time to think. You stumbled out of the woods and into the road, the arrow’s head sinking that much deeper with every stuttering movement. The car you’d heard was still there, too; a by-the-numbers sedan, only a few hundred feet down the road. You threw up your arms up, then thought better of it; cupping your shaking hands around your mouth. You moved to call out, but whatever you might’ve said was stolen away from you as something dark flashed across your peripheral and another arrow planted itself in your right shoulder. This time, you crumbled like a dead leaf – broken into pieces by a morning gale.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Childe emerge from the tree line, his crossbow still in-hand. As he came to stand in front of you, your gaze shifted back to the car. You watched, your mind buzzing with pain, as it disappeared around a sharp bend, never so much as slowing down.
You didn’t realize you were crying until you heard Childe coo, wiping away the tears flowing down your cheeks before they could freeze against your skin. “Sorry, princess,” he muttered, his voice low with a painful edge. “I guess I cheated, huh? Couldn’t help it – just knew you’d look so cute all bruised up and bleeding.”
Dropping his crossbow carelessly, he fell to your height. He was dressed for one of his usual hunts; a cut-off shotgun slung over his back, a hunting knife sheathed at his hip. The leather casing of the latter pressed into your side as he dipped lower, burying his face in the crook of your neck and pressing a long, open-mouthed kiss into the base of your throat. You felt his knee settle between your thighs, and weakly, your hands found their way to his chest. “Not here,” you mumbled, more afraid of the chill quickly seeping under your skin than being seen. “It hurts, Childe. I—I think you hit something imp—”
“I’ll be fast.” Another kiss, this one to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His calloused hands skirted over your sides, then your waist, hiking the thin fabric of your oversized shirt up to your midriff. You were already past the point of total numbness, and yet, the rough gravel beneath the snow cut harshly into your exposed skin. Rather than distracting you from the pain in your calf, your shoulder, it only seemed to draw more attention to your bleeding wounds, only seemed to make it harder to ignore the dull heat of Childe’s mouth against your chest. “Gotta take you out more often. You’re always beautiful, but I didn’t know you’d look this pretty.”
It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. His arrow burnt into the tattered skin of your calf as his hands fell to your legs, groping at the plush of your thighs playfully before shifting his attention to the fly of his jeans. You knew what he wanted, he’d always been transparent, but the sound of shifting fabric, the sight of his rosy-tipped, stiff cock pressing flush against his stomach – that was enough for the loose coil of dread writhing in the pit of your chest to tighten into a tight, jagged knot of pure terror. You tried to sit up, to make your refusal that much more apparent, but Childe only caught you by your uninjured shoulder, shoving you into the ground with enough force to earn a pained scowl, a fractured whimper. His only response was a wordless, vaguely sympathetic noise, a softened lull to his wide smile. “No skipping out on this, babydoll. I can’t guarantee you’ll end up in one piece if I have to wait ‘till we get home.”
It was a fair warning, but anything he could have said would’ve been lost on you. Your heart was beating in your ears, blocking out any other sound. Pools of red blood and piles of limp bodies flashed across your vision and desperately, futilely, you clawed at the hand on your shoulder, kicked at his chest, thrashed underneath him like an animal unaware that resistance would only make the predator want to drive its teeth that much deeper. It was more Childe’s divided attention than your strength, but your heel found his side and, just for a moment, he slipped, letting out a soft grunt as the hand pinning you down fell away. You were scrambling onto your knees in a second, attempting to get your feet underneath you in another, but your little stunt was cut short as Childe lashed out, wrapping his arm around your neck and forcing your stomach against the ground. There was no whimpering, anymore – just a ragged, ear-piercing scream as his free hand found the arrow in your shoulder, tearing it out of you in one clean, unfaltering motion. His only response came in the form of a throaty moan; deep and terrible and followed immediately by the feeling of his cock against your dry cunt. You would’ve begged him to stop, offered to let him do anything he wanted to you if he just didn’t do this, but he didn’t give you time to bargain. Without hesitation, he thrust into you, bottoming out in the same motion.
Trembling sobs tore at your throat and past your lips, tears now flowing unabashedly down your cheeks. Childe kept his full weight against your back as he fucked into you with short, sharp thrusts – never happy unless he was burying himself in the deepest pocket of your poor, freezing pussy. Rather than desensitizing you, letting you fall back into some distant state of nonexistence, the snow seemed to burn where it was pressed into your cheek, your chest. You wished he would’ve taken off the rest of your clothes. You wished he would’ve just shot his stupid arrows into your skull and put you out of your misery.
It shouldn’t have felt good, you didn’t want it to feel good, but your body didn’t know that. Your cunt clenched and drooled around him, trying in vain to turn his assault into something you could enjoy, but the way he grunted into your ear snuffed out any pleasure you might’ve been able to feel. “Tryin’ to pull me back in,” he muttered, his voice already airy, already strung out. You couldn’t help but wonder if, had you only been able to run from him for another minute, he would’ve found something else to shove his dick into and left you out here to freeze to death. “Is that your goal? Wanna – Fuck, wanna help me warm you up?”
His hands fell to your hips, pulling your ass flush against his hips and letting him fuck into you that much deeper, that much more brutally. Your injured leg grated against the dirt of the road and you cried out, your voice ragged and barely coherent. “St— Hurts, stop, stop, please, stop—”
“That’s it, always making such pretty sounds for me.” He buried his face in the dip of your shoulder. “Sometimes, it feels like all I wanna do it cut you open and crawl—”
He was interrupted by the dull roar of an approaching engine and something brightened inside of you, your eyes shifting towards the road, towards the well-beaten pick-up truck speeding in your direction. The breaks screeched as you and Childe came into the driver’s view, and for a second, you let yourself go slack underneath him, relief overwhelming your better judgement.
Childe wasn’t so sentimental.
His shotgun was in his hand before you could so much as process that he’d moved. Wordlessly, he fired off two shots; the first to the windshield on the driver’s side and the second to one of the front tires. You watched on helplessly as your last hope for salvation bucked, swerved, then veered off of the road entirely, catching on a snowbank and turning over once before crashing into the trunk of an oak that failed to so much as shake under the force of the collision. It was quieter than you’d expected it to be, the only sounds that of shattering glass and crunching metal. If there were survivors, no one screamed, or called for help, or came stumbling out of the wreckage. Childe’s breath hitched in his throat, his pace growing that much more erratic as he buckled into you – his pointed canines finding the tender junction at the base of your throat and burying themselves in your skin. It was less a love-bite and more an effort to eat you alive. What little blood he didn’t lap up washed over your chest, melting the frost and mixing into the snow beneath you. “Look—” He groaned, tried and failed to pull away from you. His voice reverberated against the curve of your neck as he went on. “Look what you turn me into, princess. Got me making all kinds of messes for you.”
Blood. Bodies. The taste of his cum on your tongue as your friends bled out under the same roof. You would’ve choked the air in your lungs if you’d been able to breathe, but there was no point lingering on pleasant hypotheticals. There were no distractions from the feeling of Childe’s hips grating against yours, the way his cock twitched as settled against you. A guttural moan tore past his lips as something thick and searing flooded into you, and you refused to let yourself acknowledge that this was the warmest you’d felt in days.
You stayed there, limp and frozen and miserable, as Childe pulled away from you, pulled out of you. Your eyes fell shut as he stumbled to his feet, your skin too numb to feel anything aside from the pressure of his arms around your motionless body. He pulled you against his chest, then let out a low whistle. “Might’ve gone a little overboard there. Sorry ‘bout that, princess.” A low chuckle, a gentle squeeze. “I just can’t help it, not when it comes to you. You’ll forgive me after a warm bath, right?”
You didn’t answer. The arrow in your calf must’ve fallen out, or maybe not – you couldn’t feel anything below your knees. Your hands felt like dead weight too, utterly disconnected from anything you might’ve used to control them, but every drop of panic, every ounce of horror – that all paled in comparison to the never-ending pit of pitch-black loathing that formed in your chest as you stared up at Childe. You hated him, wanted to see him torn apart with his own stockpile of weapons, but you really couldn’t blame him. Not for this, at least.
You should’ve known something was wrong as soon as the monster bared its fangs.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere oneshot#genshin impact#genshin impact imagines#genshin imagines#genshin x reader#yandere genshin impact#yandere childe#childe x reader#yanderecore#yancore
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
On Power, and on Powering Through, and Why They’re Really Not the Same
I don’t pay much attention to personal attacks in reviews. It comes as the flipside of success; an attempt by the critic to puncture what they see as too much success. But I still remember one review, just after the film of Chocolat, when two of my novels happened to be in the Top 5 at the same time, in which a (male) newspaper critic referred to me dismissively as a premenopausal woman writer. I was a little taken aback. Clearly, it was meant to disparage, but I was only 35, ten years away from the perimenopause. What exactly did he mean? It wasn’t a comment about the book (which I doubt he had even read). The obvious misogyny aside, it seemed to express resentment, not of my books, but of me, myself, my right to take up space in his world. That word – premenopausal – was at the same time a comment on my age, my looks, my value, and a strong suggestion that someone like me shouldn’t be this successful, shouldn’t be writing bestsellers, shouldn’t be so – visible.
I don’t recall the name of the man, or the paper for which he was writing. He was far from being the only journalist who felt I didn’t deserve success. I shrugged off the unpleasant comment, but he’d meant it to hurt, and it did. I still wonder why he – and his editor - thought that was appropriate. I also wonder why, 20 years on, women are still dealing with this kind of thing. It’s still not enough for a woman to be successful in her chosen field. Whatever her achievements, you can be pretty sure that at some point, some man in his 50s or 60s – maybe an Oxbridge graduate, author of an unpublished novel or two - will offer his opinion on her desirability, either in the national Press, or most likely nowadays, by means of social media. The subtext is clear: women who don’t conform to societal values of what a woman should be are asking for this kind of treatment; especially those who dare to achieve more than their detractors.
10 years after that nasty review, I finally began the journey into perimenopause. No-one told me it was happening. No-one in the media was talking about it at the time. Even my doctor never thought to mention that my symptoms – the insomnia, headaches, mood swings, anxiety, depression, sleep paralysis, hair loss, brown patches on my skin – might have a single origin. I began to feel I was losing my mind: as if I were starting to disappear. I started to doubt my own senses. I blamed it all on the stress from my job. My mother had powered through menopause – or so she led me to believe – and made no secret of her contempt for modern women who complained, or treated the symptoms as anything more than a minor inconvenience.
And so I did the same. I powered through; and when at last I began to experience the classic symptoms of menopause - irregular bleeding, hot flushes, exhaustion, night sweats so bad that I would awake in sheets that were wringing wet – it did not occur to me to seek help. After over a year of this, I finally went to my doctor, who took a few tests, cheerfully announced I was menopausal, and when I inquired after HRT, advised me to power through – that phrase again - and let Mother Nature take her course. The internet was slightly more helpful. I took up running, lost weight, cut down on alcohol, downed supplements and sleeping pills and vitamin D, and felt a little better. Then, breast cancer came to call, and by the time my treatment was done, the symptoms had more or less disappeared, or at least had been superseded by the symptoms of chemo. I congratulated myself at having powered through cancer as well as surviving menopause.
But two years later, I feel old. I look that way, too. I’ve aged ten years. Some of that’s the cancer, of course. I was quite open about my treatment when I was powering through it – partly in order to pre-empt any questions about my hair loss or any of the all-too visible effects of three courses of chemo. Not that it stopped the comments, though. Even at my lowest ebb, a sector of social media made it clear that my only concern should be to look young and feminine to anonymous men on Twitter.
Right now, I don’t feel either. My hair has gone grey and very thin. My skin, too, seems thinner; both physically and mentally. At a recent publishing event, several acquaintances failed to recognize me; others just looked through me as if I had become invisible. Invisibility would be a relief; I find myself dressing for camouflage. I tend to wear baggy black outfits. I got my OBE last week. Photographs in the Press show me talking to Prince William. I’m wearing a boxy black trouser suit, flat shoes and a red fedora. I think I look nice. Not glamorous, but comfortable; quirky; unpretentious.
On a thread of largely supportive messages, one Twitter user pops up to say: Jesus, who’d accept an honour looking like that middle-aged disaster? @Joannechocolat thought she’d make an impact? She needs a stylist. If you look in the dictionary for the definition of “dowdy”, it features this photo.
It’s not the same man who belittled me over 20 years ago. But the sentiment hasn’t changed. Regardless of your achievements, as a woman, you’ll always be judged on your age and fuckability. I ought to be used to this by now. But somehow, that comment got to me. Going through menopause isn’t just a series of physical symptoms. It’s how other people make you feel; old, unattractive, and strangely ashamed.
I think of the Glass Delusion, a mental disorder common between the 14th and 17th centuries, characterized by the belief that the sufferer was made of glass. King Charles VI of France famously suffered from this delusion, and so did Princess Alexandra Amélie, daughter of Ludwig 1st of Bavaria. The condition affected mostly high-profile individuals; writers, royals, intellectuals. The physician to Philip II of Spain writes of an unnamed royal who believed he was a glass vase, which made him terribly fragile, and able to disappear at will. It seems to have been a reaction to feelings of social anxiety, fear of change and the unknown, a feeling both of vulnerability and invisibility.
I can relate. Since the menopause, I’ve felt increasingly broken. I don’t believe I’m a glass vase, and yet I know what it feels like to want to be wrapped in a protective duvet all day. I’ve started buying cushions. I feel both transparent, and under the lens, as if the light might consume me. On social media, I’ve learnt to block the people who make mean comments. To make myself invisible. To hide myself in plain sight. I power through, but sometimes I think: why do women power through? And who told them that powering through meant suffering in silence?
Fortunately, some things have changed since I went through the menopause. Over the past few years, we’ve seen more people talking about their experiences. Menopause is likely to affect half the population. We should be talking about it. If men experienced half these symptoms, you bet they’d be discussing it. Because power isn’t silence. You’d think that, as writer, I would have worked that out sooner. Words are power. Sharing is strength. Communication breaks down barriers. And sometimes, power means speaking up for those less able to speak for themselves.
I look at myself in the mirror. I see my mother’s mouth; my father’s eyes. I see the woman I used to be; the woman I will one day become. I see the woman my husband loves, a woman he still finds attractive. A woman with a grown-up child who makes her proud every single day. A menopausal woman. A cancer survivor. A woman who writes books that make other people sit up and think. A woman who doesn’t need the approval of some man she’s never met to be happy. She can be happy now. I can. And finally, I understand. Powering through isn’t about learning to be invisible. It isn’t about acceptance, or shame, or letting Nature take its course, or lying about feeling broken. It’s looking beyond your reflection. It’s seeing yourself, not through the lens of other people’s expectations, but as yourself. The sum of everything you’ve been; of everyone who loves you. Of claiming your right to be more than glass, or your reflection in it. The right to be valued. The right to shine, regardless of age or reproductive status. Men seldom question their own right to these things. But women have to fight for them. That’s why it’s so exhausting.
This morning, instead of putting on my usual baggy black sweatshirt, I chose a bright yellow pullover. I looked at myself in the mirror. It’s not a great colour on me now, but it feels like dressing in sunshine. My husband came into the bathroom. You look –
My husband rarely gives compliments. I can’t remember the last time he commented on how I was dressed. I wondered what he was going to say. Dowdy, perhaps? Inappropriate? Like a menopausal woman in dire need of a stylist?
At last, he said: When you smile like that, you look like a friendly assassin.
A friendly assassin. I’ll take that.
Shining like the sun. That’s me.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
lasting childhood dream/sweetly shared future
summary: ever since you were little, alhaitham knew what he wanted.
contents: childhood friends!au, fluff, ambiguous relationship at the end (although implied romantic), gn!reader (they/them pronouns used), soft soft alhaitham
cw: food
wc: 1k
a/n: so so sorry for the slow updates :') things will (hopefully !) be picking up momentum again 🤞
“Hey, Haitham.”
Your high-pitched voice calls out to him. He chooses to ignore it.
“Hey! Haitham! Are you purposely ignoring me cause you wanna read? Again?”
A crease forms at his eyebrows–an action that a nine-year-old should never have gotten used to as often as he did–and his hands tighten around the pages of his book. You always did this. Nearly every day, you would choose to sit next to him. He can’t even remember when it started, but soon enough, you had proclaimed him your ‘best friend for life’.
For a child prodigy like Alhaitham, it’s extraordinary how he has no idea why you’ve chosen him to be your designated play partner. You don’t even play like the other kids. He just sits there, reading his book, and you sit there with him, chatting incessantly about whatever it is you want–not like he cares, anyway. (It was food on Monday, an interesting flower you found on Tuesday, and food again on Wednesday.)
He’s never asked you why, and you’ve stuck with him long enough for him to be satisfied with not knowing. It’s not like he’s not curious; he just finds his books more interesting.
“Well, since you’re not answering, I guess I’ll just find someone else to play with!”
You harrumph, turning your head away. However, since you don’t make any move to physically get up, Alhaitham doesn’t look up from the slightly-yellowed pages that he hasn't noticed he's crinkling.
But then, the unthinkable happens. Legs that were previously lounging beside him begin to unfold and rise, a shadow forming over his head. It takes him the time for you to fully stand up for him to comprehend what was happening. His crease deepens further.
“Wait.”
On instinct, one of his hands that was holding onto his book clasps onto yours, his head bowed down. His fringe hides his face, which, for once–however annoying it may be–he’s grateful for, as it means you can’t see the blush readily spreading across his cheeks. Pretending to be more interested in dragon fights and swordsmanship, he all but whispers.
“Stay. I like it better when you’re here.”
Your eyes lighten up, and a large smile breaks out across your face.
“I like it when you’re with me too! And I wasn’t actually gonna leave you. I just wanted to get us some sweets!”
“Oh.”
If he wasn’t already thankful for his fringe, he definitely is now, what with the embarrassment he’s being forced to endure. You can still probably see his ears, which he can feel burning up. Not replying, he lets go of your hand–almost abruptly–and lets you skip away to the local sweets vendor that always exudes a sugary smell.
He watches you all the way. The sun’s shining brightly on your skin, making it glow. Your toothy grin still pervades his mind, and he can feel the blush on his cheeks that never seems to go away whenever you’re around. Or maybe that’s the heat. But then why is his heart doing backflips? And why do those backflips increase in speed when he looks down at the hand that was held in yours? He thinks that they fit perfectly, like two pieces in a jigsaw puzzle, and (as much as he doesn’t want to admit it) that he wants you to be around him.
“Stupid thoughts. I only tolerate them because they’re my only friend.”
He chooses to ignore the other thought that his heart seems to tell.
“They’re my only friend. But I don’t mind, because I really only care about them.”
After a few minutes, you come back with that same toothy grin, carrying an assortment of sweet treats for the both of you to devour in only a few seconds. They all blend together into a saccharine scent.
“Look, try this one, Haitham! The person said it was a new flavour!”
He accepts it immediately, taking it gently from your hand and putting it into his mouth. It explodes with flavour–nutty and aromatic, nothing like the sugary syrup of the others. A small and satisfied smile creeps onto his face, his eyes failing to hide his delight. It does get stuck, however, as he tries to get parts of it dislodged from the gaps in his teeth. A giggle interrupts him.
“Haitham, you look really funny! Y’know, I want to have a sweet shop when we’re grown up so that I can make all the sweets you want! Then we can have fun together even when we have to do grown-up, boring stuff.”
You remember to be considerate, and turn to him.
“What about you, Haitham? What do you wanna be when you’re grown up?”
–
Alhaitham doesn’t remember exactly what he said after. Probably a scholar. All he can remember is younger him staring blatantly, mouth gaping open at your questioning eyes, and his heart pounding at your mention of ‘we’. The realisation that you felt the same way as him left him astounded. In that moment, he felt something bloom in his chest, something that he’s carried all these years.
Although he’s not sure whether you ever fully understood how much of a soft spot he had for you. You never even noticed how his headphones were always on the ground, rather than on his head, whenever you were around.
Now, reading his book peacefully, he looks down at his lap and allows himself to smile. You’re going to wake up with a sore neck if he keeps you in this position for much longer, but just for a moment, he wants to admire you.
Alhaitham strokes your hair tenderly, moving it out of your face, nimble fingers caressing your jawline. His eyes soften. How much you’ve meant to him. The years that he’s known you for don’t compare to the amount of gazes he’s thrown your way, so full of youthful longing and yearning. Because ever since you said ‘we’, he’s been able to answer your question. Maybe not in the exact same way he did all those years ago, but an answer that’s been stewing for every year after.
“When I grow up, I want to be by your side.”
a/n: he’s grown on me i can’t lie 😔 enemies to lovers though 😍😍 likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated !! 🩷🩷 (pink heart for iOS finally!)
#alhaitham x reader#alhaitham x you#alhaitham fluff#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#genshin x you#genshin impact x you#genshin fluff#genshin impact fluff#genshin drabbles#alhaitham drabble#this one’s over 1k words so proud of myself#self love ❤️#and PLS ALHAITHAM HOW HAVE YOU DONE THIS#ily 😘
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
✧.* LADYBUG & BUGBOY.
— summary : peter realizes that he is in love with you.
— word count : 0,7k
— warnings : fluff, tiny bit of angst, fem!reader, petnames (ladybug), peter teasing reader & reader teasing peter back, childhood friends to lovers.
a/n : his brown doe eyes literally make me WANT TO SCREAMMMMMM!! he's so skrunkly, he's so pookie, he's so😭😭😭😭☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ also this is so messy sorry.
the cold autumn wind blew as leaves start to dance outside your window. you smile, flipping through the photo book titled 'y/n and peter's adventures'. you realize that you share so many memories with peter, you two basically grew up next to each other.
"ooh! how about this one? do you remember that?" you point to the picture of you and peter on halloween night. you were posing with the biggest smile on your face and peter was doing the same.
"halloween, i remember." he nodded. "was that the halloween where you cried because one house ran out of kitkats?" you asked, laughing as your mind replays the memory. peter nods again.
you kept smiling as your mind continues to replay the memories you had together. you look across your room and spot your beat-up converses, which reminded you of when peter taught you how to do bunnyloops.
you turn and look at the band poster you had up, which reminded you of when peter introduced you to it. you quietly chuckled as you remember when aunt may told peter to quiet down one afternoon because she couldn't hear the oven go 'ding!' which led to her muffins being burnt.
you continue to flip through the pages, observing each photo.
"oh my god, look!" you gasp. it was a picture of 4 year-old you kissing 4 year-old peter on the cheek, he has the biggest smile, his cheeks were red, and you could hear aunt may and uncle ben's laugh behind it.
you squint to see the small writing - it reads 'valentine's day'.
"may said you look like you were head over heels for me in this." you could recall the exact moment.
peter nods, but you don't notice that.
what you do notice is that peter has been awfully quiet this entire time.
actually,
he's been awfully quiet this entire week. you try to remember anything he has said earlier today, but nothing pops up. did you even see him in school today?
you also realize that he hasn't tried to text or call you recently. i mean, he doesn't have to do any of that. but, maybe you were just expecting something from him, you know?
"you've been acting really off recently, peter." you say, breaking the awkward silence.
he hesitates. you can tell.
you wait for his response, but he doesn't seem like he's gonna reply. so you shrug it off and continue flipping through the photo book.
"i think it's because i'm in love with you."
whatever you were expecting from him. it was not that.
you pause. "don't. joke about that."
"what? did i almost get you?" he laughs. and suddenly he's back to being peter from last week.
"that's not funny!" you throw a pillow at him.
"aww, you're blushing." peter teases. "don't rub it in now." you reply, hiding your face in the photo book.
"you're the one who won't make eye contact with me." — "yeah. 'cause you're hard to look at. especially after whatever you just pulled there."
"did you just call me ugly?"
"wow. now you're putting words in my mouth. you're manipulative too, why would i want to look at you?"
"just say you like looking at me. don't be so stubborn." he continues to tease you.
but you have to admit, he does have the prettiest eyes you have ever seen.
"how can you just say these things so easily?" you question, looking up from the photobook.
"what if i can say it because it's true?".
you blink.
"i feel so bad for gwen and harry. they must have a hard time dealing with you."
harry and gwen have been peter's closest friends since middle school, and peter's only other friends.
"you're the only one i'm like this with."
"so what? you're really in love with me?" you can't tell if this is some sick joke peter's doing, or if he's actually serious.
"absolutely. head. over. heels."
"so, you wouldn't mind if i do this?" you held his hand. "what? hold my hand? you already do that in the hallways so you wouldn't get lost."
you nod, "but you're blushing."
peter face was blank. his cheeks grew red.
"you there? you talk so confidently for someone who can't do the same things you tease me with."
"... you're. terrible."
"you were actually being serious?"
"terribly serious, ladybug."
"ladybug?"
"you'll get it."
#tasm#tasm imagines#tasm imagine#tasm x reader#tasm x y/n#tasm x you#tasm fluff#tasm spiderman#tasm peter#tasm peter x you#tasm peter x reader#tasm peter imagines#tasm!peter#tasm!peter imagine#tasm!peter fluff#tasm!peter parker x reader#tasm!peter parker#peter parker#peter parker imagines#peter parker imagine#peter parker x y/n#peter parker x you#peter parker x reader#peter parker fluff#spiderman imagines#spiderman#the amazing spiderman#the amazing spider man#tasm!peter x you#tasm peter parker
361 notes
·
View notes
Text
My heart speaks for you (Part 2)
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
Pairing: Eris x f!reader
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings: angsty fluff?, angst, hints of anxiety, anxiety attack, nightmare
Summary: Y/n is the youngest child of the High Lord of the Night Court and lives a slightly different life than the rest of her family. But what happens, when an unexpected visitor enters the stage and decides to completely change her life?
A/N: Hey guys! It took me a bit longer to write this chapter than I had planned to (accidentally deleted a part of the story ups) but finally did it! And I recommend you listen to "Remember that night" by Sara Kays and "The night we met" by Lord Huron.
Anyway, enjoy reading! 😙
Part 1 ⎮Part 2 ⎮Part 3
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
Six days. Six days had passed since the incident in the conference room. Six tough days and not a single glimpse of him. No word, no letter, no message of any kind.
The water of the Sidra washed up on the shore in mesmerising waves, each time stealing a bit more of the glittering sand. Sunlight reflected off the mirrored surface, magically illuminating the facade of the River House.
The hammock I sat in swayed gently in the afternoon breeze and, thanks to Elain, the sun didn´t bother me too much. My aunt had planted two Illyrian oaks in our garden the year I was born, providing shade now that they had grown from tiny sprouts into strong, sturdy trees. As I became older, I found my favourite reading spot underneath them. They stood a few feet from the River House and were the perfect place to relax and simply be.
A piece of bark crumbled onto the pages of the book I was holding right now. `Feathers and Fire´ was written in large, ornate letters on the leather-bound cover. Nesta had borrowed me one of her novels to keep me company, as I had spent the last few days mostly by myself.
I give up! After reading the same paragraph for the third time in a row, I finally slammed the book shut. I had really tried to concentrate on the story in the last hour, but my mind had drifted off more than once. And always back to the same place.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
I was in shock. Or so I thought, as I couldn´t think clearly. My mind was racing and my heart was pounding so loudly that all of Velaris must´ve heard it.
Mate. Eris Vanserra was my mate.
I couldn´t believe it. I mean, he doesn´t even know me?
The beige sofa under my legs felt too soft, as if it wanted to pull me into a hug and never let go. And the ticking clock on the opposite wall made my ears twitch in annoyance, so I decided to get up and pace around the living room, trying to quiet my mind. I was massaging my temples to ground myself a little when a soft touch stopped me in my tracks. Small, gentle fingers starting to trail along my shoulder in a soothing rhythm.
„Sweetheart, look at me, please.“ My mother´s calm voice made me turn to her. „Everything´s going to be all right.“ She radiated pure love. „Whatever happens next, I want you to know you´re not alone. I´m here for you, okay, honey?“ It helped slow down my racing heart a little, but not enough. I sincerely hoped my father and his brothers hadn´t beaten Eris to death just out of anger.
Just as I thought of them, three men winnowed into the living room. With long strides, my father rushed towards me, some of his darkness still clinging onto him, and cupped my face with both hands. „Darling, are you all right? Are you hurt? Do you need anything?“ He asked worriedly as he inspected me for any injuries, whatever he was looking for.
I withdrew from his grasp, spun around once to show him I was fine, and put on my most reassuring smile to calm his worries, making his tensed muscles relax. „I´m so sorry. I never wanted you to see this.“ Regret seeped into his voice. „But…“ He paused, visibly struggling to find his next words. „Did the bond snap for you too?“ The question caught me entirely off guard, as I thought he was angry with me, trying to argue. I could almost feel my family holding their breath, dreading my answer. Silky hair fell around my face, casting tender shadows on my features as I shook my head. A quick glance at my parents and I knew they were having a silent conversation. Sweat formed on my palms as I unconsciously clenched my hand into a fist. With each passing second, an unpleasant feeling returned to my stomach, making me want to throw up.
It spread even further when my father turned his attention back to me, and my heart sank as I noticed the sudden change in his expression. A completely blank canvas. The mask of a High Lord. Others probably wouldn´t see through his masquerade of deceit. But I could. I did. I had studied his features over the years, every time he put it on. How his jaw tightened just an inch, noticeable only to the trained eye. How his eyes shimmered in a more vibrant shade of violet. I´d seen him in his role so many times that I´d learned to watch out for him. The real him. Not the High Lord, but my father. He kept his face sealed, but I could see what he hid behind that mask. Fury over Eris. His worry. But the strongest emotion was his love for me.
„I want you to stay away from him. Or even talk to him.“ Someone had just knocked all the air out of my lungs and punched me in the guts. I hadn´t been braced for what was to come. My pulse skipped a beat and the blood in my veins began to boil. He can´t do this! Voices shouted in my head and a lump formed in the back of my throat. But why? I didn´t even know Eris, even though he was my mate. I shouldn´t be so disappointed. He is practically a stranger.
At a loss for words, I stared at my parents. „We don´t want to make decisions about your life, but Eris is a... complicated man.“ my mother interjected. You mean dangerous.
„Wait, Eris is your mate?“ I flinched and turned around, only to spot my brother hidden in the darkness with a shit-eating grin on his face. „Finally something interesting is happening.“ he chuckled, earning him a slap on the neck from Cass. „Hey!“ he cried out as my father shot him a warning glare before continuing his lecture. „Darling, listen. We only want to protect you and make sure you don´t get hurt. And Eris is not good company. He has proven that several times in the past. So please believe us when we tell you to stay away from him. We have our reasons.“ And what are they? A knot tightened in my stomach when I heard Azriel whispering from behind: „Especially after what he did to Mor.“
But he is my mate! Even if we don´t know each other well, don´t I have the right to figure out what´s happening between us? My mind screamed at me. Say something! Anything! You know you can! I forced my thoughts to shut down. We would not have this conversation now. Fight back! But I didn´t. I understood that my parents were trying to protect me. They were angry, no doubt, but with the love in their eyes, I couldn´t argue against them.
So I only looked up and nodded, giving them a coy smile, even though it felt wrong. So terribly wrong.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
This moment had been stuck in my head for the past few days. Although I´d agreed not to approach Eris, somehow I still hoped he would talk to me. Maybe to explain when and how the bond had snapped for him.
Starlight? Az is waiting for you in the training ring.
Oh, right. I looked at the sun, which was already sinking deeper into the sky. Uncle Az had asked me yesterday if I wanted to train with him. We usually met at the same time every week to train, but over the last few days he had become more careful around me, giving me more space.
I quickly stowed the book away, not wanting Nesta to get upset if something happened to her beloved book. Changing into my fighting gear, I winnowed to meet Azriel.
„Faster!“ Azriel shouted, lunging forward, but not fast enough. I sidestepped his punch to the right, and in the brief moment his defence was down, I landed three swift blows to his ribs. He groaned in pain and tried to sweep me off my feet in one smooth motion. Just as I was about to dive again, my back hit the sandy ground, Truthteller at my throat. A sweaty Azriel lay on top of me.
He pulled me up, brushing the sand from my clothes. „That wasn´t too bad, but you´re less focused today.“ A questioning look crossed his face for a second as he looked down at me, then it returned to his usual straight expression.
I opened my mouth slightly as if to reply, but shrugged instead and walked towards the edge of the training ground, breathing heavily. Az only threw a knowing look in my direction. He knows. He knows how I feel.
We had been training for about two hours and I didn´t know how my muscles were still able to keep me standing, but anyway, I was grateful for them when I winnowed us back to the River House for dinner.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
After a quick shower, I now sat opposite to my brother at the wooden table eating dinner and it was truly a symphony for the senses. Wine glasses clinking. Knives scraping against plates. The aromatic scent of grilled steak and vegetables wafting through the room as my family engaged in a huge debate about who had the biggest wingspan. All I could do was smile at the silliness of it all and feel it seep into my soul.
My father stroked my back lazily beside me, probably to keep calm, as Nyx started throwing peas across the table at Cassian, who dodged them. It really was ridiculous. „Seriously! A little decency, please!“ Amren hissed at this `display of strength´. Mor chuckled, „They´re Illyrians. Do you really think their egos would just ignore it if someone with bigger wings came along?“ My mother nearly choked on her wine at this comment, earning an amused look from her husband. „Can we all just calm down a little before the whole dining room is decorated with pieces of food?“ A quick, stern glance around the table from the High Lord and everyone resumed eating, interrupted now and then by a few giggles.
Ten minutes had passed, and the others had just finished chatting about upcoming events in Velaris, when Amren apparently decided to break the comfortable silence. „So y/n. Has anything been happening with the Autumn Heir lately?“ The wicked smirk on her face made her look like a cat that had caught a mouse to play with. All of a sudden, the room fell silent and everyone stopped eating. I felt my father stiffen beside me, his muscles tense. „Amren.“ Azriel warned, a low growl escaping his throat. „What? Just a sincere question.“ Not impressed by his threatening face. Not in the slightest.
Of course, the incident with Eris had spread around the River House throughout the last few days, fuelling rumours, but the others hadn´t said anything to me yet. I should have guessed that it was only a matter of time until the tension would blow up.
I think I might throw up. I certainly wasn´t in the mood to talk about it with my family. Not today. My blood froze as I gathered the strength to look into Amren´s cold, steely eyes, which were fixed directly on me. She didn´t even flinch when my father shot her a terrifying glare that would send shivers down your spine.
Words began to flow into my mind, begging to be heard and a familiar feeling crept through my entire body, making my nerves go blank. It felt like I couldn´t breathe.
„Are you all right, dear? You look a bit pale.“ she said, making me feel even more nauseous. „Amren, don´t.“ Everyone had stopped breathing by now. „You don´t have to answer her question, darling.“ My father´s hand darted out to graze my fingers, but I pulled back at the sensation. „You are his mate y/n, aren´t you? Must be desperate to know why.“ „Enough!“ Pure darkness collected in the corners of the dining room, ready to consume everything. I´d never seen my father so pissed off. „Why would you say such a thing?“ Mor uttered. „Exactly! She´s my sister, I´m the only one allowed to make fun of her!“, Nyx joined in. „I´m in the mood for some trouble.“ she responded honestly, taking a sip from her wine glass, completely untroubled.
Everyone began to talk over each other, making it difficult to distinguish the individual voices. Tears welled up in my eyes as I covered my ears. The noise was becoming too much to bear. I sniffled, holding back a cry as I stood up and took a few steps away from the table. My chair scraped along the floor, causing everyone to turn around to me and all the shouting stopped. The tears began to trickle down my cheeks as my mother noticed them first, „Sweetheart, we´re so sorry.“ She stood up too. „We didn't mean to make you cry.“ Mor tried to reassure me, guilt clouding her voice. Everything felt too overwhelming. Leave. Walk away. Get out of this situation.
„Starlight, come here. It´ll be fine.“ He took a few steps in my direction, but I quickly held my hand up in front of him to keep a distance between me and my father.
„Y/n. Darling, we´re…“ But he stopped when I shook my head and scowled at him. Stared at all of them, anger written on my face, before I winnowed to my room. Leaving them all guilty and silent.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
With my back against the door, I sank to the floor, tears streaming down my face. It´s my life! I get to decide how I deal with Eris! Why do they keep talking about it like it isn´t my decision? Like it´s not my life?
My nails scraped the floor, attempting to hold on to something, anything, as I spiralled down a path I didn´t want to go. A guttural sound escaped my lips as my hand clenched into a fist and slammed into the expensive wood panels beneath me. Pain shot through my knuckles, making me want to scream. Anger. Fear. Emptiness. These emotions ran through my mind as my body shook with sobs. Why can´t I just talk? I want to, but I can´t... I don´t know... the words just won´t come out when I try. It made me even angrier when I thought about it. Do I not feel safe enough around my own family to talk to them? Or is there something wrong with me?
A knot formed in my stomach. I had never had a big problem with myself before. Not with my body, nor with my inability to speak to others. But now I wished, longed to talk to someone. Just someone who understood me. Someone who...
A certain scent wafted through the room making me pay attention. Was that smoke? I sat up straighter to observe my own bedroom. Books were scattered across the floor and the door to the neighbouring bathroom was open. My bed was made, covered in indigo silk sheets that shimmered slightly in the moonlight streaming in through the closed windows. A few plants hung from the frescoed ceiling. Nothing more.
My eyes were no longer watery and my heartbeat had stabilised. But I could still smell that there was... something. Parchment.
I looked over at my desk, which was littered with various rolls of parchment, papers and pencils of all kinds. But right in the middle. Something had changed.
Slowly, on shaky legs, I got up and walked over to my desk. A crimson envelope lay there, and next to it a shiny golden feather with light brown spots. I couldn´t remember putting anything like that here. It smelled of an open fire, fresh rain and a hint of vanilla.
Deep down I knew who must have sent it. I opened the letter with trembling hands.
・✧✵✧・✧✵✧・
Hello Princess,
Do you remember the night we met? To be honest, I can´t forget you. Standing on the balcony in your stunning gown, watching the stars fall upon you, even though they couldn´t diminish your appearance. At first I wasn´t sure how to approach you, but I did it anyway.
And it turned out to be one of the most wonderful nights I have ever had, and I wanted to thank you for it.
I could almost hear him chuckling to himself as a warmth filled my heart.
As you probably know by now, I'm your mate, but I don´t want you to feel obligated to anything that concerns me. It is your decision whether or not you wish to meet with me. ( Though I wouldn´t mind, of course)
A blush spread across my tear-stained cheeks and I instinctively smiled. He had thought of me. He really had. My heart melted like snow in early spring. Something about him made me feel complete and understood.
But if that´s the case, winnow to the border of Autumn in two days. I´ll be waiting for you under a birch tree when the sun sets. You can´t miss it.
Sleep well, Princess!
His letter also contained a small note.
(Oh, the feather and the paper you write on will appear on my desk as soon as you write back).
・✧✵✧・✧✵✧・
I was speechless. Not just because he had thought of me or wanted to meet me. No. But because he would let me decide for myself. He wouldn´t force me to accept the bond, even if it hadn´t snapped for me yet.
Not wanting to think clearly at the moment, I did the only thing that seemed right. I broke the agreement with my parents.
I pulled out the chair, sat down, picked up the quill and wrote back.
Half an hour later, I was lying in my bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows and a gentle night breeze caressing my form. A few candles were lit to provide some sort of night light.
Just as I was falling asleep, footsteps came from the hallway and my bedroom door creaked as it slowly opened. I quickly closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep, not wanting to talk to whoever it was. „Darling, are you still awake?“ My father´s voice echoed through the room as he peeked out from behind the door.
Just breathe. He won´t recognise it.
And he didn´t. He only walked over to my bed and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear, while the last thing I heard was him whispering: „I´m deeply sorry, Starlight.“ before he silently walked out of my room, leaving me alone.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not the slightest flicker of light. Total darkness consumed everything around me. No light, nor sun, nor any kind of something... soft. Something to keep me warm as the cold crept up my body, like a hidden shadow from the depths of darkness.
I gasped for some air to reach my lungs, but all I could inhale was dust. Air! I need air! My lungs began to burn from the lack of oxygen and a tingling sensation shot through my entire being.
I felt like a flame being smothered as a deep, dark wave crashed over me, trying to drown me, as if I were nothing. As if I didn´t matter.
The darkness drew closer with each passing second. Minute? Hour? Time didn´t matter in this place of emptiness. A place without walls or windows or even solid ground. The only things that trapped me were my own thoughts and the giant beast I couldn´t see, but felt. It swallowed everything around it as its claws raked along my skin, my soul, leaving scratches all over me.
I screamed, but all that came out of my mouth was... nothing. Every sound, no matter how small, was absorbed by the emptiness of this place.
My body was drenched in sweat and my voice must have been hoarse by now from screaming my heart out for I don´t know how long. Slowly my body was losing consciousness and I was drifting further and further into the devouring void as I frantically tried to breathe. Please! I need to breathe! My heart stuttered for a moment. Help... help me! Somebody! Please, I... Hot tears streamed down my face and my eyes slowly closed as I was suffocated and drowned by the beast that guarded this place. My body went limp, tired from fighting.
A gentle brush of soft fur against my back was the last thing I felt as I drifted into nothingness.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
I jolted out of my sleep, my heart racing and the sheets beneath me damp with sweat. You´re awake! Everything is fine! I placed my hand over my chest, feeling my pulse slowly steady as I realised it was all just a nightmare. The silver curtains swayed slightly at the open windows and the moon shone so brightly I had to blink my eyes. `Shh, it´s all right, Little one. I´m here´ it yearned to say. My breathing had normalised and I ran a hand through my sticky hair. It was just a dream. I lay back and tried to sleep again, but I knew it was going to be a long night.
✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦・✴︎✦
@tele86 @circe143 @impossibelle @st4r-girl-official @cherry-cin
94 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐏𝐓. 𝟏
Navigation || age limit: 16+
Warnings: angst, moonstarchaser being a bit of dickheads, my English, it’s really bad, bad mental health, lots of pity but very understandable and reasonable pity
Let me know if I forgot anything
Words count: 3 911
Pairing: moonstarchaser x fem!reader
Read me: If you see any mistakes, please let me know. English isn’t my first, not even second, language and reminding me of some mistakes would help a lot. Also, feel free to reblog.
Oh yes, your birthday.
What a weird day. It was the day that nothing big happened, nothing special happened, no one famous was born and it was always around the weekend. When everyone was so busy with their own life, with their resting days, problems, plans. There was no way someone would like to give their free time to spend it with you.
(❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧
(❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧
And when was the last time your parents wished you a happy birthday?
That’s what I thought.
And no one asked for your birthday anyway, so why would you start talking about it out of nowhere?
The last time someone asked for your birthday was Lily and Dorcas in First year but hey, they were twelve, of course they will not remember.
And this year wasn’t any different. But the tiny little hope was growing up in you when you started dating Remus, James and Sirius.
And it grew a little bit more when Peter asked you what you’re gonna do next weekend.
That was literally your birthday.
“I guess that nothing.” you answered with a smile as you and Peter continued on your way in the library, trying to get some books.
“Why are you asking?” you couldn’t help, the happiness and hope started growing up.
“Just wanted to know if I can borrow my friends for a bit? Since you guys started that pentagram or whatever, I didn’t have much time for them.”
“Polyamory, Peter.” you laughed.
“So can I borrow them?” he asked, handing you a book.
“You spend lot’s of time with them anyway, so go ahead.” you two laughed at that. Maybe they were planning something and Peter is supposed to be a small spy.
Oh, maybe the tiny little hope started fading up.
But this was Peter. He always wrote down his friends' birthdays on a big calendar in their dorm. He wrote everything on it. Every James’ and Sirius’ game, every Full moon, every test and easy because he always forgot everything.
But it was just a stupid calendar on the wall in their dorm surrounded by other photographs and posters around it.
And it didn’t surprise you when the calendar stuck on the first week of October, with a big mark “SIRIUS’ BDAY” mark on the 3rd. The calendar fell into oblivion and with him your birthday.
So when the week of your birthday came, you weren’t surprised that no one was asking stupid questions like what you want for bday or what you craving for.
Or what you are planning to do.
Or what is your favourite flavour on cake.
The tiny little hope died again. It shattered your precious heart again. You expected that you'd wake up to an owl by your window with a small letter from your parents wishing you a happy birthday but that never happened.
Even after all these years they forgot you still hoped.
Because hope dies last, but we never learn we’ve been here before.
So when Saturday came, the small sadness came to you like an old friend. You woke - surprisingly - in your own dorm since Peter wanted to be with your boyfriends.
The other girls were already out, leaving you in your sleep as they knew better than to wake you up.
But something in you hoped that you would wake up into their loving presence, or that your boyfriends would wake you up. Or both of them.
So when it didn’t happen, the sadness grew a little bit more. But what could you expect, it happened last year, and the year before, and the year before.
You were used to it, you really were, but just because you’re used to it, doesn’t mean that you can’t still hope.
But it can still be a pretty day, right?
Boys were probably somewhere gone and girls too. It was just a day for you. Lucky for you that you knew how to be alone.
So you took your things and decided to go for a walk in that almost winter weather.
Just as you were ready to leave the common room, you felt someone pushing you to the side, you raised your head and saw Marauders running somewhere.
“Hey loves!” you smiled at them.
“Not now Y/N/N.” James sighed, his tone sounded slightly annoyed by you.
“Hey Remus, how are you feeling?” you tried again asking your other boyfriend and really wanting to know how he’s doing.
“Not now.” he said too firmly for your liking and ran away from the common room. His voice sounded also annoyed by you.
Or that’s how you felt it.
You sighed and walked away from the common room, shaking your head. “It was nothing.” you tried to convince yourself. It was always nothing when it came to you.
The late autumn and early winter breeze was hitting your face like crazy and painted your cheeks in the shining gold.
You were pretty far gone from the castle and everything else when you decided to sit down on strain and let yourself drown in thoughts and in the sunlight.
“What did you expect? That the whole castle will be celebrating your birthday? Yours? Why on Earth would they be celebrating your birthday?”
“Your hopes are too high. You can’t be mad at them for forgetting, it’s too much for everyone, look at Remus and how tired he looks, it’s getting cold outside and for his werewolf form and his human body isn’t that good.”
But as you sat there, the thoughts got worse. Way more louder. And in your silly little head, it made so much sense.
“Of course they will forget. Why would they remember such an unnecessary day like this day? You realise that if you were truly important to them they wouldn’t forget? Just like your parents, you mean nothing to them and the same goes for your friends.”
“And this morning? You’re just a burden.”
“Was I too awkward this morning? Too loud? Was I too much? Oh fuck, I’m definitely too much.”
You couldn’t help but feel the sadness getting heavier on your chest as a small tear fell from your eye.
“For fuck’s sake.” you mumbled to yourself and wiped it away, trying not to cry more.
But no one saw you anyway so you let yourself cry and bury your head in your knees and sobbed into them. It was too much of everything anyway.
But was it really true that you aren’t important to your parents? And friends?
Yeah, everyone always forgets someone’s birthday. But they were your parents, your friends and your boyfriends. Your friends were a better family to you and you celebrated everyone’s birthday so what about yours?
Why couldn't they remember your birthday?
You decided to continue in your walk and you noticed the colourful leaves on the ground, so you picked them up and slowly ended up with a leaves puget. The warming feeling of the late sun and colourful leaves made you happy and filled you with joy.
The sun was getting down and you decided to go back. By the time you stepped into your common room you saw your friends sitting around the fireplace, laughing at something.
They didn’t notice you, but you smiled at it, it was so warming and lovely to see them like that.
They were happy, what a lovely sign.
But they were happy, without you.
Oh, it’s better to leave them like that.
“Just a burden.”
You tiptoed around them back to your room, hoping that they wouldn’t notice you as you used the dark around them to hide in it.
And it worked. They were so lost in their conversation that it could explode around them and they wouldn’t notice.
Auchie, that hurted a little bit.
The sadness growing up again.
“C’mon Y/N, you’re being ridiculous, you can’t blame them for forgetting, it’s your fault anyway that you let yourself hope.” you mumbled to yourself as you stood in your dorm bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror.
“Yeah, no wonder that they didn’t spend a day with you, just look at yourself.” the second thought came out. You raised your head and looked at yourself in the mirror. You looked like a zombie.
“Shut up.” you said a little bit louder to the mirror as you pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to turn these thoughts off as another small tear slipped from your eyes.
You took a quick shower and went to bed, trying to fall asleep as fast as you could. Because it meant no talking to anyone, and it was better like that because you would burst into tears anyway.
You hoped that the owl would appear at your window with a letter from your parents but that didn’t happen. I mean, it was pretty obvious that the damm owl will not appear at your window right now, before your birthday ends, but the hope dies last, right?
But the owl didn’t appear, neither did your boyfriends or friends.
But tears appeared. Lots of tears as you let it all out.
You didn’t exactly know why you were crying.
You felt so selfish for wanting someone who would remember your birthday. It’s like wanting too much.
But at the same time it was the thing that friends and boyfriends are supposed to remember.
So you just let it go, with a feeling that you just simply don’t deserve to celebrate your birthday or have someone who would remember.
But it would feel nice to have a birthday cake and blow out the candles with a wish, right?
And you cried yourself to sleep, letting yourself bury in your duvet, blankets, pillows and plushies, behind the curtains. Trying to hide yourself and don’t bother anyone who could come in, and soon enough the crying ended, and then even the sniffles and all that could be seen was your sleeping figure hiding in bed.
You stayed in your bed, not eating, not reading. Hardly moving. You stared at the bowl, the book-shelf, your knees.
You listened to the sound of Gryffindor tower. The chittering that your friends were making, clearing their throat, coughing fits, the whistle of a kettle as Remus was making another black tea.
The day went so well for others that they were so happy to enjoy each other’s company without even realising that someone is missing.
Even the other day you woke up with a small hope in you.
But nothing happened. The day with girls was the same as any other day but with boys? That was a little bit more complicated.
You didn’t know if “Not now.” was for today too but you didn’t have the courage to find it so you just stayed by yourself.
“That’s from the walk?” Lily pointed at the leaves budget, throwing you away from your head.
“Yes.” you smiled for her.
“It’s really pretty.” she smiled as she made her way to your bed and sat down in your pillows and blankets next to you, lying her head on your shoulder.
“C’mon Y/N, you can be glad for that and you want them to remember your birthday? C’mon, be more grateful for what you already have.” You thought to yourself, the thought making you bit your lip in an attempt to hold your tears in.
Lily slowly fell asleep on your shoulder while she nuzzled more and more to your side until she made you lay down with her on the top of your chest, playing with her fiery hair too.
You woke up after dinner with Marlene and Dorcas already sleeping in one bed, in each other's arms. Mary greeted you with a smile while she got ready for her sleep. You waved back at her and your eyes found Lily.
‘Something new?’ You signed at her. She knew you were asking for your boyfriends.
‘No. Why you asking?’ She signed back. Her hands moved with such an elegance.
‘Just checking.’ You sighed and turned around to sleep once again. A bit surprised, but not disappointed.
Monday wasn’t anything better than the other day. The small tiny little hope was growing up inside you again and dying more and more with every second of the day.
Not mentioning the lack of communication with your boyfriends. Only one smiles and waves to each other.
The other day was the same.
And that went on for the rest of the week. You really just knew right there and then that nobody cared. Thought Full moon passed and Remus was okay, just a few bruises and scratches. And you were there to comfort him. Of course you were, you always were. Always such a people pleaser, even if you never get it back. But you couldn't change it.
So you stood there, supporting him, supporting all of your boyfriends through it all.
And then it was the next weekend. Unsurprisingly, the weather was too bad to go out. Winter was starting, knocking on your windows and door, begging to let her in but you already felt like she was in your heart sooner.
Anyway, since no one could go out, all your friends decided to stay in and play UNO. When you woke up you saw them, and tried not to be too loud, because you felt tears forming up in your eyes again. They just looked so happy and you couldn’t stop wondering if they’re that happy because they’re without you.
So typically, you went upstairs to your room again.
James was the one who noticed first. For the first time he just joked, looking at you leaving and throwing a pun. But then he became a bit insecure about his actions and asked his other two boyfriends.
“Maybe I was too sharp and she heard it.” James bit his lip nervously.
“James, a bad joke isn't the end of the world, I'm sure it's something else. Maybe she's just having an episode again, you know how she gets. Maybe she wants to be alone and we should give her some space and check on her later.” Sirius replied, already mad about his loss when Mary threw 4+ card.
He knew that his response sounded a little bit too harsh and mean, but you told them so many times that your episodes will come and disappear and that there was no way to accelerate it and nothing to worry about.
"Now Pads, that’s really not nice. And even if she is having an episode, we should help her and not mock her. Lils, could you go check on her and maybe bring her back downstairs?" Remus asked. Somehow he knew that it would be a bad idea if it would be them who would check on you.
"Sure, gimme a sec." She politely agreed and then you heard Lily coming to your room. You were sitting on the bed and you were feeling how your brain is slowly losing in that weird, sad fog once again.
You did hear everything. And Sirius' words really did hurt a bit and you couldn’t stop your brain from thinking why he acted like that. Even when what he said was nice. The first part wasn’t. “You know how she gets.” It sounded like they were annoyed. Like they were annoyed just by your persona and who you are. And you couldn’t blame me. Sometimes even you were bored and annoyed by yourself too.
And why Remus didn’t get up and check up on you by himself?
When Lily found you, you were staring at the stone wall. “Everything alright, sunshine?” she asked when she saw your gaze glued to the other side of the room.
Sunshine. Here it comes, you thought. Because this was Lily. Your best friend, who you always talked to about everything. That kind and sweet girl that always made sure that you were feeling your best.
“Yeah,” You breathed out. “Just want to take a nap. I think I woke up too soon.” you lied and buried yourself in the duvets, rotting there like a worm. “Aren’t you getting an episode?” Lily asked and you could hear her worries in her voice. “No, I’m just feeling a little bit blue. I just want to sleep.” you mumbled. The truth is that your mixed feelings were slowly forming into something that you weren’t able to describe. Lily nodded and placed a small kiss to your hair and quickly disappeared from the room.
Reaching the sofa they were all at, the conversation they were having stopped and they all looked at her curiously. Sirius asked first. "So what’s up with our flower?”
“She’s feeling a little bit blue and just wants to sleep, as she said.” Lily repeated your words with a smile and sat down on the comfortable couch next to Peter. You couldn’t tell her that they forgot your birthday. First of all, it was already a week after.
Second of all, you didn’t know if they would even care.
Third, if they do, you didn’t want to make them feel bad for forgetting your birthday. (But hey, they should feel way worse than bad.)
Fourth, if they celebrate your birthday now it would feel forceful from both sides.
Fifth, are you even in a mood to still celebrate your birthday?
Sirius quickly stood up with “I’ll be right back.” and then there was a silent knock on your door. He didn’t even wait for your ‘Come in’ and just shoved himself into the room, next to your bed.
“Hi there, my little poppet.” He smiled down at you when you opened your tired eyes. At some point, Sirius was the last one you wanted to see right now, yet you still were able to search for comfort in him. “Hi, lover boy.” you still smiled at him. You might have hated him now, but you still loved him and the love was always stronger than the anger.
“Come here.” he whispered as he got into the bed under the duvet and blanket with you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and you laid your head on his chest while wrapping your arms around his neck. He was warm. His body was warm and felt lovingly against your body. His touch was soft and gentle. Something he learned after spending time with you. He swore that you made him into being a soft and gentle person.
“You know I’m here for you, right?” He kissed your temple.
‘Oh, didn’t you sound annoyed by my episode like a few minutes ago?’ you wanted to say but you only nodded and nuzzled more into his chest.
“Love you so so much, my poppet.” he whispered and started stroking your back. “Love you back.” you whispered and closed your eyes. And you meant it, you did love him back. You just wanted to punch him sometimes. “Get some sleep, I’ll be here when you’ll wake up.” he promised and he did that. Suddenly he didn’t care about his UNO match (he wasn’t winning anyway though) and all that was important was his blue girlfriend. Sirius fell asleep after ten minutes right behind you, still holding you tightly.
You decided to visit the school kitchen with house elves. You weren’t meeting them for almost two weeks and you missed them. They were always the best company, they never judged you for anything and they always gave you something small to eat from the kitchen.
So you opened the heavy wooden door and you were immediately greeted by an elf with big doe grey eyes and with a wide smile. “Miss Y/L/N is here!” the elf shouted and everyone stopped what they were doing and all their gazes turned to you. “Y/N/N!” one of the smallest elf squeaked and ran into your arms. “Hey Aimee, how are you?” you asked the little elf. She was the real sunshine here. She always made you smile. The elves felt so safe with your company that they allowed you to step into the kitchen any time and without a key. Magic is… magical.
“I’m tired of making pudding every day three times in a day.” she rambled and you laughed. “You can stop adding sugar into it and they’ll stop eating it and then you won’t have to make it again.” you gave her advice and she let out a squeaky giggle.
“We made a cake but you didn’t show up so they ate it but we still have a small cake for you.” the older elf - Aymar - explained and handled you the white creamy cake. It made your heart shatter and break at the same time. Your family didn’t remember it, your friends didn’t remember it, your boyfriends didn’t remember it.
But those elves with whom you spent a minimum of time remembered it. You didn’t even realise the small tear that escaped your eye. You felt extremely loved and unloved at the same time.
“What’s wrong, miss Y/L/N?” the first elf asked. Their name was Q, you believe. “They forgot, didn’t they?” Aimee asked and you nodded. “Everyone… literally everyone.” you whispered as you looked down at the cake. Aimee quickly hugged you around your waist. “But not you. And it means a lot to me. Thank you so much everyone.” you smiled at the elves and finally sat down on a bench they had there.
“Well, we can be your family and friends now.” Q said. “You already are.” you said and hugged them. “There’s one small detail missing.” Aymar said and put a candle into your cake and with a snap of his fingers he blew up the candle. “Happy birthday, our favourite human.” Q joked and you couldn’t hold the giggles that escaped you. “You have to wish for something now.” Aymar said and you closed while wishing something.
Then you ate the delicious cake in elves' company and for the first time in a few days you felt wanted and loved. You know exactly why you love spending time with elves.
And as your mood got a little bit better, you decided to visit your boyfriends since you spent the late morning with Sirius. When you were getting close to their room you heard Peter’s voice saying something about birthdays, but you didn’t catch that. Then you opened the door and saw Peter with the calendar in his hand. You even saw the small mark on your date of birth with “Y/N/N’S BDAY!” and how that mark is visible to everyone, but no one noticed. Or it looked like it. But you told yourself not to hope anymore, because look where hope got you in the first place, right?
“What are you doing with that calendar?” you asked because he only put down the calendar when he was throwing it away. Peter turned his gaze at you and innocently smiled, completely unaware about what he’s doing. And everyone also didn’t have any idea.
“Oh, I’m just throwing it away. No one is giving tests or homework before Christmas anyway and we already celebrated Pads’ birthday.”
BIRTHDAY PT. 2
#poly marauders x reader#poly marauders x reader angst#poly marauders x you#poly marauders x you angst#poly marauders x y/n#poly marauders x y/n angst#harry potter fic#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin x reader angst#sirius black x reader#sirius black reader angst#james potter x reader#james potter x reader angst#marauders x reader#marauders x reader angst
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Heartless, Chapter 2
🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞
Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT
-
Your wedding night. Tags under read more.
-
Tags: degradation kink, praise kink, size kink, consent negotiation, they egg each other on, gaslight gatekeep girlboss reader, pet names (whore, love, doll, good girl, pretty girl, bitch (yes this is used as a pet name I promise))
You watch the military chaplain sort through the prepared marriage license while the world’s largest butterflies do artistic gymnastics in your stomach.
Soap is the religious one out of the two of you, the Catholic one. You would’ve preferred a judge and a courthouse wedding more than this. But there was no time, and the headache of getting an American recognized by the multi-national special forces whatever-the-fuck just wasn’t worth it.
So a chaplain it is.
Soap has told you little about the soldier you’re set to marry. In his defense, he argued that there was very little to tell. Lt. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley’s personnel file is too classified for a mere civilian, and there are only two single-sided sheets of paper’s worth of information in there anyways.
The bare bones - he’s British. (Of course, he is.) He wears a mask that he never takes off. He’s served many tours, in many places. And while Johnny was remarkably diplomatic about the wording, he did caution you that Ghost’s reputation precedes him and terrifies almost everyone who hears it. With good, justified cause.
Lovely.
But the cold, crawling fingers of desperation and the memory of the times when you couldn’t afford to go to the doctor reminded you of your priorities. And so you have agreed to bind yourself to some dude with a ridiculous, overwrought moniker.
After more than a few years of dealing with medical bureaucracy, military bureaucracy is hardly a match for you. You’ve come prepared with the family accommodations application filled out. You have copies of your identifying documents, birth certificates. The basic background check completed.
Once this is done and solemnized, Soap has volunteered to run it personally to his commanding officer like a good little messenger boy. An early wedding gift, he called it.
You’ve asked him for a Keurig just to be an asshole. And whether or not he got one, for real, Soap won’t say.
All that’s left is to… well. Say the vows and hope no one looks close enough to demand ‘proof.’ Like you’re in some awful fucking medieval romance novel. It’s 2023. You refuse to relinquish any bedsheets. Gross. And they’re expensive.
Lt. Riley still has fifteen minutes before the ceremony is supposed to start.
You’re only early out of an abundance of caution and anxiety. There was only so much sitting around in your old apartment and waiting for the clock hands to move you could take, not after you spent all night packing your life into your car and then climbed out onto your roof to watch the sunrise.
The next one you see, you will be a wife.
Even though Soap refused to show you a picture of Lt. Riley, you did your best to look somewhat presentable. For the pictures. And maybe a little bit for him.
The nicest dress you own, the jewelry you always wear.
Shit. Jewelry. Ring.
“Soap. Soap. I don’t have a ring.” Oh, that’s just your fucking luck, isn’t it? You have remembered literally everything. Your potato masher, your books, and the last of your immunosuppressants are packed into a cooler filled with ice.
Other than the one thing you absolutely need.
Your friend stares at you from the corner of his eye. “What do you mean, you don’t got a ring?”
The chaplain’s going to turn and ask what’s wrong any second.
Before he notices, you grab Soap’s bicep and drag him into a corner as the last of your forced calm flees. “I don’t have a ring,” You hiss as your polished nails dig into his dress uniform.
That’s something you should thank him for after this calamity passes. At least your maid of honor is appropriately attired as if this were a real wedding. Or maybe Johnny is a matron of honor because he hasn’t been a virgin in years? Whatever.
His exasperation is less than reassuring. “Alright. Calm down. Calm down, lass. We’ll sort that out later-“ The chapel doors open, cutting him off.
Wow. You thought that Soap was kidding about the mask. That’s a mask.
A balaclava. With a skull on it. Edgy.
Oh, but he’s tall. Taller than you, taller by a couple of inches than Soap. That must really piss your friend off. He is… very tall. And heftily built.
No dress uniform. Just a black sweatshirt showing ripples of defined, bulky muscles underneath and dark wash jeans. And eye black obscures the skin around his eyes, everything his mask doesn’t cover.
It seems impractical, though you can’t deny the shiver of awe that flicks through your nerves when Lt. Ghost meets your inquisitive gaze. His irises are so dark that you can’t distinguish his pupils, leaving you with the impression of looking into twin black holes.
Do you shake his hand? Do you…
You wait for him to make the first move, and he makes no move at all.
“Hi, Lt. Riley,” You say softly, almost timidly. First impressions tend to go better when you make yourself smaller.
For a moment there, you almost think he didn’t hear you. You watch him narrow his eyes as if you’re more than what he was expecting. “License?” He asks after a painfully long awkward silence.
You shove the other papers at Soap, so you have a spare hand to find it. And if you conveniently remain deaf to his protests at being used as a shelf? That’s what maids of honor are for - whatever the bride need.
“License? Oh- uh, yeah, here.” The half-completed form crumples slightly in his hand. It’s from those bulky gloves, and you die a little inside at the sight.
When he hands it back to you with a messy, scrawled signature at all the highlighted blanks, you turn your body away to ensure he overlooks your vain efforts to smooth it out. “Just call me Ghost.”
Damn, this one wrinkle won’t come out. The chaplain will think you’re unprofessional. “Okay, Ghost,” You respond absentmindedly. He hovers in the corner of your eye like his namesake, which is annoying. It’s not as if you’re hiding a fucking bomb over here-
And you stop thinking that immediately. You know, in case they can read minds in this heavily guarded, highly secret special forces base or utilize some tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist's secret weapon. That’s mostly an inside joke you have with yourself. You leave a little room for healthy paranoia to offset the healthy humor.
The chaplain and his small glasses interrupt now that the groom has arrived, and you hand him the still-messed-up license with an embarrassed flush on your cheeks. Thankfully, he takes it without complaint. Maybe a little judgment - and then you remember you have that issue with the rings. There will be more judgment to come.
“Are you ready to begin?” The middle-aged man asks.
Ghost nods almost at the same time you do.
“We are gathered here in the presence of this witness for the purpose of uniting in matrimony Lt. Simon Riley and…”
You tune out the entirety of the cookie-cutter wedding ceremony. The chaplain goes on and on, all sorts of shit about love and forever that you know he has to say but is remarkably humorous in light of your circumstances.
Lt. Riley’s eyelashes are blonde. You couldn’t see it before, but now that you’re inches from him, you can’t look away. They’re a pale platinum blonde that stands out against his dark eyes like threads of ice, and you count each one. Fascinating.
The chaplain clears his throat, then gestures for Ghost to take your hand.
The glove stays on. But he is gentle about it, gentler than what seems natural for his movements. “Do you take Lt. Riley to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish as long as you both shall live?” That’s laying it on a bit thick, you think.”
“I do,” You say, voice low and confident.
“Do you, Lt. Riley, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish as long as you both shall live?”
Something shifts in his gaze. He tilts his head to the side and tracks the features of your face, your full mouth, and your cheekbones. “I do.” You wouldn’t even know where he was looking, had it not been for the stark whites of his eyes darting back and forth.
“The rings?” Your officiant asks.
You hear Johnny stifle a chuckle. Damn him for standing so far away; if he were closer, you’d step on his foot with your heel. “We- the rings are in the mail. They haven’t gotten here yet.” You smile winningly as you hold the chaplain’s bemused stare, practically daring him to call out your poorly-concealed lie.
Ghost hasn’t let go of your hand this whole time. Even he lets out a small huff after seeing your perfect poker face.
“I see. Then I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
You won't kiss him in front of everyone if he doesn’t lower his mask. As he obviously won’t, you stand on your very tippy-toes and kiss his cheek like you’re at a middle school dance.
Then it’s done, and you’re married.
Ghost pulls his hand back as if you’ve burned him, then steps away before you can ask him any questions.
Just as you try to chase him- “Congratulations, lass,” Soap exclaims, sweeping you into a hug that lifts you off the ground.
It’s got a hell of a lot more than excitement in it; you can feel his relief, and he goes as far as to kiss your forehead like a brother before letting you down.
There’s nothing on earth you can do to repay him. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.” For a moment, you’re children again—two kids against the world.
Johnny takes the license and the rest of your paperwork. “Gotta run this to Chief Laswell. But- you’ll be fine. Don’t be too scared.” You can tell he’s fucking around, but there’s an edge to his voice that you don’t love.
No person can be scarier than a hospital bill. “Worry about yourself, Johnny,” You tell him.
It takes a second for the steel in your eyes to reassure him. Eventually, he nods. “Good luck.” Then he makes his way to Ghost.
They speak in murmurs too quiet for you to hear, and you can see Soap grip his forearm tight enough to bruise. Then they come to some sort of silent consensus. Ghost’s mask gives away absolutely nothing, but your friend seems satisfied enough.
“Uh- pardon me, I’m sure Lt. Riley and yourself are eager to… celebrate the evening.” The chaplain’s acting like you and Ghost are about to start going at each other right here, right now.
That is a known stereotype for hastily-married couples, and he’s probably seen some traumatizing things in this very chapel. Either way, you coordinate a retreat into the hallway to give the poor man a break.
Ghost holds the door open for you, and you wonder what torture Soap promised to get him to do that. He doesn’t seem pleased. You’d tell him that he doesn’t need to bother, but you’re not so invested in Ghost’s immediate happiness, and that’s a lot of work.
Someone’s waiting for you in the corridor. A poor uniformed soldier has been conscripted into acting as envoy on behalf of the Special Forces, and he asks you both to follow him to your temporary quarters.
Right. Yes.
Ghost doesn’t say a word. He matches your steps with uncanny accuracy, and you’re beginning to understand why people sincerely call him by his preferred moniker. It’s fucking freaky, how quickly and efficiently he moves without any sound at all. You might even forget he was there if not for the heavy, uncomfortable weight on your back that reminds you he’s still watching.
Then the soldier rounds a corner and presents you with an open door. The lights are on, and a bouquet of fresh flowers is on the table inside with a little white card.
Your guide hightails it out as soon as you’re through the doorway.
And then Ghost closes the door behind him.
You and him. Alone. There’s no one in the other room or close enough to hear if something goes wrong.
You watch him keep himself busy, circling perimeters and learning exits and entrances, and you think… you wouldn’t mind it if something went wrong.
Reading people is something that can’t be taught, not really. You’re lucky to have come out of the womb with that ephemeral quality clutched tightly in one hand. While the mask makes it difficult, you are… learning. You are noting shifts in posture, inflections of voice, where those dark eyes linger.
You need to collect more data.
“Do I have to call you Ghost? I can’t just call you Simon?” Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and the tension in the air tastes electric on your teeth. It will be a coin toss to see which way that tension goes, you think.
“Don’t say that name. ‘M not gonna repeat myself.”
You’ll do as he says because now he’s staring into your eyes without flinching. “Hm. Fine.” Which is what you wanted.
Ghost removes his gloves for a moment to fiddle with his phone, and you can’t help but stare.
He has beautiful hands. Long, thick fingers, knuckles marked with a lifetime’s worth of scar tissue, more scars wrapping themselves like cords across the backs of his hands. Beautiful.
There are tattoos blanketing his left forearm. You can’t see them from here, and you doubt you’ll get to examine them in detail sometime this century. Tattoos are so personal, and it would take words a lot tougher than a question to get through his shark skin persona.
Gloves go back on. And he’s caught you staring. You don’t give a fuck.
You relish the challenge.
Like a feral raccoon or a bored weasel, you’ll push and push and push until you’ve found something entertaining.
Does Ghost think that if he menaces you in silence long enough, you’ll scream when he says ‘boo’? How cute.
Out of nowhere, he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re lookin’ at me.” You could make a snide comment about noticing the obvious, but that’s not the fight you want to pick. Yet.
You’re far more intrigued by the issue of his ghastly, ghoulish, fearsome camouflage. “Do you really, like, wear the mask all the time? Even to sleep? What about eating? You don’t care about getting crumbs all over it?” Your voice would sound genuine if you put a little more effort into it.
Silence. He knows you’re trying to pry him out into the open, and he thinks he can ignore you until you give up.
Your eyes narrow. “Oh, come on. I’m your wife now. I’m allowed to ask questions.” Those fucking icy eyelashes. Your feet move before you realize it, bringing you closer to him so you can repeatedly run the contrast in your mind.
Ghost crosses his burly arms over his chest. “Not if they’re fuckin’ annoying ones,” He snaps back.
That’s one hell of a British accent. Not a posh one; working class, probably not from London.
Like his eyes, hands, and stature, his low, raspy voice is beautiful, too. “Isn’t that what wives are for?” You bait.
You catch his eye roll and match it with a dirty glare. “Do you ever shut up?” Ghost asks, advancing so quickly that you find yourself trapped against the wall, some primal flight instinct activated by his sinuous, menacing stride.
And you’ve been asked that very same question many, many times in your life. “Um… not really,” You toss out. Smugly, like you’re winning whatever fucked-up game is brewing between you. You totally are.
Like this, you must tilt your head to meet his furious eyes. “Fuck. That’s tedious.” Obviously, this is not nearly as tedious as he complains. He’s still here.
Your eyes flick between the door and Ghost’s mask, indicating he’s free to walk away. “Oh, I’m being tedious? Look at me. Look at me. Say that again.” Under your dress, your skin feels warm. As if he’s already touching you.
Ghost takes another step forward. “You… are… being… tedious.” Close enough that his combat boots touch your fancy low heels.
Kissing someone through a mask is very stupid, both in theory and practice. Just as you thought earlier.
Somehow, some way, Ghost makes it work.
Gentleness seems to be a foreign language to him; he wraps one large hand around your jaw, pushing you against the wall, so roughly that pain radiates across your scalp, and digs his index finger and thumb in until he’s holding your mouth open.
And that’s how he kisses you. Forcing you to be exactly as still as he wants and pressing his mask over your lips, and your eyes flutter shut as if this were a real kiss. If this were a real kiss, you’d have your teeth halfway through his bottom lip by now.
Great idea. Just as Ghost moves back, you nip his mask with your teeth. Nothing serious, no real damage. Enough to teach him something about you, more important than words can say.
For only a moment, it lifts from his face. Not in any type of direction where you can see more, but the fabric stretches, and it reminds him that that’s all his mask is. Fabric. Not metal or bone.
“Nah, don’t do that,” Ghost warns before leaning in again.
Fine. This time, you dig your nails into the tiniest revealed sliver of his pale neck as you kiss him until he’s forced to pin your wrist above your head with one gloved hand.
He seeks to chastise you again, but you put a stop to that by arching into his chest instead of away.
This sets the beautiful, pristine line of your neck on display as you tilt your head just the right way. You know your angles, and you bet he probably enjoys holding fragile things in his palms before crushing them the next second.
The unmarked skin above your pulsing carotid artery sure looks fragile.
And, of course, it invites Ghost to dip his burning gaze lower.
You look good. You know you do; you know that your cleavage pops in this dress, you layer perfume to be the most memorable woman in the room, and this confidence has been insulating you all day.
He’s not immune to it. His other hand runs along your exposed collarbones before dipping between your breasts. He takes the fabric of your dress between his fingers, testing the strength of the cloth and construction.
Wait, hold on, this shit was expensive. And unless he’s going to replace it-
Ghost has been too busy staring at your boobs to notice that he’s let go of your wrist, and you pounce on the opening. You’re out of his grasp immediately before peeling the dress off. Shame is for the weak.
His appreciative groan goes straight to your nerves, to your nipples hardening under your sheer bralette and your panties beginning to stick to your skin.
All that newly exposed skin and soft curves turn the desire in his dark eyes into a ruthless hunger.
You watch him walk towards you, circle you. He checks your ass out in the most blatant way possible, so you feel the compliment more than you hear it.
You turn to look at him through lashes all dolled up with mascara and make your eyes round, doe-like - as saccharine as artificially-flavored taffy.
Even through the balaclava, Ghost grins.
“Can I help you with that?” He asks, gesturing to the flimsy metal clasp in the center of your back that holds the bra in place.
His gloved fingers trail down your spine when you sweep your hair from your shoulders. “What a gentleman.” There are dozens of other more productive things he could be doing right now to get you naked.
He coaxes a slight, involuntary shiver from your spine when he digs his fingertips into the curve of your breast, and you dread what will happen when Ghost finds all the other weak spots.
Just as you’re about to end his fun and get this bra off yourself, he undoes the clasp. “Don’t want to ruin your pretty clothes.” A harsh, jagged leather glove edge clips your skin as he does so. While it won’t make you bleed, not even close, you feel he wouldn’t care if something did.
Fuck.
Instead of dropping both arms out obediently so he can slip you out of it all at once, you have the genius idea of sticking out one arm after another.
This forces Ghost to face you as you let the bralette drop.
A flush crawls up your chest, blooming pink and flustered between your breasts. “You think I look pretty?” You ask, barely suppressing the whine from your tone. It’s a real whine, one that speaks to how badly you want this to escalate.
Someone wolf-whistling at your tits usually makes you angry enough to hit them, but Ghost’s whistle makes the blush in your skin burn brighter. “Christ,” He mutters. The bone-white teeth on his mask distort, then stretch, like he’s licking his lips.
You spent a little extra time this morning hunting down a nice pair of lace-trimmed underwear, and now you’re thrilled you bothered. “Gonna make me wait forever?”
The answer is no. He’s on you in the next second, palm flat between your collarbones as he practically shoves you towards the bare regulation mattress, the kind of thing you’d see in a college dorm.
When you land, the slight impact takes your breath away.
But then he sees your thighs pressing together, your hips shifting, and your eyelids flutter. You’re fucking melting from that force alone. “You like it mean?” He wonders, half-mocking, half-genuine.
You push yourself up on your elbows, making your tits bounce more than necessary. Just to watch him lose his train of thought again.
You’re dripping through your panties, you can feel slick arousal on your skin, and he’ll know as soon as you spread your legs. “I like it mean.” Your smile is wide and beckoning. And filled with your own intentionally-grating menace.
After all, he’s asking the wrong question.
The right question is whether he can be mean enough, whether he can touch you with enough cruelty to make you come. Already, your pussy twitches at the thought.
Something glints in his sin-dark eyes. “Good. That’s a good girl.” No, he promised you something else.
“That’s not very mean.”
You get no further warning.
He braces one muscled forearm across your chest to force you down before shoving that hand under your jaw, so your face is entirely in his control. He keeps you looking at the ceiling, and you realize it’s so he can pull his mask down.
Dammit. You try to fight it, dip your jaw to see his face, but his grip is tougher than iron and so tight that it will leave bruises on your chin.
Then you feel his teeth bite into your throat, mark after mark along the length of your neck, and it hurts. It fucking hurts, and your eyes roll back into your head, skin on fucking fire. “God, real eager, ain’t you?” Ghost hisses as you cough and struggle for breath against his hand. “Haven’t known me for twenty-four hours, and you’re already spreading your legs like a whore.”
There are lingering kisses that are just shy of gentle, long lathes of his tongue along your sweaty skin, and then there are savage bites into the side of your breast, in between them, his fingers plucking at the hardened bud of your nipple.
Your mind is empty, completely empty, as your hips grind up towards his and the thick, heavy erection you can feel through his jeans. “You do that for every man who looks at you twice?” You can hardly hear him over your squeaks of pain mixing with pleasure. Now he’s slotted a knee between your thighs, giving you something to rock your covered pussy on.
“Only for the ones who deserve it,” You get out between clenched teeth, holding back your moans, so he doesn’t get that satisfaction.
He chuckles lowly, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. “Fuckin’ hell.” When he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking, licking, sending jolts of pleasure through your nerves but hovering on the edge of real damage…
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to put together a retort. “Jealous that you haven’t had a turn yet?”
“Naw, I ain’t jealous. Ain’t gotta be. I know you want me.” He punctuates his words by cruelly pressing his knee harder into your clit, wrenching a long, tortured sound from your throat.
If he keeps that up… already, something hot and vicious begins to simmer low in your stomach, a hollow ache.
Then he fucking lets up on covering you in marks to watch your face twist in rapture when he does it again. “Come on then, Lieutenant. Big, scary, mean Ghost,” You tell him breathlessly.
Again, his knee, your aching clit, you don’t wanna come all over his pants except you kind of do, and if he realizes that, he’ll make you.
His fingers pluck your nipple one last time. “Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ show you.” Then he shoves his mask on haphazardly, withdrawing his hands so he can pull his gloves off. “Take that shit off. Right now,” Ghost orders.
The fabric of your soaked panties rips a little in your enthusiasm to get them away from you, and you toss them in some corner without looking.
And as you hold his gaze, face flushed and dewy from his kisses, you part your legs.
Ghost is so taken by the sight of your glistening, aroused core that he has to sit back for a second and just… “Fuuuck,” He groans, eyes lidded with want.
You run a single teasing hand along the soft skin of your inner thigh. “Still pretty?” Your smile is all teeth, hunger, and a promise that you don’t need him to have a good time.
He shakes his head. “I don’t fuck self-absorbed bitches,” Ghost warns. As if he isn’t literally rolling up his sleeves as he speaks. As if you can’t see his muscles strain and flex with the effort of not touching you.
His shoulders are so huge that he casts a shadow when he looks over you. “You will.” You pause to make a show out of sliding your wicked gaze down to his jeans. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to your…” Then Ghost grabs your hips before you can finish your sentence and drags you to the edge of the mattress.
You hear him sigh through his teeth. “Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen. Prettiest tits, prettiest ass… Where have you been hiding?” It seems that he does, in fact, like you self-absorbed. You’ll drag more compliments from his mouth before the night is over, you swear it.
When you try to slip a leg over his shoulder before he’s ready, Ghost traps your soft thighs open and in place with his hands. “The United States of America.” Fuck. Fuck.
He strokes through your folds with two fingers, not deep enough to do anything but tease. Still, you jump as soon as you feel him brush your clit with a feather-light touch.
Ghost takes those two slick fingers and lazily holds them out in front of your mouth. “Look at me, and this is over. You hear me? I don’t give a fuck how much you whine or complain.” You take them in your mouth in a show of obedience that surprises him, eagerly lapping up your musk and the salt of his skin.
But not entirely obedient - you nip his fingertips before you pull away, and a string of saliva stretches between you. “I hear you.” Whatever. Avoiding peeking at his face is, like, the easiest thing someone could do to get eaten out.
He waits until your head is properly thrown back, and you rest a hand over your eyes, so there’s no chance you will look down.
As if remembering your reaction to his earlier mercy, Ghost takes his sweet fucking time doing everything but eat your needy, dripping cunt. Your stupid, annoying, evil husband covers the soft, plush flesh of your thighs in kisses, he licks up the arousal that’s leaked onto your skin throughout this game, he leaves more love bites in the crease of your thigh.
Asshole.
And it feels good. Of course, it feels good, and you’re already a squirming, pleading mess, holding back your sighs because you’ll be damned if he thinks you’ll fold with no effort.
When he finally licks a hot stripe through your folds, carefully sucking at your clit, your resulting moan fucking bursts out of your chest, drawn out and desperate.
You can feel him laugh against your sensitive flesh before he just…
Your hips can’t get closer if you tried, you’re caught between grinding on his face and trying to flinch away as he fucks you with his mouth, Ghost’s tongue moving with unerring precision to pour pleasure like lightning through your veins.
Your cunt clenches around nothing as he goes back and forth, licking, sucking, making your thighs tremble around his face. “Shit, shit, keep doing that, fuck-“ You beg, mouth open because it feels like you can’t breathe. The air tastes hot, like sex, like smoke and bourbon.
Ghost’s groans are barely audible over the sloppy, explicit sounds of his mouth coaxing more slick out of your core, all over his face. “You taste-“ He presses two thick fingers inside. “So fucking-“ It stings, it’s a stretch, he has to lap at your swollen clit with a delicate touch to get you to loosen up. “Good-“ Your muscles twist and spasm around his fingers, fluttering in time with each thrust.
Then he picks up the pace. “Ghost, Jesus, what the fuck are you-“ You sob, gasping as you try to get control over your body. He’s got every reaction, your vocal cords, your nerves, your needy, desperate cunt, entirely in hand.
His free hand digs into your leg, nails aimed to hurt. And like the whore you absolutely are, every time he does that, your stomach tightens further. “No need to say my name twice, love,” Ghost tells you in a voice as smooth as velvet, like he’s endlessly amused at your expense.
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” You bitch before getting that knee over his muscled shoulder and dragging his hot, wet mouth towards your pussy again.
Your shriek fills the air when he bites, like really bites your thigh in revenge. “‘M busy fucking you. Come on, lemme in. Lemme find it.” His fingers-
They’re thrusting into you deeper, he slides his other hand under your hips to angle your pelvis up.
And then you feel him brush something deep inside your pussy that makes you clench as tight as a vice around his hand. “Um, fuck, I-“ Your back arches off the mattress, and you’ve got your eyes screwed shut in pleasure, your free hand flailing around as you try to just- just get everything under control…
You can’t think, can’t speak, he touches that patch of sensitive flesh inside of you, and it just wipes your brain clean, replacing everything with Ghost. “There we go. That’s it,” He coos at your helplessness, smug with the knowledge that all your bravado and rationality fail when his fingers fuck you harder, rougher.
Ghost helps you chase the orgasm gathering on the horizon, so powerful that you can feel it humming like power lines in your teeth. “Hn-“ Your moans rise and echo off the bare walls, and he drags his fingers inside you at the same time he places his mouth on your aching, swollen clit.
“Got 60 seconds to come, or I’ll stop.” It’s right there, just out of reach, like your skin is on fire and your body is so, so, so desperate for everything he can give.
Tears gather in your eyes. “No, please, don’t stop,” You beg, words garbled up with whimpers and cries, tears tracking down your sweaty cheeks.
Whenever your leg tries to hold him in place to fight off the pleasure or your core clamps down so he can’t withdraw his fingers, he fucks you harder. “Pretty girl.” Holy shit. You just need to breathe, to try and focus, but you can’t. It’s so- “Good fucking girl.”
You need to come. You need to come, you’re trying, you don’t want him to leave you like this, so much arousal pours out of your flushed, oversensitive core that it covers his wrist, and your hips begin to buck and shake. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1-“
“I- I’m coming, oh my fucking God-“ Your orgasm drags you down in a fury, pulsing hot and violent. Every muscle trembles and your whimpers reach a fever pitch. And Ghost pries at each scrap of your pleasure he can get, sucking and sucking at your flesh, and you can’t do anything. You have to let him swallow you whole.
You forget how to fucking breathe, and you’re sobbing under the hand over your face, trying to escape the sensation, but you can’t stop coming, clenching, chasing the high.
He lets you ride out the last of it on his hand, helping you through the aftershocks and gentling the pace of his tongue until you’re spent.
When that ringing sound clears from your ears, you sit up with sore stomach muscles and reach for him; mask be damned. Ghost gets the balaclava down over his nose, exposing his mouth shiny with your cum.
Your first real kiss is messy and slick, lips slipping against his and saliva going everywhere. His sticky hands tangle in your hair, and you gasp into his mouth from the sudden, sharp pain. It’s his turn to sigh when you nip at his full bottom lip, a deep, raspy sound that you could become addicted to very easily.
Your fingers slip under the edge of the mask - just where it covers his neck, and Ghost pauses for a moment, lips suspended over yours.
It takes three thundering heartbeats for him to return to kissing the air out of your lungs.
His hair feels short under your fingertips, bluntly cut to a regulation length. You’ve done it before for Soap when he first enlisted. You take your nails over the back of his neck once, then again, hard enough to make it sting.
“Bitch,” Ghost hums, and it’s the softest thing he’s said all evening. Like your teeth and claws are more impressive, more beautiful than your obedience.
Clearly, no one taught him how to behave toward a wife. “Manners.” This time, you draw a little blood from his mouth, and Ghost almost melts into a puddle in your hands.
“Let me fuck you.” He has one hand on your throat, not a chokehold so much as a loose necklace. A wedding ring on your finger couldn’t be more possessive than Ghost’s lingering, eager touch.
And when you press your forehead to his through the mask, he permits it. “I thought you just did.”
Something about his eye roll makes him seem younger. Lighter, more playful. “Let me fuck you again,” He tries. Yeah, no. You’re not a cheap date. “Turn around. Come on.” He has to do better than that.
The look on your face makes him sigh. “Don’t make me beg.”
Next time, he shouldn’t try and give you ideas. Definitely not for free. “What happened to ‘I don’t fuck self-absorbed bitches’?” You ask coyly. You could ask him for anything right now, you think, and Ghost would give it to you.
Pained, aching frustration blooms in his dark brown eyes.
“Jesus, you’re never going to drop that, are you?” Ghost is so cute like this, squirming in his own vaguely-repressed way. He answers you quickly, far more quickly than someone who’s only tolerating this would. “You were right.” The hand on your throat moves delicately across your shoulders, massaging your neck, all luxury and indulgence, a slow seduction.
His words are like music to your ears. “I usually am.” You’re a sucker for that specific compliment. And with Ghost determined to caress every inch of your skin, your arms, the dip of your waist, well…
You bat his wanting hands away and flip yourself over. It takes a little care not to tweak anything, but being on your hands and knees is better for your spine in the long run, anyway.
His large palm runs up and down the length of your back, leaving warmth wherever he goes—softening your muscles, getting you used to his presence when you can’t see him, until you’re relaxed and pliant on the bed.
Fabric rustles behind you. It’s the balaclava; he’s pulled it off and tossed it to the side. You can just see it out of the corner of your eye. “Spoilin’ me with this view, love.” Then Ghost kisses the small of your back as he kneels on the bed, covering your skin with appreciation as he makes his way up.
You can’t help your small, genuinely breathless laugh when he kisses the side of your neck. “Make this good, and you’ll see it a second time,” You promise. Then he palms one of your tits, and you grind your ass against his hard-on, so he doesn’t get too lost in the sauce.
He nips your earlobe. “I’m the best you’re gonna have.” When he withdraws, he takes all his warmth with him, leaving you cold and bereft. “Might be a tight fit, doll,” Ghost tells you as he unbuckles his jeans.
Ooh, doll. That’s a new one. You haven’t been called that before. You like it.
His fingers dip between your thighs, nudging at your clit until you’re gasping and writhing. When he works two, then three digits into your cunt, he stretches you out with brisk efficiency.
The slick sound of skin on skin - Ghost pulls his fingers from you to spread your arousal over his dick, pumping himself a few times.
“I can take you.”
One of his palms rests on your back as he carefully, so so, so carefully slips the blunt head of his cock inside. “Ohhhhh, oh fuck.” You go completely slack, cheek dropping to the mattress. He’s big. He’s fucking massive.
Ghost is hardly moving at all, and still, your pussy is trembling, desperately trying to clamp down on him, but you’re too stretched out-
He’s gasping, exhaling hard through his nose while he tries to re-adjust. The feeling of you squeezing him is unbearable.“God. My fuckin’ God. You’re-“ Ghost cuts himself off, and you hear him curse. He pulls himself out slightly, then pushes back in. “Loosen- loosen up a little. Please.” You can’t even make sense of his pleading, not when his dick is so big inside your belly that you don’t have room for thoughts.
When he plays with your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb, you feel the pleasure grow and churn and make you shake. “I- you’re so big, I can’t,” You barely succeed at getting out.
But- he rolls his hips again, and your body opens for him bit by bit. “Please. That’s it, that’s it, pretty girl. Doll. Good girl,” He chants.
And what can you do but let out an answering moan, a strung-out, needy, desperate sound for words your brain doesn’t know?
Your nails are seconds away from tearing the plastic mattress cover. God, if only- if only your cunt wasn’t stuffed so full. “Ghost… fuck, you’re splitting me in two.” He bottoms out, and he’s so deep, like he’s molding you around him. After a moment, Ghost starts fucking you in earnest.
“Holy shit, yes, right there-“ You gasp when his hard cock presses against your g-spot, your core shivering around him.
Ghost keeps at it with both hands on your hips to hold you steady. “I know. I know. I have you. I have you, love.” Your body trusts him to guide you through this - he’s sturdy and strong, and you feel every inch moving inside of you with his thrusts. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, Christ.” Sweat gathers at your hairline before tracking down your face to join the little pool of saliva below your slack, open mouth.
When he grinds into your hypersensitive, tender pussy, you shriek, his cock fucking the sounds out of your strained vocal cords. “Feels so good,” He groans in a shaken, undone voice.
Despite your fucked-out head, despite getting the best dick of your life, you find another ounce of spite you haven’t tapped into yet. “B-best you’ve ever, hngh, had?” You’re dripping around him, so soaked that the wet sounds of your cunt echo almost drown out your nonsensical, cock-drunk noises.
Ghost laughs before fucking you harder, determined to make you scream. “Yeah, best fuckin’ pussy. Best girl. Fuck. Fuck.” And just as he does that, you hear him lick his fingers before pressing them to your swollen clit.
Oh no. Oh no. Your pussy begins to tighten and twitch, and you didn’t plan for this, the pleasure sneaks up on you as you fight it, trying to keep your head above water and your body from… “I’m not gonna last, shit, you’re too good to me,” Ghost growls, relentlessly pounding into you.
Your stomach aches and screams with your orgasm, but you’re not ready yet, you need a second. You- he’s manipulating your body so keenly, you’ve never felt anything like it.
His hips snap into your ass, aiming viciously for your g-spot. “You’ll come again. Like this,” Ghost orders, then presses down on your back, so you drop your chest and cant your hips up.
“Fuck, I don’t know if I can,” You confess, each sound chopped up and breathless as he fucks you harder and harder.
He keeps his fingers on your clit at the same pressure, same speed, and it feels so good that you’re going to start sobbing at any second. Your knees are about to give out, and Ghost’s thrusts get wilder, messier.
“Come. Come for me.”
You’re screeching, crying, wailing as you come. Cunt spasming on his dick, your lungs empty and howling for relief. Your hips keep pushing back towards him to chase the high. Each wave is more painful, more powerful than the next, leaving you a twitching, helpless mess.
You come so fucking hard around him that you think you were meant for this. It’s the sweetest relief, like hot fire licking through your veins. It’s all Ghost and the cock he’s breaking you open on. Your pleasure slices into your gut like a sharpened knife, and your slick covers his pants, your thighs, the bed below you.
He shoves himself into you one last, impossibly deep, painfully good time, and Ghost comes with a long, drawn-out moan as your muscles milk him. There’s a burst of warmth - except your spasming, still-orgasming pussy is packed to the brim with his cock, so you feel his come drip all over your trembling, weak legs.
When he pulls out, he slides an arm around your waist before gently lowering you to the bed. Then Ghost lays on his side so he can draw your bare, sweat-soaked back to his chest, tucking you into him. And while you’re insensible, he grabs the balaclava and shoves it over his face.
You come back to yourself in increments, your head hazy and filled with small snapshots of tenderness.
Ghost adjusts the open buckle of his belt, so it doesn’t hurt you or irritate your sensitive skin. Your hand seeks one of his blindly until he wraps his fingers around yours. He stops your shivering by unzipping his hoodie and draping it over your naked body.
Your heart rate slows to something more reasonable, and as your eyes open, you see his tattoos. He’s got your head cushioned on his shoulder, so your hair has draped itself all over his arm.
You can see monochrome shadows dancing on his muscled, scarred skin, skulls, bombs, and dog tags, all of it peeking out.
Beautiful. Edgy, scary, beautiful. “I like them,” You say as you outline a lovingly-detailed sniper’s scope with the tip of your finger.
He doesn’t laugh, he’s recovering too, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Not too shabby, eh?”
Barbed wire in that faded, blue-black color that tattoos turn with age, greyscale fire, and brimstone… “They suit you. And so does the mask.” Ghost exhales softly, air fanning out across your skin.
Then he shifts, tightens his arm around you, and brings you closer. “Thanks,” He murmurs after a long, substantial moment.
You try to banish the exhaustion creeping on you to the recesses of your mind. It makes your tongue slippery, makes the thoughts fall straight out of your head and into the world. “Yeah, no problem. Did you know that your eyelashes are blonde? I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you.”
There are many other things you want to say, but you chew on the inside of your cheek and manage to stop them.
“Have you now?”
Aw, damn. So you did say that out loud, and he heard you. “Yeah. Yeah.” Each time you blink, you do it slower, like gravity is somehow increasing as time goes on, and you’re losing the power to resist it.
Where’d he go? “Gotta fuckin’… put some sheets on this bed. Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, love.” You poke your head up for a second and look around. No Ghost behind you, no arms cradling you.
Then you spot him by the door, shoving his keycard in his pocket. “Mmph.” You don’t lie down until he circles around and curls his palm around your cheek.
“I’ll be right back,” Ghost promises, and with his blessing, you roll over and close your eyes.
-
Tagging @abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @poohkie90 @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @555ilovecats @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @drugsaftersex @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney
Idk how tag lists work so i guess just reply if u want to be added? and reply/shoot me a message if you want off!
Thank y'all so much for the support and love <3 <3 <3, the next chapter will be more smut, as well as the 141's reaction to your wedding!
One last thing - please do not ask a disabled author/person in general to disclose intimate details of their disability because you think their disability should limit them from doing something. that is very rude, and also very ableist. the only person entitled to my medical history is my doctor, and I've already had someone act entitled toward my medical history over this fic. i am super uncomfortable that i had to disclose anything at all, but i felt that if i didn't, they would pick a fight. my pinned post contains the comment i made on AO3 about this, including said details that I wish I didn't feel forced to tell people. I am not going to be responding to questions of that kind going forward. thank you.
(as always, dedicated to cuckoo <3)
#heartless#cod#call of duty#modern warfare#mw#modern warfare 2#mw2#cod mw#cod mw2#cod modern warfare#cod modern warfare 2#call of duty mw#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty mw2#call of duty modern warfare 2#simon riley#ghost#ghost riley#ghost call of duty#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost riley x reader#ghost riley x you#ghost x you#ghost x reader
599 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Rare Bookseller Part 36: Alexander's Desire
Previous Masterlist Next
June 1905
TW: mind control, captivity, human auction
Lex was bored.
He was surrounded by vampires all dolled up in their best attire, eager to see and be seen at the most high-end auction in the entire region, and he could hardly bring himself to care. All of the chatter was petty politics and gossip and who-is-wearing-what and who-is-buying-what, and it was hard to feign the slightest bit of interest.
Still, he did need a thrall. His long-time thrall Edmund had died of old age and blood loss after a lifetime of service. He'd been a good thrall, quiet and obedient, and his presence had eased some of Lex's loneliness. His loss was felt keenly. He knew that a good portion of the vampires here, even those who loved their human pets and servants, would scoff at the depths of Lex's grief over a mere thrall. Lex had always had too soft a heart, a fact that his sire never hesitated to remind him of.
Even so, the grief stung whenever he allowed himself to feel it -- whenever he had need to venture into the cold, spotless kitchen or start up the fire himself. He no longer had anyone to read particularly interesting passages of books to or play music for. There was no more wry chuckle when Lex made a mistake. No one to accompany him to the opera or ballet.
He'd hastily skipped the cattle pen of mind-wiped humans -- he found the entire idea distasteful, their vacant eyes unsettling -- in favor of perusing those designated as servants. Every one had bowed politely to him, addressed him as Mr. Alexander, and answered his questions briefly and with civility. Each one had been so enthralled as to lose most of whatever personality they might've had, and it might take years to draw any of it out of them, like it had with Edmund. The fashion of the time, unfortunately.
But his need for fresh blood couldn't be denied any longer, and even though these humans were unappealing in demeanor, his mouth still watered at the smell. At this rate, all he could do was pick out the most promising of the lot, take them home, and hope to coax some life out of them.
How tedious.
How very, very lonely.
There was, of course, one wild card, one wrench in the machine: his sire-sister, Lily, who had pulled him aside earlier that night to tell him about a secret project she had, a thrall that Lex would just love. That was mildly terrifying, coming from her -- Lex shuddered to think what she'd done to the poor human. Lily's skills in conditioning were second to none, but her ideas of what made a good thrall often ran counter to the grain.
He took his polite leave from the sixth vampire who'd stopped him in the hall, eager to curry favor with him and thereby curry favor with his sire, and headed into an ornately-decorated side room.
There, in the center of the room, stood a man with short blond hair, a stunning red velvet ball gown, and a cocky grin on his face. The thrall looked Lex up and down, and his grin only grew wider.
Lily was standing to his side, wearing some frilly pink confection of a dress. "This is the vampire I wanted you to meet, Fitz."
"Oh, this is Mr. Alexander?" said Fitz. "You didn't tell me he looked like this, sir. I might need to take back what I said about not wanting to serve a vampire."
"This is my special project, Lex," said Lily, bursting with pride.
"The special-est, sir."
"Lex, meet Fitz."
"Charmed, sir, both literally and figuratively," said Fitz, bowing with a little flourish.
Lex stood there, stunned, not knowing quite how to react. "Are you... have you actually been... what I mean to say is, are you a thrall?"
"I've been hypnotized to hell and back by Miss Lily here, if that's what you mean, sir," he said. "But for better or worse, she's allowed me to retain my sparkling wit."
"Is that so?" Lex glanced over at Lily, who was looking incredibly smug. He had to hand it to her: this thrall at least wasn't boring. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such life in the eyes of a thrall.
"But enough about me, sir," said Fitz, getting into Lex's personal space. He smelled like lavender and rich, delicious blood, and that confident smile paired with sparkling blue-gray eyes was undeniably handsome. "Let's talk about you. Specifically, why you should buy me."
"Isn't that also about you?"
"You got me there, sir." Fitz laughed.
"Why would you even want me to buy you?" said Lex. "You seem to have your mind intact. You know that you'd be my servant, you'd lose your freedom, and I'd drink your blood."
"I don't know if you noticed, sir, but that's going to happen to every human here, or so I'm told. If I'm going to be a servant and delicious meal anyway, I might as well pick my poison, right? And you seem at least to be a very attractive poison."
Lex had seen thralls fawn and beg before, but he hadn't ever seen a thrall openly flirt. It was nakedly manipulative, of course, but the fact that the thrall was even capable of manipulation was intriguing.
"What are your interests, Fitz?" said Lex.
"The stage is my passion, I'm proficient in magic tricks, passable at fortunetelling, excellent at cards, and dabble in all sorts of arts and crafts and handiwork, sir."
"Do you play any instruments?"
"The guitar and the piano, sir, although I wouldn't expect concert-quality performances."
Lex couldn't help but smile. A thrall that played music, and had his mind together enough to indulge in hobbies! He'd longed for a thrall like this ever since he'd buried poor Edmund. Despite himself, he was already losing himself in a daydream of Fitz in his music room, playing a simple tune on his guitar, filling his bleak and lonely mansion with song.
He shook himself out of it. He couldn't give away his interest too obviously.
"Hmm, let's see," he said, hooking a finger under Fitz's chin and directing him to look him in the eye. His blood smelled like a delectable feast, and it was eroding Lex's self-control. He couldn't hold back his vampiric aura, and he saw Fitz's eyes go wide under his influence. Oh, that was gorgeous. "If I were to buy you, would you offer your blood to me?"
"Yes, yes, sir," he said, now looking more like a dazed thrall, tilting his head to the side to expose his neck. Lex had found this fawning behavior uninteresting from the other, more heavily conditioned thralls -- but on Fitz, who just moments before had been bright and alert, it was intoxicating. "Being fed on by a vampire exactly like you is all I can think about lately. Drink, please."
Lex realized that he was far, far too blood-starved to rationally deal with this kind of temptation. He released Fitz from the spell, seconds away from losing himself and biting into merchandise that wasn't his. Yet, came the automatic thought, which he tried to dismiss.
Life returned to Fitz. "You deserve to drink from someone with blood as good as mine, sir."
"Oh?" Lex cocked an eyebrow. "How do you even know that your blood tastes good?"
"Well, a serious looking man in a very dapper suit told me that my blood was top shelf triple-A fancy grade, sir," said Fitz. "He seemed very authoritative, so I'm inclined to believe him utterly."
Lex laughed. It was probably the first time he'd laughed since Edmund died.
Oh, he was in trouble. This wasn't a thrall he would settle for because he needed fresh blood to live. He wanted this thrall. And he didn't like wanting anything -- it was a recipe for disappointment and disaster. And Lily was grinning like a loon. She knew.
"You're going to cost me a lot of money, aren't you?" he said in defeat.
"You're certainly not the first person to say that to me, sir."
Well, it wasn't like money was a serious obstacle to him. While this style of lucid thrall wouldn't appeal to some of the vampires here, the fact that Fitz had the highest graded blood Lex had seen at a local auction would drive his price sky-high regardless of his personality. And unfortunately, Lex already knew that he was willing to pay just about any price for this one. The thought of another vampire buying him, dragging him away by his handcuffs, sinking their fangs into what was rightfully his --
No, this was ridiculous. He had to keep his calm until the auction proper.
"I -- I really should -- I should take my leave and peruse the rest of the merchandise," said Lex as casually as he could muster, as though he hadn't already looked over most of the available thralls and found them lacking.
"Well, you're certainly not going to find anything better than me, but I understand the impulse," said Fitz. "I hope to see you again, sir."
Lex rushed out before he could get drawn back in.
He stalked down the hallway, past chattering vampires, hoping to find a relatively secluded place to clear his head, finally settling on a padded bench in a small windowless nook. His head was spinning with the desire to possess. He'd been starving for both fresh blood and companionship ever since Edmund's death, and still nothing else had sparked the flame of need so deep inside him as this one particular thrall. His mind was filled with fantasy of Fitz playing guitar and singing in the music room, of Lex stroking his fingers through his hair while they lounged by the fire, of how his sparkling eyes would look when Lex enthralled him to feed...
And the way Fitz had entreated him to feed! That was all Lily's deep conditioning, of course, but it seemed so real coming from him, as though his need for a vampire's fangs was genuine. He'd always known Lily was a genius at enthrallment, but Fitz had to be her finest work yet.
Lex tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps, not eager to make pleasantries with yet another respectable vampire, gushing over some empty-eyed, mumbling thrall and asking Lex to convey their respects to his hated sire. He was relieved to look up and find that the sensible black shoes in his line of vision belonged to his old friend Ruth, one of the sharpest minds in the city.
"Good evening, Lex," she said, sitting on the other end of the bench. "I do hope I'm not interrupting some important brooding."
"You're not interrupting anything in particular. The distraction will do me some good."
"So are you not finding anything you like? That's a bit surprising given how long you've gone without a thrall."
"On the contrary, I may have found something I like too much," he admitted, perhaps unwisely. Ruth was also close friends with Lily, and Lily was bound to be entirely too self-satisfied over her little project's success.
"Ah, is it Lily's little pet? He's quite interesting, isn't he? I think I may bid on him. He'd make an excellent clerk."
Lex couldn't keep the half-horrified, half-ferocious look off his face, his baser instincts howling at the idea of having his new toy taken away from him. Ruth cackled. "What's that face? Don't worry, I'm only teasing you. I won't stand in your way -- you're obviously in need of a proper thrall. Or an improper one, as the case may be."
The jealous knot in Lex's chest loosened. He needed to calm himself before the auction proper, lest he make a scene like an unschooled fledgeling. "I appreciate it," he said.
Ruth put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "It's actually quite a relief to see you desire a thrall again. The strict repression your sire tries to enforce isn't good for you. After all, what's the point of dragging these old corpses around if we can't even enjoy ourselves?"
Enjoy himself?
When was the last time he'd truly enjoyed himself? Before Edmund's death, certainly, in the times when his manor had been less lonely, and he'd had quality blood to drink. Even then, it was difficult for him to grasp more than fleeting moments of contentment -- his master's pursuit of perfection over happiness had its roots deep in his mind. Truly, he'd been denying himself for so long, and in so many ways.
He wanted this. He needed this. He was going to own Fitz, and no vampire would stand in his way.
Previous Masterlist Next
I'm sure this will all turn out fine.
@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep
97 notes
·
View notes
Note
The GoM have been busy for a while (it could be basketball, school, or something else). They finally check messages from their s/o. They've missed so many and the last one is asking if they want to break up so they can focus on basketball. How do they save their relationship?
Apologies are healthy ʅ(°ヮ°)ʃ
Admin Neon
Kuroko
“Please let me make it up to you.” – he spends quite a bit of time texting you back, saying he’d like to meet you at your place to discuss what’s going on between the two of you
when he arrives at your door, Kuroko has a small bundle of your favorite flowers – he’s a gentleman, so of course he’s going to remember which sets are your favorite
spends a long time listening to all of your complaints and all of your retellings of times you’d felt alone because of him; when you finally finish, he’s misty eyed and apologetic
tries his best to make gaps in his schedule that he can dedicate to you, but sometimes messes up and double books himself – he always cancels the other thing to spend that time with you instead
Kise
absolutely the most dramatic about it when he sees you asking to break up – sends you a hundred texts, all of them some form of ‘why would you ask that?’, ‘no! never! not in a million years!’, ‘i love you, i don’t wanna break up!’
when you eventually call him to stop all his mass texts, he’s already crying on the other end of the line – had this been Teiko!Kise, he probably wouldn’t have cared and dropped you, but he’s not like that anymore; he’s grown, he’s matured, and he knows what love feels like now
is the type of boyfriend to say he will do anything to make it up to you and then actually tries his damned best to do it
you want to go on a date right after school tomorrow? sure, Kasamatsu’s going to beat his ass when he’s caught skipping practice, but it’ll be worth it
Aomine
it was a long day and he had not checked his phone all day, so by the time he saw your text, it was already midnight
he would never admit it, but Aomine had been watching too many romcoms recently, so he thought it was a great plan to just go over to your house right now and throw pebbles at your window
Aomine doesn’t care that you looked kind of miffed at the fact he’d woken you in the middle of the night – he tried to ignore the guilt he felt when he saw that it looked like you’d fell asleep crying
“I don’t want to break up with you.” – his voice was too loud for how quiet the night was – “Get down here and let me in. I’m spending the night here with you.”
Midorima
when he sees your text message, there is a small part of him that does wonder if he would be a little more stress free if he were single – he feels ashamed that the thought had even crossed his mind; he’d rather suffer unlucky days for all eternity than break up with you
calls you and asks you how he can fix this – is genuinely surprised when you seem mad that he has to ask, but deep down he knows you are right
with a heavy sigh, he switches tactics and asks if he could come over to your place – “I want to see you. I want to hold you.”
he uses the long walk over to your house to think of all the ways he would make it up to you, starting with all the ways he could show you how much you meant to him
Murasakibara
he texts you once – a simple ‘what do you mean ____-chin?’ – and doesn’t message anymore after that because he’s waiting for your response
is honestly not aware of what could be the problem, so he doesn’t think to message you again or call you, so the next time you guys interact is when he sees you in person at school
when he tries to act normally with you and you give him a bit of a cold shoulder, he finally starts to realize he’d done something to really piss you off
will keep trying to pull you into a hug and when you finally relent, he’ll murmur into your hair – “Just tell me what I’m doing wrong. I’ll fix it, whatever it is.”
Akashi
first thing he is going to do after reading your text message is pause whatever he’s doing to call you – doesn’t matter if it’s practice, doesn’t matter if it’s dinner; he’s going to pause it and he’s going to call you
if you don’t answer, he leaves you a voicemail; if you do answer, he asks if the two of you could talk in person later that night
he does not elaborate any further – he honestly doesn’t think he has to – so he may have accidentally freaked you out with thoughts that he might want to breakup
Akashi is honestly shocked when you arrive already in tears because of your conclusion, but he quickly corrects your wrong assumptions and promises to block off more time for just the two of you in his busy schedule – “Let’s have some time together right now.”
232 notes
·
View notes
Text
This has been a really hard one to talk about. I'm always very ambivalent about mourning celebrities. I try to remember that I don't know these people, that what is really mourned by most of us is the person's ongoing work, which in the best cases has helped us understand ourselves and the world in which we live. Unavoidably, though, you can start to develop the sense that you know these people personally, which isn't true or even appropriate necessarily, I mean you have no idea whether you would even like someone you've only seen on a screen or received an autograph from; but at the same time, I don't know if you can really force yourself not to feel like the deceased celebrity is a dear friend you will never get to talk to again (the last time I tried and failed was the passing of Lux Interior). Maybe this is more forgivable, and also more inevitable, if you feel like you grew up with the person.
Of course this is all about ME now, but my mother (who also died from cancer) was an extremely hip, brilliant, funny individual who for whatever reason refused to form a relationship with me. This was pretty strange, because we liked a lot of the same things--B movies, old comics, all types of camp and kitsch--but when I liked those things, it was in poor taste and punishable by exile, whereas when she liked those things, it was evidence of her cultural genius. Before I make anybody too mad I should say that I'm being a little bit unfairly reductive just so I can get to the point, which is that one of the few things we could share was Pee-Wee's Playhouse. I didn't know anything about the show's more adult origins or the fact that Paul Reubens was sort of a performance artist, but I didn't have to. Pee-Wee's Playhouse was a feast for any child's senses: stylish, hilarious, and on some subliminal level, really sophisticated. I was clued into some of what was going on just because I watched it with my mom, who always laughed at Pee-Wee's winks and nudges to the hep parents in the audience. The show might have been my first encounter with the kind of anthropological humor favored by people like David Byrne and Laurie Anderson, artists who engage subversively with cliches, stereotypes, and other memetic parts of popular culture. In Pee-Wee's Playhouse, with its sharp, edgy cast and crew, kids like me were getting into fine art without even knowing it--which is possibly the best way to learn about art anyway.
In fact, on the other side of our house, I became obsessed with Gary Panter's incredible punk opus Jimbo In Paradise, a Dantesque comic book about an innocent young guy living in a dystopian future, where he is occasionally joined by guest stars such as Nancy and Hedorah. I was about 7 when I started reading Jimbo over and over again even though I could barely understand it, and I had no idea that Gary had pretty much designed Pee-Wee's Playhouse. I'm speaking about him so familiarly because I got to know him a little bit as a grownup. I remember Gary talking about how private Paul Reubens could be. He used to do this thing where he would accept a dinner invitation from anybody who asked, as sort of a stunt, but he had to stop doing it because people became so intrusive and entitled with him. Gary said that they'd be walking around in New York and when they saw an obvious Pee-Wee fan gearing up for an offensive, Paul Reubens would sort of transform into this totally different person, putting out an aura that let you know not to fuck with him. It's crazy-making to think that someone who was so protective of the boundary between his private and public selves had to suffer that ridiculous arrest, but it's heartening that most of society eventually grew the fuck up and forgot about it. It's also helpful to remember when he turned up later on the MTV Music Video Awards and started off by asking the audience, "HEARD ANY GOOD JOKES LATELY??"
I'm glad we got one more Pee-Wee special in the past several years, but I always wished that we would see Paul Reubens in more movies. He was such a cool actor, funny, convincing, and naturally charismatic. While people are cycling through their favorite roles of his, I want to point out that he had a great role on a recent HBO miniseries called Mosaic, an intense, engrossing crime drama that I definitely recommend if you have access. Maybe I'll rewatch it, too. In closing, here's a great story that I grabbed from Facebook that should warm everybody's heart, along with the heartbreaking statement (inappropriately cropped by Instagram of course) released upon the death of the very private Pee-Wee Herman. It makes you wish you could thank him in person, for everything. The best we can do is just remember him.
305 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sunday Sentences
Okey dokey artichokeys let's do this - it's Sunday now and well i'm still up (of course world-class insomniac after all) and i've got a couple tags from the lovely @hgejfmw-hgejhsf & @priincebutt so i don't even hafta start us off ❤️
I think I typed the last word of my 'lil ACD signs all the books fic - gotta sign 'em all - unless I find I missed something when I go do the edits - well other than whatever I come up with for a dedication since I was a dummy and have Alex read it lol - so any thoughts on a good dedication to Alex for Henry's first book let me know ❤️
so here we go -
“I am truly sorry for her. Every time I think she can’t get worse, she proves me wrong, but I love her more than my own sister, so I’m stuck with her.” Athena shakes her head in faux disgust at her friend.
“It’s all good, and she is right. I’m more than happy to sign the book,” Alex extends his hand for it before continuing, “After all, I hear it’s quite the distinction to have both mine and Henry’s autographs.” He turns to the dedication page that he has turned to so many times and sees something he hasn’t seen before. There on the page is Henry’s signature, usurping some of the space he usually fills. He grabs the pen from his bag while laughing at the fact that, apparently, they are starting something new in this little book signing adventure. He reads Henry’s ‘Athena, hope this continues to bring you joy, and you get that other signature here you want’ with that ever-so-neat signature of his.
Alex looks up and sees both of them smile before Athena says, “Yeah, I know you generally like to fill the page on your own, or at least that’s what I hear, but I wanted something to distinguish mine. I hope you're okay with sharing the page with Henry.”
Alex thinks he’s more than okay sharing everything with Henry, so he’s more than happy to share this little thing, even though he knows it is something he won’t say to a stranger. Instead, he replies, “Of course, but you know that as soon as others find out this has happened, they’re all gonna want the same thing. But, you can be the one who starts the trend,” with a smile.
He signs the book with a quip about sharing his space and his signature in a large flourish. The girls giggle when they read it, and he remembers why he is still doing this a couple of years after the book first came out. He’s prepared to spend at least a bit of time talking with them as he’s come to find that he doesn’t mind some of these moments and has plenty of time to spare before his flight leaves.
That is not what happens as they stop giggling, and Athena speaks up, “Thanks so much for signing this; I am so happy right now. We’ll leave you to what you were doing. Thanks again.”
He’s ready to tell them they don’t have to rush off when Marcy pipes in, “What Athena means is we need to sit in a corner and squee like silly schoolgirls as we re-read those bits you boys have written there. You really do not need to be subjected to that – it’s just embarrassing, trust me.”
some no pressure tags❤️
@adreamareads @agame-writes @anincompletelist @bitbybitwrites @dragonflylady77 @duchessdepolignaca03 @england-would-fall @firenati0n @firstsprinces @forever-fixating @heysweetheart-writes @inexplicablymine @itsmaybitheway @junebugclaremontdiaz @kiwiana-writes @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @magicandarchery @nocoastposts @piratefalls @sophie1973 @stellarm @sunnysideprince @suseagull04 @taste-thewaste @typicalopposite & @oxfordslutphase
#sunday sentences#red white and royal blue#firstprince#rwrb wip#gotta sign 'em all#so happy that i can get this bb posted soon#yay!!!#omg i just need it done!#got other things that want my focus anyway to focus on lol
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
Three Jokers Are Not Better Than One
(or, cheap twists don't make a good story)
Would you look at that? It's time to bitch about Three Jokers!
(spoilers for a 3-year-old comic ahead)
Gotham War got me into hater mode, so I figured it was time to take a second look at Three Jokers, written by Geoff Johns and drawn by Jason Fabok. I first read it when the issues came out, and I thought it was possible that the story isn't as bad as I remembered. I don't know why, since for the past three years I've been haunted by the possibility of it being deemed canon.
Of course, at the time of conception, Three Jokers was intended to be canon. Johns set up the premise in the Darkseid War storyline of the 2011 Justice League run, in issues published in 2015/2016. Batman takes control of the omniscient Mobius Chair, and he tests it by asking who killed his parents. Then he asks a second question, which Hal Jordan presses him on several issues later.
[Justice League (2011) #42 & Justice League (2011) #50]
Four years later, when Three Jokers was set to be released towards the end of 2020, Johns did at first confirm it would be canon despite being released via Black Label, where books are not meant to be part of the larger continuity. In later interviews, however, this assertion got walked back in favor of saying the canonicity is up to each reader, which is kind of a wild thing to say. "Look, this story merely proposes that one of our most popular characters has actually been three different dudes the whole time, which totally has a negligible impact on how that character should be seen and has interacted with the world. Take it or leave it!"
But then, DC's idea of canon has been pretty squiggly of late, especially with the increasing multiverse shenanigans. In the final issue of Dark Knights: Death Metal in 2021, the reader is told, "with our past finally set, myriad new futures are opening up. And as hypertime heals, we'll likely experience flashes of them– and even alternate pasts– in pretty epic fashion." Infinite Frontier followed, with a press release declaring, "When our heroes saved the Multiverse from Perpetua in Dark Nights: Death Metal, everything was put back where it belonged… and we do mean everything. All the damage from all the Crises was undone [....]"
I have a lot of thoughts about this, revolving around what the heck does it mean for storytelling and how we should understand characters that apparently, somehow, everything is canon? How are we supposed to take this as anything other than the omniverse being an excuse for DC Editorial to wave off responsibility for a legible timeline? "Batman can be in two places at once because, uh, the Monitor sneezed?"
But this too-long essay is about Three Jokers, so I'll narrow my concern: if character histories can simply change with a multiversal glitch, in whatever overwrought way those are usually explained to us, then it sure feels like it doesn't matter that Three Jokers was published under Black Label. It sure seems like, at whoever's whim, Three Jokers can still get locked into the main storyline. I mean, Zdarsky still hasn't explained what that three Jokers shit in Batman #135 is about. On the other hand, we know that the explanation for the two Jokers in The Man Who Stopped Laughing does not involve the multiverse, and Joker is supposed to reunite with Batman over in Zdarsky's story when that story closes out, so… I actually have no reason to be confident that means anything.
"But why would Three Jokers getting canonized be so bad?" you may ask if you've never read Three Jokers (or if you fully enjoyed it).
Speaking for myself, it starts with the premise: taking a character and saying, "actually, this is not one complex guy but three different guys, which fractures the character's motivations and relationships over the last several decades." When that character is one you enjoy very much, this twist is not fun. It's a fundamental change to who they are.
Then five months before the release of Three Jokers #1, Johns and Fabok did an interview with Entertainment Weekly. Some things the pair said raised red flags:
1) Three Jokers' story would focus on the trauma that Barbara, Jason, and Bruce suffered at Joker's hands, per Johns. "If you suffer some trauma, you don’t just get over with it and move on with your life, it changes who you are. Sometimes it changes you for the better, sometimes it changes you for the worse. You can heal right, and you can heal wrong. That’s really what the book’s about: Healing right, healing wrong, and surviving."
2) Johns also said of the story: “It goes back to the beginning when Batman first encountered the Joker, but it’s also The Killing Joke and A Death in the Family that speak to the book and that we’re building off emotionally." And Fabok mentioned that the book's look would be based on the aesthetics of The Killing Joke: "I really want it to feel like it could be a spiritual sequel, at least artistically."
These remarks foreshadowed a disconnect. A key part of The Killing Joke itself is that both Joker and Bruce experienced terrible trauma ("one bad day"), but in responding to it, they made different choices: broadly, Joker choosing to hurt people versus Bruce choosing to help people. Johns excluding Joker from his comments about trauma felt like a sign that he ignored a key part of the character, despite Joker being a core part of a new tale "emotionally" inspired by TKJ.
(We're setting aside "you can heal right and you can heal wrong" for now. Ohhh, we'll get back to that.)
Johns' blind spot was confirmed a few months later when he was quoted by the DC Nation Twitter account: "There are very few characters that are, to me, as irredeemable as The Joker. There is nothing in him that is good."
Wow, what close analysis from Mr. Emotional Build.
Look, I don't need Joker to be redeemed or woobified. (Ask me about the "Pushback" storyline from 2004 and hear my gnashing teeth crack a filling.) But I would like the full breadth of his character acknowledged, especially when you're claiming you're writing about trauma, especially when you're creating a "spiritual sequel" to one of best known Joker stories (if not the best known one).
Then Three Jokers finally came out, and over three months it proved to be neither an examination of healing nor very interesting, at least not in an enjoyable way. What it has to "say" about trauma, for any of the characters, is no different than the limited conclusion made in previous Batman books: mainly the drumbeat of fighting off the darkness by being a bigger person— or at least not killing your enemy. Making Joker into a role played by three different people adds nothing; it amounts to little more than a gimmick.
Hell, even as a gimmick, it's flawed. Theoretically, the three Jokers represent phases of personality the Joker has embodied over the years— but the representations we get don't make sense. Here they are summed up in Book 3:
Sorry, what? The Criminal is less interested in theatrics? In what time period was the Joker ever not interested in making a big show of things in one way or another? Maybe this is supposed to be an "early" Joker in terms of the Rebirth/InfiniCrisisDarkCarnateTier/whatever more recent conception of him, but I'll wager that's not what people think about when they think of Joker at his start. They think about Golden Age Joker doing goofy shit and laughing maniacally. They're not expecting this morose man.
The other thing is that, in Book 1, the narrative "assigns" each of our three protagonists to a Joker: Bruce to the Criminal, who appeared at the start; Barbara to the Comedian, who shot her; and Jason to the Clown, who killed him. Now at first I thought Johns was saying one Joker took over after another, but since Barbara's attack and Jason's death happened 9 months apart in 1988, which are not different Joker eras, I think we're supposed to see them as sort of… cycling on and off depending on the needs of the scheme? Maybe? But the descriptions above are still confusing. Why am I supposed to see the Joker who got carried away with the fun of beating Jason with a crowbar and successfully blew him up as less sadistic than the other one?
Johns does appear to lampshade this confusion in the middle of Book 1, when we get all three Jokers in a cabin in the woods. The Clown and the Comedian have this exchange:
This and a later panel with the Comedian actually imply that he and the Clown are interchangeable, even though they're supposed to be different. So are they or not? Is there an actual reason we need three Jokers, or did Johns just think it was a neato idea and then spend four years trying to figure out a "layered" justification for it?
The other thing about this cabin scene, and about the Joker trio largely, is that it should be fun and it's not. There should be chaos! Zaniness! At the very least, all the narcissism in the room should generate a competitive friction, make their interactions more dynamic. (Really it should generate bloodshed and end with one man standing within like ten minutes, but I'll grant the choice to save that for Book 3.) Instead it's almost mundane. The cabin isn't even decorated! It's dark and dreary, like the Jokers are dark and dreary. If we're gonna have three Jokers, can't they at least be Jokering with each other?
The same thought comes when I consider the very beginning of Book 1. It all starts out like a typical Batman story: three deadly crimes are committed in one night, the Joker seemingly responsible for all of them, and Bruce, Barbara, and Jason are drawn together as they try to figure out what's up. Of course, thanks to the Magic Chair, Bruce already knows there are three clowns, but Barbara and Jason are thinking that Joker is working with two look-alikes to create confusion. And considering the basics of what happens in this story, what the Comedian's larger plan is meant to accomplish, why couldn't this have been written with just two look-alikes? I mean, yeah, it would require Johns to forget about his continuity bomb, but maybe the story would have been better (and shorter). Again, the creation of other Jokers isn't doing much for what the plot is getting at. The three crimes that start us off would still serve the function of reminding Bruce of how Joker's been a constant in his life. The taunting of a convincing Joker look-alike is enough to set off Jason's anger and sadness about what happened to him, and his fears of what he could become. The climax with Joe Chill would have to be redone, but the threat of him being Jokerized isn't the crucial plot point; the Comedian's film of him is. Bruce doesn't even have any substantial thoughts about there being three of his nemesis.
But, alas, the story goes how it goes. And as it goes, we also see that Jason behaves more cruelly in his search for Joker than Barbara and Bruce. For example, Jason attacks and threatens one of Joker's victims to get information, feeling justified because the guy has a rap sheet, while Barbara scolds him and Bruce tells the victim, "I'm sorry this happened." What I find notable about this is that while comics regularly present Jason as hot-headed and Barbara as reasonable, Bruce… uh… If you gather a random selection of Batman comics, you'll find that his level of violence is all over the place. This story, however, requires a more somber Bruce, whose violence is more reactive, because Jason and Barbara serve Johns' dichotomy of "heal right" versus "heal wrong." We can't have Bruce on the sadistic side of the scale fucking that up, and besides, Jason's long been the posterboy for healing "wrong."
That notion comes to a head at the end of the issue. The heroes have encountered and subdued the Clown at the aquarium when Jim Gordon calls. The GCPD found another Joker, and Bruce leaves Jason and Barbara alone with the Clown to assist.
Goodness me, who could have predicted Jason might kill a restrained Joker? Not Bruce, who absolutely should have. Barbara is there to talk Jason down, sure, but what else is the Clown gonna do but needle Jason to kill him?
The Clown cackles then, declaring that Red Hood is his Robin, for the very reason of his violent impulses and how much he upsets the Bat, and of course Jason shoots him in the head, because oof.
Honestly, on this second read I found this scene a smidge too oof. Jason was a determined little Robin, dedicated to saving his awful mother to the very end, and him cracking and declaring that he'll work for a criminal… I don't know. I don't think it's impossible, but it feels superfluous. I don't think such a reveal is necessary to get Jason to fire. I think the Clown focusing on how the new Red Hood is actually quite similar to the old, as well as how Jason matters less than the neverending battle between Batman and Joker, is enough emotional stress to get to the same end result.
But that's a minor quibble; we've got bigger fish to fry! Such as the specter of the "healed right/healed wrong" dynamic that reappears as Barbara and Jason argue over the Clown's corpse.
Barbara leaves angrily after this, but man. I wish the story overall took more cues from this scene, that in a Black Label story we could stray from the simplistic idea of how a Good One would save Joker and a Bad One wouldn't. I want to explore Jason's assertion that Barbara didn't do her best to uphold Bruce's one rule. I want to know if maybe she's tired of being the fucking Good One.
Hell, let's go further: what if we were surprised by Barbara killing the Clown before Jason could? The Clown's taunting about Jason could have gotten to her too. We could have a story about how being put on a pedestal as a Good Victim is a cage, about Barbara struggling with falling from that position, about Jason feeling unsure if he should commend her for an act that obviously hurts her or comfort her for something he would have done himself. That's an actual examination of the struggle to process violent trauma— that you don't need three Jokers for!
But the story we have never gets back to Jason's suggestion that Barbara let the murder happen, not in this issue or the following two. This issue just ends with Jason hoping that the Clown was the actual Joker and that he didn't kill the wrong guy, which is a pretty "LOL oh yeah" line when you remember that he and Barbara don't know there are three Jokers yet.
Book 1, truth be told, isn't that bad. On my reread, I started to wonder if my only real issue with the story is that it's not as engaging as all the hype insisted it would be.
Then Book 2 starts, and goddammit. GODDAMMIT.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: why can we not have more DC writers having fun with Joker's multiple-choice backstory? Why did Johns read The Killing Joke and decide his interpretation would be this?:
Ugh. UGGGHHH.
I don't recall the issue, but there's these panels that circulate sometimes of Harley Quinn encountering Joker in Arkham or prison, in which they exchange words about their relationship and he's a creep and she kicks his ass. I have no problem with Harley kicking Joker's ass. He deserves it. My problem is that those panels play out like an empowerment scene in a generic Lifetime movie. My problem is that it doesn't have the flavor of Harley and Joker. My problem is that it's lazy.
And that's my problem with what Johns does with Joker's backstory in TKJ. He could take it anywhere, and he goes gritty without an ounce of nuance. Because hey, this is Joker, and "there is nothing in him that is good," right? We'll just ignore that one of DC's all-time classics, the one this garbage is ✨inspired by✨, has Joker reflecting on a past for which he is an unreliable narrator, but in which he laments how his comedy dream put his growing family in a bad spot, in which he desperately aligns with shady people so his family can be secure, in which he's devastated by losing the only person he has in the world and their growing baby. And these memories could be distorted or entirely fake, but what's interesting in TKJ is that Joker never tells anyone else about them, even in his big speech to Batman. The flashbacks are not part of an attempt to manipulate anyone or convince them his world view is correct. It's a tale in Joker's head that, regardless of the truth, deeply affects him. It's what drove him to go to horrendous lengths to prove his point, even if the point is wrong.
But fuck that, right? We're going lazy! We're going cheap! We're going with the Jeannie backstory, but actually Joker was only terrible to her. The Comedian fondly fantasizes about terrorizing her and their son, because he's 100% an abuser, because he must have always been that way, with not a single appealing quality that we need to reckon with as we so often do with toxic people in real life. Even the freaking stutter Joker had as he struggled with stand-up comedy is given to Jeannie. Seriously?
I cannot emphasize enough: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck this "take."
On the other hand, when the Comedian is brought out of his stupor, we do finally get something super funny:
At least we'll always have this panel of Joker eating cat food.
The Criminal only interrupted the daydream because he's mad the Clown is dead, and the Clown was so eager to be dead I thought it was part of their plan buuuuuuut I guess not. Then we jump to Bruce figuring out that the "Joker" that Gordon cornered is just another victim, a dead judge. Barbara appears to tell Bruce what Jason did, and they discuss it over comms on the road.
Bruce, shockingly, says that they can't really do anything about what Jason did.
Pretty sure the guy who batarang'd Jason's throat rather than let him kill Joker would have a more intense reaction than this?? Or any reaction other than sober understanding? Maybe Bruce is still coping with finally dealing with three Jokers at once and will flip his shit when this all resolves. Or maybe he's just thinking, "it's okay, I still have two emotional support clowns left!" I don't know. He's so weirdly passive in this story.
What's more aggravating, though, is the other aspect of this conversation, that Jason "healed wrong." It would be one thing as a pat judgment Bruce is making, but we know from that interview that Johns positioned "healed right versus healed wrong" as the story's theme. It's not good. It's way too glib a framing for evaluating how people who've gone through trauma are dealing with it, in any context. Sure, there are better and worse coping mechanisms, better and worse outcomes, but healing is an ongoing process that can be so individualized. Reducing it to "right" and "wrong," saying that one is "strong" and implying that the other comes from some sort of deficiency… I hope Johns just spoke poorly and he does understand that it's not that simple.
Now, is it a stretch to apply that critique to Jason killing criminals at his whim? Sure, deciding that you personally should play the role of judge, jury, and executioner is not a good way to deal with trauma. But that's not exactly what's happening here. This "healed right versus healed wrong" framing is being applied to Jason Todd going after the Joker. Obviously, I like Joker, but can we be real about this? Can we be real in a Black Label book, the imprint where comic books (allegedly) have room to take things more seriously? Can we take the question of, "In this fictional world where Joker is an unstoppable fatal mayhem machine— now THREE machines— is it completely out of bounds for someone to finally kill him?" and be like, "Errr…not really?" When this story explicitly denies Joker even one teeny redeeming human quality, are we seriously still going to say, "Well, you know, if Jason takes the life of the man who murdered him and millions other people, because he doesn't want him to kill more people, which Joker will absolutely do and we all know it, doesn't that say something awful about Jason?" Are we really??
Plus the judgment about healing is put into the mouth of a man who— say it with me!— regularly dresses as a bat and beats the ever-loving shit out of people because his parents were murdered. Toning Bruce down in this particular story doesn't hide that.
Although, what I think is intended as a flawed assumption on Bruce's part is his other line, "Jason's suffering." It implies that Barbara still isn't, but we are shown Barbara reflecting on her paralyzation, even now when she's "strong" and has healed "right." And the story will get into this a bit later, but it absolutely does not let Barbara and Jason escape the dichotomy. To the story's detriment, their interactions go in a wild direction, but we'll get to that.
First, Bruce and Barbara's investigation leads them to Blackgate, because the fingerprints on the murder weapon for the dead judge belong to none other than Joe Chill. However, we learn that Chill has been in the medical wing for two months because he's sick with cancer.
Meanwhile, Jason's investigation leads him to a closed athletic center. The pool inside is filled with the chemicals stolen from Ace at the start of the story, as well as dozens of pale naked bodies with green hair. Jason's attempt to contact Barbara is interrupted when one of said bodies bursts to life and grabs his ankle, asking for help. Jason reacts with hostility, kicking the poor guy, and I'm not sure if it's because he's unnerved by a room of floating Jokers or if it's pretty normal for him to not keep his cool even for the sake of an obvious victim of a horrible crime. A Gotham City vigilante can't be that shocked by one guy being alive in a pile of bodies, can they?
But that's all setup. When the guy falls unconscious, the Criminal and the Comedian ambush Jason and drag him away, one saying, "He'll be perfect."
It's a line that meanly gets your hopes up, poking at a subject that could make all this more interesting.
Jason awakes, strapped to a chair and as naked as the bodies in the pool. The Criminal says he and his pals have spent a lot of time trying to find the perfect candidate for a new Joker, and he repeats the question of what's up with Jason taking on the Red Hood moniker.
It seems that, like DCAU Tim Drake in Batman Beyond before him, Jason Todd will be transformed into a fourth Joker! But it won't only be because it will wreck the Batman. It'll be because Joker already sees himself in Jason. This is something new to explore! There are places to go here; other comics hinting at Joker's past point to him having a childhood not dissimilar to Jason's, of growing up on the street, experiencing abuse, and learning unpalatable ways to survive. We could see Jason struggling with the possibility that he has more in common with Joker than he wants to think about!
But we won't. Inexplicably, the Criminal turns around and says that despite their similarities, despite Jason hating Batman as much as he does, despite the Comedian (presumably) saying Jason is perfect, and despite getting Jason ready for the pool, Jason actually isn't good enough, not "bright" enough. (Because all the Jokers we have in this dour story are so bright?)
And then the Comedian just beats the hell out of Jason (saying it's more fun than the first time, in another annoying nod to how he and the Clown are the same damn Joker) and says they're leaving Jason alive because maybe he'll prove them wrong and he'll become a new Joker after all? But the current Jokers aren't really going to go for it. Their interest is just abandoned.
The point is only to freak Jason out, so when Bruce and Barbara arrive, fight a horde of Jokerized victims, and find Jason alone and naked and vulnerable, he does not react well when Bruce tries to ask if he's okay. Jason turns on him and blames him for setting him on this path, for leaving him in the dirt, for replacing him easily. He lashes out at Barbara too, asking if she's going to lock him away, but ultimately it's easier to take comfort from her.
A direct reference to Return of the Joker here, focusing on the shadow Batman casts over the lives of his partners, the responsibility he bears in how Joker targeted them to hurt the Bat, and how poorly he offers comfort himself.
It does segue nicely into the next scene, when Bruce and Barbara get Jason to her apartment to rest. Bruce leaves to keep investigating, and Barbara is pissed because this is the exact lack of support that contributed to Jason going his own way. Support is highlighted again when Jason wakes in Barbara's room and looks around.
Aside from Barbara seeking out books to deal with her physical and mental struggles after Joker's attack, the old calendars show the help she received from her father and health professionals.
And this scene does get into something that's missing from TKJ, in which Bruce tells Joker that no, not everyone will retreat to madness like he did. How we react to trauma is greatly affected by the resources available to us.
This scene is nice. It's nice to come from the action to some place quiet and for someone to say this Jason, something he's wanted to hear. It's late in coming, but it's pain validated.
And then Johns fucking ruins it.
Man. Just. Ugh. Yeah, I know people seek comfort in moments of vulnerability, but… the reader knows. The reader knows moments like this aren't included to be like "oh, this was an isolated blip of human behavior! The story won't call back to it later!" Johns apparently wants Barbara/Jason to be a thing. And if you want a solid reason for that… well, we don't get any good ones.
Meanwhile, Bruce is in the cave, and I'm only mentioning that because these folder labels are incredibly funny:
Then the issue ends with Joe Chill kidnapped from Blackgate by the Comedian, who has a video camera and asks him to talk about why he really killed the Waynes. Dun dun dunnnnnnnn! Is that a twist on the way?! Well, yeah, but not really the one you think and it's incredibly stupid.
Finally we are at Book 3. Jason is suited back up, and he and Barbara have met up with Bruce in the cave to figure out how the Jokers plan to create another, better Joker.
Soooooo Jason and Barbara had that whole conversation. Jason was shaken by what the Jokers said to him. But now he's completely back on track. Allllllrighty.
Jason and Bruce then have an argument rehashing everything that Barbara said she was sorry Jason experienced, with Bruce saying of course he'd love to kill the Joker, and Jason pointing out that he obviously hasn't. Jason also says he thinks the only reason Bruce isn't turning Jason in for killing the Clown is to protect Batman's identity. Barbara just tries to de-escalate with her doe eyes. They're back to the status quo, and it sucks, which is the point. When they try to get back to the investigation at hand, Bruce pauses and attempts to apologize.
And again, with this blatant TKJ reference, it feels like we need to dig into the parallels between Jason and Joker! They both insist it's too late! They won't take help! But surely Jason isn't as far gone! There's something to chew on here.
But nah, this story is heading toward a big ol' revelation, foreshadowed here:
🎶 Why the fuck you lyin'? 🎶
Finally they get the alert that Joe Chill was kidnapped, and on investigating his cell, Bruce finds a bunch of letters addressed to… himself, Bruce Wayne. He seeks out the prison reverend.
Which is unintentionally hilarious, because in the storyline that started this whole three Jokers nonsense, there's a Batman Darkseid War one-shot where Joe Chill's behavior does not remotely align with this.
Lol comics are fun.
In the middle of Bruce investigating the letters, we get Jason being all repentant with Babs again.
You just said? You totally were?? Gonna kill more clowns??? How is this supposed to come off as genuine? Granted, Jason doesn't try to kill the other Jokers after this, but the apparently impetus for reversing course is... uh... we'll get there.
Anyway, among Chill's letters are tickets to the Monarch Theater, so the heroes all head over for whatever the Jokers have set up for them, which of course includes another horde of failed Joker zombies. During the fight, the Comedian's interview of Joe Chill plays on the screen, and the Criminal reveals they have Chill tied up in a chair suspended over a vat of green chemicals.
As Chill on screen explains that he killed the Waynes out of hatred and envy for how much they had, and how much he regrets his actions, the Criminal explains that he considered both Jason and Barbara as strong candidates for the new Joker. And wait. WAIT. Mr. Johns, sir, are you telling me it crossed your mind to write a story in which Barbara becomes the new Joker? That's so much more interesting than the bullshit we're getting! Imagine it: Barbara dealing with the dissatisfaction of being the "good, strong victim" and just losing her shit. You could combine that with how uneasy Jason is with his similarities to Joker, and maybe Jason is the one who convinces Barbara to turn back. This is Black Label! This could've been anything! Anything!
But we've got Chill. And the Criminal goes on to say the reason he wanted to make a new Joker at all:
Are… are you? I'm pretty sure Joker is pretty well fucking defined. He's a murderer with a very dark sense of humor who is obsessed with Batman. That's been a pretty good through-line.
Also, Joker pretty clearly means a lot to Batman, as that middle panel with Jason seems intended to remind us, but the Criminal does clarify that he wants to be "everything" to him, which is why he's pulling Bruce's parents' murderer into all this. I guess I can't blame him for reaching for the stars?
Cue big fight scene. The Chill recording continues to explain his regret, and soon the theater is on fire. Batman saves Chill and knocks the Criminal unconscious. Chill thinks Batman is going to kill him, but Bruce saves him from a falling brick wall instead— before the Criminal revives and tries to set off a bomb to kill them all, maybe. There's a BOOM flag sticking out of the dynamite a few panels later, after the Comedian shows up and shoots the Criminal in the head. TWIST!
The Comedian surrenders, and after a scene with Jason picking the most awkward time to suggest he and Barbara try being a couple and Barbara looking pissed she has to tell him no, we jump to Bruce and the Comedian in the armored police car.
As a batjokes shipper, looking at these pages is weird, because they are good food for the brainworms. The Criminal wanted to engineer a Joker who meant the most to Batman, but the Comedian wanted to be that Joker. It's a weird plan, considering that Joker prefers Batman over Bruce Wayne, so he would be more likely to not want to heal Bruce's wound lest the healing lead to less Batmanning, but still. This crazy plan is all about maintaining Batman's attention.
But I can only enjoy these panels out of context, not just because I'm pretty weary of insanely elaborate plans that manage to work out, but also because there's just so much to hate in the rest of the story, especially the real twist that closes it out.
Before we get to that, though, we're thrown back into the Jason/Barbara nonsense with a very gross letter he writes to her.
"Dear Barbara, I want to make a change. But I can't do that without you. I know I've come across cold and distant…"
1) Look, love can help people heal. Barbara could be a good friend advising Jason on what might help him. She could help bring him back into the batfam fold. This letter is not that. This letter is pushing someone to be in a romantic relationship with you for the explicit purpose of getting them to heal you. That's not how love works. That's using someone as a tool. It's supposed to be sad that Barbara never sees the letter but it's good, actually. Don't put that shit on her!
2) This romance came out of freaking nowhere and now we get Jason insisting he can simply stop being Red Hood for the sake of it— but only for the sake of it, apparently! Does Jason think his worldview as Red Hood is an impediment to healing or not? This is just surface-level melodramatic nonsense. And I wish that was the point, but no. Again, the letter getting swept away is presented as sad.
3) Speaking of which, who tapes a confessional letter that exposes your vigilante identity to a door where anyone can see it? You'd slip it under the door at least. Johns couldn't figure out any other way for the letter to vanish? Get out of here with this contrived nonsense. There should've been panels of Jason rereading the letter, realizing how unhinged it is, and throwing it away himself.
4) Is the "Funtime Cleaners" guy in his purple uniform supposed to be Joker? Or representative of Joker's influence on their lives? If yes and it's him, he's a goddamn hero. If it's symbolic, what does that mean, that even when you reach out to others… elements out of your control will keep you alone? 'Cause that sure is bleak for a book allegedly about healing.
With all that done with, now we get to the big twist, the dumbest fucking part of this story, the end, the takeaway. Of course it involves more crimes against The Killing Joke, which I'm increasingly convinced no one at DC has actually read in the past thirty years.
Bruce drives up to Alaska, and we get this reveal.
Do the kids still *headdesk* nowadays? That's what I'm doing. There will be a blood stain.
1) So Bruce has known the Joker's identity, or at least the Comedian's, basically the whole time. We're just retconning that the Joker question he asked the Magic Chair wasn't for information; it was a second test question. And all this is in the face of Bruce lamenting many times over the years that he doesn't know who Joker really is, of him lamenting it in The Killing goddamn Joke. "I don't know him, Alfred. All these years and I don't know who he is any more than he knows who I am. How can two people hate so much without knowing each other?" We're just. Fucking excising that. A line alluding to Bruce's motivation for visiting Joker in TKJ's opening scene.
2) We're rounding out the lazy revisions to the TKJ backstory with some copaganda! Geoff Johns doesn't think it's possible for Joker to have been anything but a horror to his family, but he does think it's possible that random officers in the friggin' Gotham City Police Department— in early Batman lore no less, when they were at their most corrupt— would fundraise for a "lady" they clearly don't know to get her out of the city to safety. Also, what was the plan for when Joker asked to see his wife's dead body?? Congrats, you've come up with something dumber than "Pushback."
3) This scrawls more highlighter on how bad the premise of there being three Jokers is, because the flashback in TKJ happens before Joker starts out. Like that's how Bruce always recalls it; he didn't meet the Joker until after what happened at Ace Chemicals. So isn't Jeannie then actually the Criminal's wife? Because the Criminal is the one who behaves as Bruce remembers Joker was at the start. So is the Comedian obsessed with the Criminal's wife for some reason? Or is the Comedian actually the first Joker, and the Criminal came later and used to be more wacky? What is going on here?
Under all these questions, per the final page, the point of Three Jokers is still visible: ultimately, his victims matter more than he does. But that's a hilarious point to a story that revolves around three of the guy, with very little payoff to the gimmick, and when part of the plot is that the heroes still shouldn't kill him.
And again, just because a story makes reference to healing, it doesn't mean it's "about" healing. The most we get is the knowledge that Barbara and Jeannie received support from other people. There's no discussion of how long it took either of them, of why Barbara came out the other side not wanting to kill Joker, of anything Jeannie has done since she left Gotham. The possibility that Jason could find connection is promptly throttled by a forced romance. It's implied that the Comedian's plan worked for Bruce, as we see Bruce at Chill's deathbed, holding his hand, and at Chill's grave. You might be interested in Bruce's thoughts as he juxtaposes Chill's repentance against the fact that his parents are still dead, so you can assess if this really would affect the feeling of loss that drove him to his lifelong mission, but you won't get them. The "how" of healing is up to the reader— who is never asked to extend the same thought process to the Joker. And you personally do not have to give a crap about Joker, but again, if this book is supposed to be about responses to healing, about Jason's response versus Barbara's, then taking an actual look at Joker feels relevant!
So there we are: fourteen pages of me venting my little heart out, hoping the premise of Three Jokers never gets looped into canon. I'm well aware that my personal attachment to a character means nothing against DC's incentives to promote stories with Big Twists (and endless events and multiverse bullshit), but then again, those incentives are based on what people will buy. So if I can add to the voices saying that Three Jokers is bad, and you should not spend your money on it or books like it, maybe I can be one vibe of many that keeps the Joker as one single bat-obsessed murderclown...
Though if not, I can always retreat to older comics. I still have plenty of those to get through.
#three jokers#the killing joke#batjokes#batman#joker#bruce wayne#barbara gordon#jason todd#analysis#my jibber-jabber#tl;dr three jokers is just usual batman stuff with a dumb gimmick#and jaybabs thrown in for the lulz
119 notes
·
View notes
Text
More Reading Thoughts: The Shadow of the Past
"The blame was mostly laid on Gandalf." Whatever you did, you've been officially labeled a Disturber of the Peace...
Something about "but the growth of hobbit-sense was not very noticeable" cracks me up
I love the fact that Frodo kept throwing birthday parties for Bilbo after he left. It's so sweet.
I would much rather go to Frodo’s Hundred-weight Feast than Bilbo’s Party of Special Magnificence, actually; twenty guests and several meals “at which it snowed food and rained drink” sounds much more my speed X-D
“Bilbo isn’t dead.” “Where is he then?” “🤷♂️”
F in the chat for Folco Boffin, who was mentioned like once in this chapter and never comes into the story again
"Merry and Pippin suspected that [Frodo] visited the Elves at times, as Bilbo had done." TEA???
Frodo's wandering in the autumn has such an evocative and melancholy feeling to it. So much so that I wrote a poem about it last year...
Part Two of me wishing the movies could have shown the Dwarves passing through the Shire on their way to the Blue Mountains
Sam be like "Dragons and Ents are real, I tell you!" and Ted Sandyman like "press X to doubt"
Our first glimpse of Sam's unassailable trust in Frodo and his wisdom 💚
And now! Exposition dumping, with Gandalf.
I hate the fact that I can't see or hear the word Eregion without getting war flashbacks to Amazon's Rings of Poopy
Ooh, remind me to write an essay about the invisibility power of the Ring(s)...
"[Bilbo] would certainly never have passed on to you anything that he thought would be a danger." Oh boy, would you look at the time, it's Crying About Adoptive Relationships O'clock
"'There wasn't any permanent harm done, was there?' asked Frodo anxiously. 'He would get all right in time, wouldn't he? Be able to rest in peace, I mean.'" OH BOY, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME—
Literally Gandalf: "Hobbits are my special interest"
"It is quite cool." It sure is, Gandalf. Wicked. Radical, even.
Low-hanging fruit, I know, but I had to 🤣
Speaking of low-hanging fruit, here's a joke I made two years ago about the "until Spring had passed into Winter" line:
He threw a luau barbecue one breezy summer night/Invited all his turtle pals to come and have a wiki bite/The turtles started walkin' there as Lance began to swing/The one that lived across the street arrived there in the spring...!
"I wish it need not have happened in my time." "So do I, and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." Still a line that goes so, so hard, right in the middle of this exposition dump.
I like how in Gandalf's story, he makes Deagol talk normally, but Smeagol still has all those verbal idiosyncrasies that are iconic to Gollum.
I'm still trying to remember who it was that pointed out that the last syllable of Smeagol is the first syllable of Gollum. Blew my mind when I saw that, I tell ya.
"I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you also were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought." "It is not." 🤣🤣🤣
The thought of Gollum creeping through a window to snatch a baby from a cradle and eat it is at least seventeen different kinds of Not Fun. Thanks, Tolkien.
I have very little to say about Gandalf's retelling of the Ring's story—and Frodo's frightened and naive questions—except that it's almost as hard to tear your eyes away from the book as it is for Frodo to throw the Ring into the fire.
"I do really wish to destroy it! Or, well, to have it destroyed. I am not made for perilous quests." Oh, Frodo, bby...
I love how Sam's spying is so artfully foreshadowed here X-D You just go whistling away down that path, buddy! Nobody suspects a thing!
All Frodo has to say is "I suppose I'll have to go running into danger alone to keep everything and everyone I love safe, even if it means never coming home again; it's a pity, but I'll do it" and Gandalf is like "Frodo have I mentioned lately how much I love you and hobbits in general". Which. Mood! Big mood!
SUDDENLY, SAMWISE GAMGEE!
Good gracious did I need Sam and his comic relief after this heavy chapter X-D Bless you, Sam, you loveable dummy
I wonder what hobbit idiom Tolkien "translated" into "Lor bless you, sir". I'm not sure the hobbits have a concept of Eru Illuvatar as a benevolent God who hands out blessings; and if they do, I somehow doubt they'd have quaint little figures of speech like this. But I'm just nitpicking at this point because it's fun.
"There ain't no eaves at Bag End, and that's a fact." SAM 🤣🤣
"Mr. Frodo, sir! Don't let him hurt me, sir! Don't let him turn me into anything unnatural! My old dad would take on so." Have I mentioned that I love the heck out of Sam?
Frodo is "hardly able to keep from laughing", which, MOOD!
Sam heard that Mr. Frodo was going away and audibly choked. GAH I love him so much
Frodo sure knows how to threaten Sam LOL
"If you even breathe a word of what you've heard here, then I hope Gandalf will turn you into a spotted toad and fill the garden full of grass-snakes." 🤣🤣
"'Me, sir!' cried Sam, springing up like a dog invited for a walk. 'Me go and see Elves and all! Hooray!' he shouted, and then burst into tears." Oh, Sam. I love you.
80 notes
·
View notes
Text
About Me
Hi there, Lulu here.
I do have a real name but I prefer to go by Lulu on here and Ao3 so please use that.
I go by she/he/they. Call me what you want I don't mind. It changes day by day for me in the real world, but my friends and family don't know that.
I'm pansexual but again only a few people know that.
I'm in my 30's but have the maturity of a teenager unless I'm in parent mode when I have to pretend to be a grown-up (It does not last long!).
I am a huge huge huge Harry Potter fan (Fuck JK, she's a dick!) My house is full of so many HP-related items. In fact, I think every room has something in it, thank the gods my husband is also a massive nerd.
In case you can't tell I am Neurospicy. I am in the middle of getting diagnosed with ADHD and by that I mean I am procrastinating actually starting the process.
Now where was I?
Oh, yeah I like so much stuff I can't think what else to put here but yeah Harry Potter, mainly Marauders era but I love anything really.
My fav ships are Wolfstar (I've loved them since I was a young thing and didn't even know it was a thing." Jegulus (My new love.) Dramione (Lord have mercy) Drary (Lord I need more mercy) Pandalily (Meep!) Dorlene (Squeek!) I like Marylily as well but not as much, but I love them when I read them.
My asks are open and you can send me whatever you want, no hate please no one needs that in their life and Tumblr is my happy place don't spoil it.
Things that make me happy
You guys. Honesty it's Tumblr, I've only just really found this and all you amazing people who like my silly stories that I've only been writing regularly since December 23 when I found you all. My husband and son make me happy and so do my dogs and cats. I love watching storms and autumn. I read a lot, I crochet, I knit, I write. I am a huge fan of chocolate. If you give me chocolate I will be your friend.
Music
Bowie. Nuff said.
But yeah I like a lot of different stuff, it depends on my mood as to what I listen to. I drive my husband mad because I like songs by lots of people but I can't remember what they're called or who they're by.
Books
My all-time favourite book will always be Prisoner of Azkaban. It is my happy place.
My house is full and I mean full of books. I don't actually know how many I have but last time I estimated I had 300 in my bedroom alone. (There are piles of books in every room 😬)
Shows/movies
Harry Potter, The Martain, The Princess Bride, Labyrinth, Hunger games, Twilight (Don't judge me they got me through a dark time.), How to train your Dragon, Disney anything, plus others there are so many and I'm bored of listing.
Good Omens, Schitts Creek, Parks and Rec, Bake off, Handmaids tale, It's always sunny, community, Harbin hotel, archer, vampire diaries. Plus more but yeah typing.
Okay I think I'm done but who knows I might add more if I remeber.
Love you all
Lulu
xxx
My Ao3 List
These are my fanfics on my ao3
Bitten M- Remus, Sirius and James head to the forest for a fun full moon. Everything is going great until one of them has an accident. (This was the very first fanfic I wrote. It's okay.) Wolfstar. Complete.
The Prisoner T- Sirius Black has been wrongly imprisoned for 12 years. He's bided his time but now its time to escape and right the wrongs of the past.
The Prisoner of Azkaban as told by Sirius Black, filling in the gaps starting with his escape from Azkaban. Wolfstar. Complete.
The Cupboard E- Hiding from Filch and awaiting rescue things get a bit close in the cupboard between Remus and Sirius. Wolfstar smut one shot. Complete.
Birthday E(I think, I'm not good at telling) Sirius finds Remus alone in their dorm room instead of enjoying the party downstairs. Wolfstar. Complete.
The One That Got Away E- James agrees to throw a party at his house. Sirius asks to bring his little brother, how could that possibly affect James at all? Based on the micro fic series I wrote in January. Jegulus. Backcould Wolfstar. Incomplete.
Jegulus Prompt Series All the prompts I've written on here in one place.
Wolfstar Prompt Series All the prompts I've written on here in one place.
30 notes
·
View notes
Text
Test Dummy - jjk
college gives you the perfect fresh start, far, far away from your brother and any of his cock-blocking friends. or so, you thought.
» genre: fluff! best friends brother 👀 college au, little steamy and mentions of s3x.
» word count: 4.1k
Test Dummy - jjk
We’ve all heard about “forbidden love”. We’ve seen all the movies, read all the books, watched all of the predictable tv shows. I mean, what did you think was going to happen, they weren’t going to get together?
And yet, we continue to eat it up, every time, without fail.
“What is your beef with romance? Would you rather it be easy and straight to the point or do you think writers should end every romance in tragedy?” Mina scoffs and laughs at the foot of the bed as she proof-reads my essay. “I just don’t understand your point, y/n.”
I snatch the laptop away from her, “If you’re going to start making comments before you even finish reading it, I’m not going to let you read it at all!”
She laughs and rolls onto her back on my bed, “Fine, whatever, you probably don’t need anyone else to read it anyway, I’m sure it’s great.”
I nod, “You’re right, I don’t, you asked, remember?”
She grins, “Did I?”
I roll my eyes, “Shoo, leave my house.” Her boyfriend had texted her fifteen minutes ago saying he was on his way from her parents house, “why didn’t you invite your new boyfriend again?” I ask, referring to the cellphone in her hand as she slings her coat on and grabs her purse.
Her brows raise and she thinks about her words before speaking, something I most definitely never do, and she reminds me all the time. “Honestly? I knew your brother and his heathens would be back too, and the last thing I want him around is more testosterone.”
She laughs, having previously mentioned this one is the jealous type (which is apparently, something she’s into) and she was correct in assuming my house would look the same it did in high school, Seokjin and his friends all running around the house, being loud, eating all the food, and bothering any other life-forms in the house.
“Yeah you’re right, this place is still a sausage fest. However, I think today only four of seven losers are here. Not sure though, they’ve been quiet the last hour.”
She nods, “Must be eating.”
I shake my head as well, “Food! Oh god I’m totally gonna go crash their party, I’ll walk you out.”
I bid Mina goodbye and sigh in relief as I close the door. Not that I didn’t enjoy Mina’s presence, we’ve been friends for years and despite going to different schools after graduating, we’ve still kept in touch, but entertaining people for that long, is always taxing on my social battery.
Just as Mina and I make a habit out of reuniting during school breaks and holidays, as does Seokjin and his annoying group of friends.
I stroll around the downstairs area of my family home, parents gone somewhere I’m sure they mentioned but I’m sure I ignored, and no boys to be found. “Must be in his room or something.” I mumble to myself, opening the fridge and bending down to grab a soda.
“Actually we’re in the basement dusting off the pool table, hand me one?” I practically jump out of my skin at the sound of another voice in the room, let alone directly behind me. He grins widely, “Hi, pretty.”
I smack his shoulder and shove a drink in his hand before walking past him, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, and furthermore,” I lower my voice and turn to face him, now separated by the kitchen bar, “why the hell are you talking to me like that here? That is beyond off-limits!”
He’s still sporting a shit-eating grin, “You were actually being serious about not telling your family?” I widen my eyes and gesture around us, he scoffs, “Y/N, seriously?”
I sigh, “Jungkook, this is just,” I pause, “too weird to deal with right now.”
He circles the table coolly, still leaving a respectable distance between us, “I vividly remember you saying something different a few months ago, probably when we were in my bed, but oh! Maybe it was yours?” He laughs, as if what he was saying was actually funny, “Sorry, after so many times I just get confused.”
I scan the room again, my face dark red and my hair falling from behind my ears as I aggressively point my finger, “We already talked about this and you promised me Jungkook! Now drop it.”
He takes steps closer until his chest is brushing against my finger and I drop my hand in defiance, “I didn’t agree to be your sneaky-link, I want to be your boyfriend.”
“No.” I state simply, turning to leave the room.
Jungkook quickly grabs onto my arm, “Come on Y/N, just rip the bandaid off, and tell them you’re seeing someone! Better yet, he’s right god damn here to support you! Aren’t you exhausted from this constant tug and pull thing you’ve got going on?”
I pull away from him and very theatrically tell him, “NO.” He sighs dramatically and I scoff, “What on earth do I have to tell anyone? Not only are we not together, but you are also Seokjin’s best friend.”
He throws his head back in annoyance, “I don’t understand-”
“And I will be more than glad to talk you through it, after break.” I stop him right there, tired from repeating the same argument over, and over again.
Before leaving for university, the thought of ever being with one of my brothers delinquent friends sounded appalling. I had to listen to their male nonsense my entire life, being dragged around and made fun of and simultaneously, extremely cock-blocked. Not a single date-night, crush, date to dances, anything. If I wanted one, he’d be scrutinized and scared off. It was impossible, and incredibly annoying.
So imagine my delight, leaving for school knowing I had successfully avoided both my brother, and every single one of his associates.
That is until Jungkook transfers his second year, and didn’t tell anyone where-to until it was too late.
Which I figured, whatever. The likely chance we’ll ever cross paths is slim to none, no problem!
Except he latched onto me like an actual parasite. It had taken him long enough to find the overlap in our schedules, my study time coincided with his! Oh and his gym-time too! And he liked getting coffee around the same time as me as well! Oh and he doesn’t like the treadmills at the gym anymore, and would much rather run at the same time as me, on the same path, and at the same pace.
I questioned his motives from the start, and eventually gave up on pushing him away. I could have worse company, I suppose. And compared to the rest of his and Seokjin’s friend’s, I did know him the best, and disliked him the least.
We actually grew close in a short amount of time and I found myself enjoying his company, although I still struggle to admit it. I tried so hard to clear my life of my brother's shadow looming over me but Jungkook never mentioned it. He actually seemed to pick up on my avoidance, and what I was trying to do by going to a big school and one I knew no one else was attending. He was perfect in the sense that I never had to tell Jungkook what I was thinking, he just, knew. He also knew what to do, and just what I needed.
As one should have expected, you can’t just fling yourself into the dating world head-first and expect everything to work out how you imagined it would. I had no experience! No precursor, no context clues, no cues, and absolutely zero clue that the rules and expectations of college-dating was completely different to those you read about.
I was on the third failed date when Jungkook decided it was time to ask, even though I knew he was hesitant.
It was autumn, the leaves turning cool to warm-tones and trees shedding, I remembered the extra crunch during my morning run with Jungkook. He sat against my bed with a textbook in front of him and a notebook in his lap when he looks up at me on my bed, “How did your date go?”
I hum, looking at him questioningly, knowing damn-well I had never mentioned my dating life to Jungkook. “You know, you won’t shrivel up and die if you ask people for help.”
I begrudgingly chuckle at his comment, “I don’t need to ask for help. Men are just stupid and horny.”
He nods, “I don’t deny that, but, perhaps you’re fishing in the wrong pool.”
I sigh, “I’ve fished from different pools! I did the ‘helpful guy in my maths class’ and the ‘cute guy always in the library’ and even dating apps! And one would think if you just wanted to have sex, you would NOT put ‘looking for a relationship’ in your bio, but I suppose some people just aren’t that logically-inclined?”
He grins and leans his head back against my bed, “actual dating isn’t what half of the guys your age are looking for right now. Sorry to say it, but unless flings are what you’re looking for, first-year guys aren’t going to offer more.” He speaks easily, almost tentatively, as if he was breaking hard news to me. “At least, not this early in the year. But I get your enthusiasm, it’s not like you got out much in school.”
I raise my eyebrows to that, “That’s for damn sure.” We both chuckle, and I sigh annoyed, “It’s just upsetting, like everyone is at a completely different place in their lives than me, I mean, fuck I’ve never so much as made out with someone!” I laugh and he hesitantly laughs after me, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t register at the time, but I continued, because he was listening, and for once I felt comfortable enough to tell someone other than Mina, and I needed that. She wasn’t here anymore, and doing things on my own wasn’t working. “I just, feel so detached and angry.”
He nods, leaving a few moments of silence to ensure I was done before speaking, “I mean, if it bothers you that much and you think it’d help, I will certainly volunteer to be your test dummy.”
I smile before his words really sink in and I look down to him with brows furrowed, he’s grinning with a pained expression, “what do you mean by that Jungkook?”
His eyes widen and he raises his hands in surrender, “I-I strictly mean it in a if-it-would-help sense, just, trying to offer solutions! Sorry, that was weird and wrong.”
He slouches back down and buries himself in his work, and it’s not spoken of again.
Two weeks later, and my morning runs with Jungkook have become a given, and as the leaves turn redder and begin to brown and fall off, I find his presence more and more comforting. I’m not sure exactly when the lines blurred. I wish I could say I was on something. I wasn’t sober, I was lonely, I was just being stupid. But none of it was true. Well, that last bit is partly true, I was stupid, for not seeing what was going on until it was right in front of me.
“Why not you?” I speak aloud, almost as if my thoughts had slipped past the gates in my brain and right out of my mouth.
It catches Jungkook off-guard, my out of context bambling. He was just stretching against a nearby tree after our run, and asked me what coffee shop I was in the mood for. “Why not me, what?”
I stare at him, mouth agape, and I’m sure it takes me much longer than it should have to conjure up a response. I ran through my options, lie, surely. It’s not supposed to go like this.
Or, just tell him. Jungkook had been a more than good friend to me up until then, why not? “Why not you?” I repeat. He doesn’t speak, leaving me to fill in more of the blanks. I catch my breath finally, “You, Jungkook.” I say, he nods, slowly, almost like he was worried or scared. “Why not go on a date, with you?”
He stares at me. Emotionless. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t so much as move the stray hair falling into his eyes from underneath his hoodie. I laugh, “Nevermind, that was stupid of me.”
He stills, before shaking out of it then shaking his head profusely, “No no no no, not stupid.” I raise my brows and he looks me in the eyes, “I mean, are you being serious?”
I nod slowly, “Well, yeah, it makes perfect sense, and you even brought it up, a while ago.”
He hums, “Yeah, I’m sure I did, but, when?”
He asks for a reminder, “When you told me you volunteered to be my ‘test dummy’ for relationships. So why not, show me what it’s like.”
Something told me his reaction was disingenuous, “Oh, yeah, sure.”
He smiled anyway, picking up his bag and water, “Well, in that case, let our first date be a coffee date, on me.” He animatedly looped his arm around mine and walked away from our running trail and towards the nearby shop.
Jungkook was, as expected, a perfect gentleman. And I thought, that was what he was supposed to be. We were doing this whole thing so I could get some experience under my belt with less hassle and pressure, it was perfect.
There was always something, though. A little voice screaming at me that something is wrong and needed to be addressed. But neither of us did. Not when he walked me to my ‘doorstep’ (the front of my building) on our third date and told me, “this is when any good man would likely try to kiss you.” He looked at me, I looked at him and nodded, “the third date?” He nodded, “Yep, of course, only if you’re showing signs you’re interested, and even better if he explicitly asks.”
I nod and smile up at him, both of our hands shoved into our pockets, the wind making the nighttime much chillier. He bites at his bottom lip and shifts his weight from his toes, to his heels, and back and forth, until I say, “so, are you going to ask?”
This stops him, “ask… what?”
I laugh, thinking how stupid of a question, “To kiss me?”
His eyes widen, and then he leans back, shaking his head with a grin, “No no, this isn’t-”
“What, did I do something wrong?”
He quickly shakes his head, “No, nothing, you’re perfect.”
I ignore the way my cheeks flush despite the cold, “Okay then.” I lead on, he looks at his feet. He never tried to leave, he never told me goodnight, offered to kiss me on the cheek, he just did, nothing.
And I simply wasn’t having that.
I leaned up on my toes and pulled my warm hands from my pockets and placed them tentatively on his face, and I kissed him.
It was quick, I had kissed someone before, albeit years ago, and I was not confident at all in my skills. But I was confident in myself. I knew he wanted to kiss me but didn’t think it was right.
I bid him goodbye that night, and life went on just as it always did. From that line crossed, every line there on after became more and more blurred. When exactly “trial dating” became real dating, I’m unsure.
It gave me a perfect excuse as to why I was spending so much time with Jungkook, and why I was enjoying it, until I tried wine for the first time. We both had a decent amount, and I had sex for the first time.
That, still, is one of my largest regrets. I mostly wish we could go back, and do it differently. Or had at least weighed the outcomes of putting me, the guy I liked, and a bottle of wine and zero reference of a tolerance in a romantically-set up room.
From then on, Jungkook and I have argued over what we are, what to do, what we were doing, at all. I had made a bubble. A perfectly constructed, safe space. No one holding me back, judging me, or shadows looming. I was comfortable in my bubble.
That was until break came, and my bubble literally, popped.
I told Jungkook, (I’ll admit, rather coldly) that from the moment we were back in our hometown, none of this had ever happened. “If they ask, we kept up with each other on campus as friends, but that was it.”
He did not take well to this, but what was I supposed to do? Re-introduce one of my brother's closest friends as “my friend I go on dates with and kiss and sleep with every so often but he’s not really my boyfriend I don’t know we haven’t figured it out yet.” ???? Absolutely not. It is too complicated, too fast, too much for my brain to deal with all at once. It is bad enough returning home, and even worse knowing my problems were following me and harassing me in my own kitchen.
Jungkook sighs, having relented, “I don’t know what else to do, y/n.”
I pause for a moment, then shrug, “I’ve told you, i-it’s a hard situation. And any normal guy in your position would most definitely not be invited to my home during holiday, let alone bonding with my entire family and even join us for freaking christmas dinner if he wanted.”
His eyes look past me before nodding solemnly, “I get that, really, I-I’ve kept my distance! I’ve done what you asked, but you’re not even meeting me halfway.”
I put my hands out in front of him, “There is no half-way Jungkook.” I look to the basement door when I hear a voice and the steps creaking, “As of right now, there is nothing to talk about.”
He opens his mouth to complain and I loudly hush him, “Ah! Stop talking.”
He tries speaking again, no doubt further complaints about how unfair I’m being, and thankfully he notices Seokjin seconds before he slings his arm around him with a grin, “Wondered what was taking you so long to grab my coke.”
He laughs it off and Seokjin crosses the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge, and I turn to leave before he calls out to me, “Yeah?”
“There’s still pizza down there, and we found the missing 4 striped ball.” He points at the basement door with the drink in his hand and chuckles, “Which if I remember correctly, you lost when you practically threw it at me.”
I roll my eyes, “I did not throw it at you, you hid it from me so I couldn’t win, I was beating you so bad you had to cheat.”
He chortles, “Yeah, that may be, but I’m nowhere near the best player anymore, you could easily win even if I cheated.”
I nod, “Yeah I’m sure-”
“Actually, Jungkook beat me twice and Taehyung forfeited, that's why we sent him up here, so we could have our own losers match.” He makes himself laugh even harder, walking back over to Jungkook, “We’re gonna go play mario kart in my old bedroom, you can join us or see if y/n is still the best at pool.” He speaks to Jungkook, but looks at me.
I shake my head, “It’s not that deep-”
“Of course! We have to.” Jungkook says quickly. I narrow my eyes towards him and he grins cockily, “unless you know you’ll already lose.”
I roll my eyes, “Comedic, you’ve always been a sore loser, I refuse for the sake of your ego.”
He scoffs, “Nope. Liar. You know you’re no good anymore and you’ll lose.”
I shake my head, “You’ll say anything to get me to play.”
He leans against the table, “Just one round. And I’ll even offer best of three, when you lose.” He grins cockily and I mock him.
“Whatever. ONE round, that’s it.”
Seokjin claps, “Perfect! Winner can run their victory lap around the house and boasting rights until next year, and loser pays our dinner later.” He pats our backs excitedly before jogging up to his room, Taehyung not far behind him.
Jungkook and I enter the basement, setting up the game and talking shit, as one does. “Who’s breaking?”
He smiles, holding his chosen pool cue, “Ladies first.”
I nod, “Such a gentleman.”
He laughs, “Yeah, that’s what got me into your pants.”
I mess up my shot and berate him. “I have half the mind to come over there and use this forcefully.” I lift up my pool cue and he pretends to be scared.
“Oh no! Please don’t!” I walk over to him, slap his chest and I only get one good (albeit, wimpy, compared to his strength) hit in before he grabs both of my hands and backs me into the pool table. He leans into me, our bodies touching leaving absolutely no room, and he kisses me.
I’m able to forget my surroundings and lose all rationality when he kisses me. He licks at my lips and I let his tongue slide past, soon enough his hands drop the cue, mine long forgotten as his hands slide down my body and he lifts me onto the table.
My hands are split, one tangling his hair and the other feeling his chest. He continues to kiss me fervently, hungrily, like he was touch-starved and in dire need of attention. He pulls me close and rubs against me, showing me how bad he wants me and it takes all the strength I have left to pull away, calling out to him. He ignores me the first time, kissing me in response to his name. I pull away again, “Jungkook.” he hums, busying himself with kissing and biting my neck, “Jungkook, w-we can’t.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. “Jungkook, please,” my hands tug on his arms that are wrapped around me, “not here.”
He buries his face in my neck and leans into me with an annoyed groan. I let him rest like that for a while, waiting until he lifted his head and looked at me. “I don’t actually want to play pool.”
I chuckle, “Me neither.”
He takes a deep breath and nods, “Okay so let's use this table for a much better purpose.” He leans back into kiss me and I turn away, laughing at his desperate attempt.
“Jungkook, it’s bad enough, what we’re doing, let alone to do it in my house, where Seokjin is literally in, right now.”
He whines, “I don’t care! I will go up there right now and tell him-”
“Tell him what?!” Jungkook stops in his tracks. “Tell him what, Jungkook?” He doesn’t respond. “Exactly. We don’t have a label. I’m not ready to figure this out yet, there’s nothing to tell them now.”
His gaze softens and he steps towards me, his hands resting on my thighs as he draws circles on them, “But we’ll tell them eventually? It won’t be like this, much longer?”
I sigh, scratching his head and looking him in the eyes, “if we become official, if we really work out, then yes, of course. We’ll tell them.”
He kisses me again, barely parting our lips, “Okay, I’ll stop.”
I kiss him back and laugh, “Really? That’s all it took?” He furrows his brows. “Jungkook, I’ve been saying that since the beginning. Albeit, quite meaner.”
He nods, “You were being a megabitch, but I really like you so I didn’t mind.” He presses our noses together and smiles. I push his chest offendedly and he doesn’t move an inch, “You were stressed, worried, and confused, I don’t blame you. I should've been more sympathetic.” I kiss him again and thank him, followed by my own apology for mistreating him. “But there is still something different this time.”
I hum, “Yeah? What.”
He grins, “You acknowledged us being together.”
I roll my eyes, knowing I couldn’t hide the way my cheeks heat while trapped in his arms, “Whatever, stop talking.”
* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚
heyyy thanks for reading! if u liked it check out my masterlist for more :) also!! i am (tentatively) accepting requests! send them in via dm or askbox! hope u have a gorgeous day! - ara <3
masterlist | request taglist
taglist: @marvelahsobx @notbotheredtho @fragmentof-indifference @jwnghyuns @heronstairsxd @isab3lita @shescharlie @jeonzll @kooookie @nickyisityou @laylasbunbunny @morganaah
#bts#bts fic#bts jungkook#bts v#kpop#kpop imagines#oneshot#bts x reader#bts fanfic#bts imagines#bts jhope#bts fanart#bts one shot#bts taehyung#bts jimin#jungkook drabble#jungkook x reader#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#jungkook smut#jungkook#bts fluff#bts angst#bts smut#btsnsfw
425 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
anyam-baszta-el-az-eletem-blog
My name is Lucifer😇
blogsearch-blog
Blog Search Tumblr
frostcombs65
The Life of Vittrup 112
askthedeaddetective
I'll solve any case
eevagund
You can smile again