#if the love isn’t all encompassing and consuming DO NOT BOTHER!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leviosa-moon · 3 years

Text

Before Us - George Weasley Requested: yes | no Word Count: 1k

It had been three weeks since life had been normal for Y/N, she had spent all of her free time in the Gryffindor common room; doing her absolute best to avoid Cormac McLaggen. He had taken to repeatedly trying to ask her out, no matter how many times she had declined. Somehow, he had taken her rejection as a ‘try later’ and she just didn’t have the energy to continue rejecting him. Besides, sitting in the common room wasn’t so bad, there was always someone else to keep her company.

Things began to change, however, when George Weasley, a ginger boy in the year above Y/N found her sitting in the same seat she had taken residence in for a while. In fact, when it came to free periods, he couldn’t remember a time where she wasn’t sitting in front of the fire, curled up reading a book. “What’s the book about?” He asked, as he took a seat on the sofa opposite her. She looked up at him, perplexed. He had gone through the common room many times while she had been spending time reading, primarily alone; yet, he was choosing to strike up a conversation now? It seemed slightly odd.

“It’s just some advanced reading for potions,” she mumbled, her attention going back to her textbook. “How come you’re always cooped up in here?” He asked, perhaps a little too bluntly for a first conversation, but it was never nice seeing anyone on their own. Y/N rolled her eyes, she could do without the interrogation.

“It’s better to be sitting up here getting ahead in classes, than to be out there. Repeatedly having to reject Cormac, because he can’t seem to get the hint.” She snapped, before immediately apologising. No matter how nosy George was being, it wasn’t his fault that Cormac wasn’t getting the hint. The pair sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes, neither of them knowing what to say to ease the situation.

“I have an idea,” George mumbled. Y/N closed her book and focused her attention on the boy, intrigued. “Go on.” She encouraged, as she subconsciously leaned forward, she was willing to try anything at this point. “Well, you mentioned that Cormac isn’t getting the hint when you reject him. So, what if you were in a situation where you didn’t have to reject him?” He explained, as he too leaned more into the conversation.

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed, although he had explained what he meant, it didn’t make things any easier. “What kind of situation would that be?” She asked.

“Well, if you’re in a relationship, for instance, he would stop bothering you.” George offered. As if getting into a relationship was that easy. Y/N wasn’t so desperate as to be using a love potion on anybody. “That’s easier said than done,” Y/N scoffed, as she returned back to her previous position and flipped her book open to the page she was on before.

“How about if I pretend to be your boyfriend?” He offered, nonchalantly as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Y/N sat and thought, would it really be so bad to pretend that she was with George? After all, it would probably only mean a few kisses on the cheek, a little bit of hand holding in corridors and attending some quidditch games. “What would be in it for you?” Y/N asked, sceptically.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He questioned, brown eyes twinkling in the fire light. “I get to hang out with one of the prettiest girls in Gryffindor.” He continued, as a prominent smirk encompassed his face.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Y/N smiled, as she offered her hand out for him to shake. Instead, George got up and wrapped her in a hug. “If we’re going to do this properly, better to start right away, eh?”

A couple of weeks into their agreement, Cormac had come slithering his way back, like a bad smell. His confidence had only seemed to increase, since the last interaction he had with Y/N. “Y/L/N, how about we go to the Three Broomsticks once our classes are done?” He called after her, as they made their way back to the Gryffindor common rooms. Thankfully, she knew that George had just gotten back from a class too and would be at her rescue if Cormac didn’t back off.

“Cormac, I’m flattered… but I’m seeing someone.” She responded, George instantly made his way over to her. Wrapped his arms around her, in a tight embrace; his chin resting on her shoulder. Cormac’s face turned a shade of red that could have matched the Gryffindor emblem.

“When did this happen?” He asked, almost defeatedly. Eyes scanning their faces for some sort of explanation or answer. “It just naturally occurred mate, it might happen for you too. Once you learn to take no for an answer, that is,” George answered, one of his hands turning Y/N’s head to face him. He cupped her chin in the middle of his thumb and forefinger. Slowly, their faces inched closer and closer together. Y/N could feel George’s hot breath against her skin.

She closed the last few inches between them. Despite the fake dating, neither of them had kissed each other. At least not properly. But now, as their lips connected. She could think of nothing else. She was utterly consumed by him. She snaked her hands into his hair, and tugged at it gently deepening the kiss. She had no idea what this could mean for the two of them, but maybe… fake dating had become something more, right in front of their very eyes. Creeping up on them slowly and then all at once, in this one very moment; it was right before them.

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader #george weasley x reader fluff #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter x reader #harry potter x reader fluff #george weasley fanfic #harry potter fanfic #x reader #y/n #cormac mclaggen

288 notes · View notes

laurentspup · 3 years

Text

New B*tch (Sugar B*by Laurent AU)

Me: I’m gonna start plotting this AU

also me: here is more horny drabbles wooooohhh!!

“Jokaste is coming today?” Laurent asks as he casually walks in Damianos’ office. He doesn’t knock despite being Damianos’ subordinate. He is, first and foremost, his baby.

Damianos looks up at him and gives an effortful smile despite the grimace that paints his face. He welcomes seeing Laurent, not so much the news that he brings. He looks grim, Laurent notices, but still delicious as ever. His suit jacket is discarded on the coat rack behind him, leaving him in his maroon dress shirt, buttons almost popping off his chest. His beefy biceps scream to be set free as he puts down the pen he is holding, every movement Laurent watches carefully, licking his lips. He badly wants those biceps around him, not now though, now isn’t the time to be horny… yet.

“Yeah… she’s now Kastor’s secretary, so it can’t be helped.” He rubs his face exasperatedly as he explains to Laurent.

He feels pity for Damianos. Jokaste truly hurt him with her decision to be a backstabbing liar and cheater. According to the news outlets, they had been dating since Damianos was pronounced heir of Ios Corp. five years ago, but she was an ambitious woman, thus, she decided to double her chances with Kastor. If only she didn’t get caught.

Damianos just wants to move on, but everywhere he goes the world throws her back at him. As he said though, it can’t be helped. Jokaste becoming his half-brother’s fiancée truly made the family dinners more awkward. Her constant presence looms at him like a buzzing fly that won’t leave. Laurent badly wishes he can slap that fly dead. He hates that they have to keep seeing her and her cheating face, but that’s just how this game was played.

Since Laurent’s job encompasses more than his secretary duties, he puts down the iPad that holds Damianos’ schedule and walks behind his desk. He automatically pulls back to give Laurent space to sit on his lap. It came naturally to them now, Damianos accepting the fact that Laurent will do whatever he wants. If what he wants is to sit on him in his office, then Laurent will be given whatever he desires. Laurent knows it, that Damianos is wrapped around his fingers like the diamond-studded ring he has given him. Though he isn’t quite sure why, he’d rather gracefully accept gifts than exhaust himself to find out.

Laurent straddles Damianos lap and wiggles over his cock that reacts a little too quickly.

“Baby.” Damianos warns, putting his hands on his waist and squeezing. God, Laurent loves how those hands grip his waist. Pushing Damianos’ buttons always results in a really good time for him.

Still, he ceases wiggling on Damianos’ lap. He understands the unspoken command and gives in right away. He can be good when he wants. As a reward, Damianos’ right hand gently touches his cheek and caresses it with his thumb. Immediately, he melts with the touch. Really, whether Damianos is soft or rough on him, he gets turned on.

“You look so pretty today, baby.” Damianos tells him.

“I know.” Laurent answers, never letting his eyes stray from Damianos’ own.

“Your neck’s a little empty, though.” Damianos’ hand moves to his neck, gentle fingers sliding over his throat.

“It is.”

“Let’s fix that.” He reaches over him to get something on the table. Laurent’s head is now beside his neck, so he licks it. “Behave.” He complies.

Damianos leans back to his position, not showing what he got for Laurent yet. No matter what it is, Laurent is excited. He loves anything Damianos gives him, especially since he knows it is never short of a thousand dollars.

“I had this custom made for you.” He says as he raises his hands and fits a choker over Laurent’s neck. He reaches over the desk again to grab a mirror, one he readied for Laurent.

“Daddy.” Laurent says when he sees his reflection. He touches the choker. It’s a simple, thin, gold band with a crown pendant. It feels heavy and expensive. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s real gold.” Laurent expects nothing less.

“I love it.” He says, then he leans in to kiss Damianos. He adores this man. Where else will he find anyone who will give him anything he wants just because. Damianos knows he likes jewelry, likes being pretty, and he gives Laurent’s all the finest things so he can be just that.

“I’m glad you like it.” Damianos says as he leans back and touches the crown pendant. Laurent looks at him like he gave him the moon. If he asks for it, he knows Damianos will give it. “I can have them make you more.”

Laurent leans in again and kisses Damianos savagely. He runs his hands through his hair and goes back to grinding his hips. Damianos groans. Lust starts to consume him. This time, he lets Laurent grind on him, hands on his hips guiding, instead of stopping. He bites Laurent’s bottom lip which makes him moan.

“Quiet, baby.” Damianos commands, gripping his ass. He lets out a moan again. Damianos kisses him harder.

They continue to breathe in each other, forgetting the space they are in. Damianos is the boss anyway, no one should enter without telling his secretary first. Luckily, his secretary isn’t even out there.

Laurent starts to unbutton Damianos’ shirt when someone knocks on the door. Hesitantly, Damianos pulls away from him. He pants while touching Laurent’s forehead with his own. His thumbs massage over Laurent’s hips.

“It’s your two o’clock.” Laurent whispers, eyes closed. He’s still grinding on Damianos. He can feel both of their hard cocks. He wonders how much it will take for one of them to lose control.

“My secretary should tell her to come in.”

“Hm. He should.” Laurent leans back in, not caring at all that there is someone waiting outside.

Damianos kisses him back while chuckling. She knocks again.

They pull apart once more, Laurent fitting his head in the crook of Damianos’ neck. He’s still grinding his hips, trying to find friction and release. He doesn’t leave his lap. Damianos doesn’t make him. He doesn’t even still Laurent’s grinding. He is hard too, just as desperate as Laurent.

“We really should let her in.” Damianos says, not moving to do anything.

“You’re right.” Still in the heat of the moment, an idea pops into Laurent’s head. He raises his head so his mouth can get close to Damianos’ ear. “I’m going to do something.”

Again, Damianos just lets him. Slowly, he slides off his lap and kneels on the floor. He’s in between Damianos’ legs under his desk. He looks up at him and winks. He doesn’t look away as he leans his head close to Damianos’ erection. His eyes grow wide when Laurent kisses over the fabric.

“Laurent—“ Damianos puts his hand on Laurent’s head.

“Shh.” Laurent starts touching his still clothed erection while kissing it. “This is my thank you for the necklace.”

Damianos’ office phone buzzes. “I’m here.” An irritated voice announces.

“Tell her to come in.” Laurent instructs, lips on Damianos’ cock, tongue poking out to tease. He wants to unzip it. He craves the warmth and girth of Damianos’ cock in his mouth. If only Jokaste isn’t here to interrupt.

Damianos, under Laurent’s spell, as if Laurent is the boss here and not him, immediately complies. He clicks a button on the phone. “Come in.” His voice is hoarse.

Jokaste opens the door angrily. “You have a shitty secretary.”

The secretary mentioned immediately stops stroking Damianos’ cock, then slowly and gracefully stands up from the ground. He faces Jokaste and with a straight face, swallows, licks his lips, and wipes it sensually, heavily implying what he just did— even though he didn’t, but she doesn’t need to know that. She stops walking. He brushes dust off his knees.

“Oh? But didn’t you quit and sucked off his brother’s dick?” Laurent comments. Damianos coughs his laugh.

Jokaste doesn’t react. She leisurely walks, acting like she still owns this place. “So you’re his replacement cocksucker?”

“Yes. His previous one didn’t satisfy him.” She doesn’t bother Laurent. She can start a fight all she wants, Damianos isn’t hers anymore.

“Am I interrupting something, then?” She asks, sitting on his couch. The center too, as if she is a queen on her rightful throne. It’s fine. Laurent’s throne is Damianos’ lap. She can’t reclaim that. “By all means, continue.”

“And give you a free show of the dick you gave up? No, thank you.” Laurent sits on Damianos’ lap again. He looks at his daddy who watches them both quietly. He is a man caught in a stand-off between two vipers. “Sorry about that, daddy.”

Damianos looks at him and smiles kindly. He touches Laurent’s cheek. Laurent isn’t sure if he’s just putting an act in front of Jokaste. “That’s alright, baby. I had a good time.”

“I have to go now. Your two o’clock is waiting.” Laurent kisses Damianos’ cheek.

“I thought you weren’t giving me a show?” Says the two o’clock. They didn’t spare her a glance.

“I’ll see you later, baby.” Damianos kisses Laurent again as he stands up.

“Buzz if she starts something.” Laurent says as he walks to the door.

“I will.”

Laurent looks at Jokaste one last time before going out. She’s staring at him too.

“I’m sorry that Kastor’s dick doesn’t satisfy you, that's why you have to keep showing up here.” He steps out and lets the door close on its own, not bothering to hear her reply.

***

Hope you liked it!

#someday im gonna start at chapter 1 for this au #that day is not today #look i am a simple woman #i have ideas i write i post #bcs i am insane impatient no self control #sugar baby laurent au #modern lamen #modern lamen au #Captive Prince #damen x laurent #laurent x damen #if you guys have any ideas feel free to message me #let us be think insane thoughts together lolol #also censoring glucose infant bcs i am tired of bots

62 notes · View notes

breakyeol · 4 years

Text

Nothin’

one shot

┗ pairing : Chanyeol x Reader

word count: 2k

warnings : smut, references to drug use

a/n ; did I (shamelessly) write a drabble based entirely off of the nothin’ music video? Yes, yes I did :)

The dingy old loft smells like fixer and water damage. Though, it doesn’t bother you. It can’t. Not with the way his fingers press into your skin, rough and desperate, hot and lustful. Not with the way he’s moaning so sinfully against your ravenous mouth, groaning out wordless pleas that pool molten desire in the bottom of your stomach.

He’s impatient in every way. Impatient enough to strip you from your clothes the moment you're through the door while simultaneously not bothering to undo more than the button of his jeans. He’s always desperate when he’s high. He doesn’t just want. He needs. Needs to touch and be touched. Needs to feel and be felt. Needs to hurt and be hurt. It’s an endless back and forth, an infinite give and take. But you live for this game, this game without rules or limitations, a war of wills.

He breathes fire into your lungs with every kiss. But you're addicted to the burn. Addicted to the heat. Addicted to the way it fills you up and makes you whole.

Whole. With him, you are whole. Without him, you are nothing but another lost, wandering soul in this city of shattered dreams.

Here, it’s easy to forget. Here, in this bed, under these lights, with this body, it’s easy to lose yourself in another world entirely. A world that belongs only to you, and only to him.

There’s colors here, bright and dizzying in their vibrancy. They fill your vision and overwhelm your senses until you’re all but numb— numb, but only in the best sense of the word. Numb in such a way that the only thing you’re capable of feeling is him and the blistering pleasure he ignites in your veins as he sinks a long finger into your wet cunt.

“Chanyeol.” His name is a godless prayer on your lips. Well, you suppose, everything here is godless.

Him, most of all.

The only time he prays is when he’s tearing through the streets on his sleek black motorcycle, when the rush of hot, angry wind thunders in his ears, deafening him to the rest of the world and all its deficiencies. The only time he speaks God's name is when he growling it in your ear, deep and rough and so beautifully sinful. The irony is not lost on your part.

His mouth curls as it pressed into yours, and you don’t bother trying to hide the way your body trembles as his teeth sink into your lower lip. He could draw blood if he wanted to, and you would let him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he rolls his thumb over your swollen clit and relishes in the sounds of bliss that shudder from your aching lungs.

“Baby.” He croons mockingly into your kiss, voice drawling and smooth.

Taunting or otherwise, you could listen to him call you that for the rest of your life. Baby. Somehow, the term of endearment offers you a sense of belonging wrapped in his strong arms, an intoxicating haze of purpose. You revel in it, bathe in the fever of his ephemeral affections.

Your back bows off the mattress, chest pushing shamelessly into his. His ministrations don’t falter for a moment, only further encouraged by your display.

“So fucking wet,” he grits out roughly through a chesty moan of delight, swollen mouth moving to caress over your sensitive ear, “all for me?”

The way he whispers this, like it’s the most precious of secrets, is enough to send your mind into a nearly nauseating state of euphoria. It brings you so high that you don’t feel even the slightest sting of shame when you let out a breathless response.

“All for you.”

A second finger slipping inside is your lavish reward. Your lips part in a silent gasp, hips rolling down greedily. But Chanyeol is a teasing man once shown the red burn of lustful desperation, and the warmth of his digits is stolen from you far too soon. A whimper of distress rises in the back of your throat, an objection already on the tip of your tongue. Then all at once, he’s between your thighs.

Dangerous breath caresses your core, blazing eyes peering up at you with lazy arrogance. He knows how badly you want him. He feels it in the way your body responds to his touch, sees it in the distinctive contortion of your wanting features, hears it in the way you murmur his name like a sinful prayer. You’re an open book when it comes to him. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

Hiding yourself isn’t an option when you’re around him. Because those eyes see everything. They see right through you, down to your very bones. They peer through every stone wall you’d spent so long constructed with ease. They see past the darkness and shame and right into the molten core of your being. It’s easy for him like that.

There’s no pretending under these red lights, the crimson glow effective in frightening away all of your demons.

The first slow drag of his tongue through your heat makes you dizzy, especially coupled with the cold press of his rings into the flesh of your thighs. The second serves in pulling at your last string of sanity, forcing you to unravel beneath the wrath of his depraved mouth.

By the third, you need more. And he’s more than generous enough to deliver.

You spark as he presses the length of his tongue inside of you. You smolder as his nose rolls over your clit. You ignite when his all-consuming gaze meets yours.

He doesn’t waste a second when he devours you, too impatient to tease. He wants to bring you to the edge of the abyss, just to pull you right back to earth. You know this, you know he feeds on that beautiful pain in your eyes when your high is ripped out from under you, you know he can’t help himself. Still, you let him. You let him push and pull, you let him mold your pleasure into any shape he desires, you let him torment you, inside and out. Because every time he tempts you to that edge, you get a taste of heaven. Or perhaps it’s hell. But what’s the difference in a place like this, at the mercy of a man like him. He could be your maker, or he could be your destruction. Either way, you’d still say—

“Yes.”

Because right now, with the taste of whiskey on your lips and sin in your blood, you don’t care. You’re not afraid. Maybe you should be, but it’s hard to worry about anything with the disorienting amount of pleasure pulsing like liquid ecstasy through your veins.

Your fingers find his hair, slipping through the blond locks and tugging weakly. He groans against you, the vibrations leaving you a gasping, quivering mess. It’s not long after that. His ability to bring you to your undoing as fast as he does is as baffling and as it is impressive. But you akin that to the fact that he knows your body like it’s an extension of his own, knows your pleasure like it’s his own.

His lips are on yours before you can recover, but the pace is slow, deep, tender, gently coaxing you back to reality, back into his arms, back into his bed. You taste yourself on his tongue, and a low hum of appreciation rises in your throat.

“Are you ready for me?” He doesn’t have to ask, he already knows that you are. You always are. But he does anyway because he loves to hear the lascivious words as they drip from your lips.

“I need you.”

A low groan rumbles in the base of his chest in reply, and you know he needs you just as badly. He reaches between your bodies, allowing his fingers to caress over your every curve on the way down. Your skin prickles and burns in their wake, aching for more, more of him. And then you feel him at your entrance. He’s hot and hard and ready to fuck you into a blissful oblivion.

When he enters you, it’s like an awakening. He fills you so perfectly, in all the ways you never knew you needed, stretching you around his length with slow, careful thrusts. This will be the only time he’s gentle, the only time he moves with consideration. You already know this. But you’re prepared to take anything he’s willing to give you– everything he’s willing to give you. It was the tight clenching of your walls around him that he loses all means of restraint.

The rhythm he sets is nothing short of punishing. You feel your body bruising where it meets yours, where his fingers press onto your thighs and your hips connect. You feel them blossom across your skin, beautiful and painful all the same. You’ll wear them proudly in the days to come, even if you’re the only one who knows they’re there.

A broken cry is drawn from your throat, head thrusting back, eyes squeezing shut. It’s so much— too much. You feel him everywhere, surrounding you, encompassing and encasing the entirety of your being, reaching deeper than your skin, into the endless depths of your soul. It feels like you’re on fire, burning from the inside out. You feel his passion in his every motion, hear it in his very breath. He fills you, completes you, makes you whole.

His calloused fingers press into your jaw, guiding your mouth back to his. He needs to taste you, to breathe the same breath, to intertwine and become one. Inside you, he pulses, and you curse roughly, nails pressing into the skin of his back deeply enough to draw blood. His thrusts only grow harsher, his mouth breaking away from yours to latch onto your throat. Your head rolls to the side, eyes fluttering as he teases your collarbone between his teeth.

It’s then that you catch a glimpse of the photographs. Dozens of them in different states of development. Images of the world flash across your vision, of sidewalks and skyscrapers, street lamps and headlights, sunlight and horizons. In a handful of those images, you even find yourself: your bloodshot eyes, your drunken smile, your fingers curled around the length of his throat, your bare body laid across his leather sofa. In those images, you look beautiful. In those images, you look alive. You look real.

Is that how he sees you?

You’ll never know for sure, because those images are the only time you’ll ever see the world through Chanyeol’s eyes, the only glimpses he’ll give you into his fractured mind. The windows into his soul. But even then, you don’t think you’ll ever truly understand. For, he’s an enigma of a man, with too many layers to peel back before you can reach the molten core of his unfathomable existence.

It’s with the electrifying pressure of his fingers on your clit that he lures you back in and your eyes find his. They’re hooded and lust–blown, boring into yours so deeply you find yourself keening, hands drifting to entangle themselves in the hair on the back of his neck. But one drifts, following the smooth curve of his jaw until it’s resting flat across his cheek. The tip of your index finger traces the red skin beneath his eye that tells you the story of many a sleepless night spent staring at his wall of photographs. Your thumb caresses the pink flesh of his full lower lip, dragging it down gently.

He’s warm beneath your palm. Real. Alive. You wonder if he knows this, if he knows that he’s this warm, this real, this alive.

You don’t ponder the idea long, he doesn’t give you the chance. With one deep, purposeful thrust and the hard roll of his thumb over your sensitive nub, you’re coming undone.

“Yeol—!” It takes you by surprise, and you’re only able to choke out an almost unintelligible piece of his name before your throat closes up and stars invade your vision. It’s violent and magnificent, the way you shudder and break into pieces beneath him. His entrancing eyes don’t dare to miss a single second of it.

“That’s it… fuck.” He groans, face falling into your shoulder. His persistent hips manage a final thrust before he loses himself in the warm embrace of your tight walls, spilling himself inside of you. “Fuck.”

There’s a moment. A moment, when your body’s still riding the electrifying buzz of your high but your head is clear. A moment of pure clarity. You could live in that moment for the rest of your life. Because in that moment, you know only peace, only pleasure, only him. In that moment, there’s nobody else in the world. There’s no migraine inducing white noise. There’s no pain or loneliness. There are no regrets. No worries. No fears. There’s nothing.

Beautiful, ethereal nothing.

416 notes · View notes

being-of-rain · 3 years

Text

I've been enjoying the Time Lord Victorious series so far, and since I caught up with a lot of it recently and we’re about half-way through it, I thought I'd post a bunch of thoughts on it here together.

I’m fascinated by the idea of a Doctor Who series made up of lots of different interconnected media, which feels like a natural thing to do when you consider how much history the franchise has with so many different formats of storytelling. And it’s wild to me that, contrary to what I first assumed, it was actually conceived before the whole global pandemic thing happened; it felt like almost perfect timing to give Doctor Who fans something to think about during lockdown.

One of the series’ greatest shortcomings was its promotion, which seemed to consist entirely of the title and that one promo visual. The lack of a clear, simple, all-encompassing premise from the start means that I still see fans reacting to TLV with confusion. Using ‘Time Lord Victorious’ as the only promotion also feels a little misleading - I think many people imagined the series being an Evil Ten AU (similar to the timeline glimpsed in the Four Doctors comic), when really most of the content is either building up to that or just tangentially connected to it. On the other hand, the series was clearly lovingly designed for Who fans (who are all about piecing together timelines and consuming a large range of stories) instead of a wider audience, so the unclear promotion feels more like a miscalculation than a fatal error.

Defender of the Daleks: Titan’s comic is easily the weakest link of the series for me- it didn’t have a meaningful part of the series to fill, I was bothered by a lot of the page layouts, and it felt like a lot of it was made only for Dalek superfans. Well, I genuinely hope the Dalek superfans enjoyed it.

Monstrous Beauty: It’s really nice to see BBC give Nine some love in the series, and you can tell writers like Scott Gray and Steve Cole enjoyed writing for him and Rose. The extreme gothic aesthetic for the Dark Times, the Great Vampires, and the coffin ship is lots of fun, even if the story itself is a little straight-forward and meandering. Rassilon turning up felt very unnessecary to me, at this point I wish authors would leave the Time Lords’ founders alone unless they have something genuinely interesting to add. Admittedly, seeing the Cucurbites return and Nine make an explicit reference to the ‘90s Eight comics made my day. Y’all know I’m an Eight comics nerd.

Master Thief/Lesser Evils: Honestly, both of these stories left me a little confused to what actually happened in them, and what the point of them were. The first one didn’t even seem to tie in to TLV at all. Despite that, I’m really happy to see the Delgado Master and Ainley Master get some audios to themselves. Both characters were captured wonderfully by the stories and were a joy to listen to.

He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not: I was really surprised by this just being an out-and-out Western, but I loved it! Brian sticking close to his hostage while the other characters slowly pieced together what was going on and what they should do about it made for a very different kind of tension to the usual Who story. Brian’s explanation about killing with a thought made me properly nervous about him being around any other characters. I’m glad they got to do some non-formulaic stuff with Eight before the Daleks turned up at the end. Overall, the Daleks have a larger part in TLV than I’m happy with, since it makes it feel like the series is split between experimenting with new ideas and retreading old ground.

The Knight, The Fool and The Dead: The novels are definitely the heart of the Time Lord Victorious story, and so I’m very happy with the choice of authors for them. This first one was great. I really liked Ten’s characterisation of being at his limit but trying to continue on as normal and do what’s right.

His temporary companion Brian the Ood Assassin is every bit as fun as the concept sounds. I love how Brian doesn’t (usually) try to hide that he’s a merciless murder, but is still very polite and dresses in a tux. The little descriptions of him commanding a space fleet of mercenaries like a headwaiter running an expensive restaurant are hilarious. I can’t wait for more stories with him.

The villains of the piece, the Kotturuh, are surprisingly and delightfully eldritch, with their tentacles and their symbols in the sky. Not to mention their plans for the universe written on the cave walls of the planet that acts as a gateway between their cosmos and ours, writing which make people who look at it go mad. The Kotturuh, or Kotts, spread the effects of a natural lifespan to every species in the universe, ending an era of immortality for most of them.

This leads me to the heart of the story, and the premise of the series as a whole; is the Doctor doing the right thing by trying to stopping natural death from spreading in the Dark Times? But there’s a problem here. The concept of death being unnatural is one that TLV introduces to the Doctor Who universe without warning or really giving you space to process it. If all death by old age is something artificially added to the universe, and isn’t a natural part of life and change (as has been part of the heart of basically every other Who story), then is it really wrong to oppose that? Surely that would make the Kotts the uncontested biggest mass murderers in the history of everything. It feels like we need to develop a whole new moral compass just to reckon with this. And it doesn’t help that the other side of the argument is about if it’s right to change time, something the Who franchise has never been super consistent about and another thing that we don’t have morality established to deal with in the real world.

It feels like far too complex a set-up to be explored in just two short novels and a collection of tie-ins more interested in Daleks and Ood than the Time Lord Victorious himself. I’m a little worried that the moral question will be boiled down to the ‘killing is inconceivable even in the face of genocide’ stance that the franchise has held before, and practically never handled well. But needless to say, I’m very interested in what will happen in the future stories, especially second novel and series finale All Flesh Is Grass.

#Time Lord Victorious #Tenth Doctor #Ninth Doctor #Eighth Doctor #Daleks #my posts #my thoughts #I hope the read more works #also sorry if there's any mistakes or bad wording. It's past midnight whoops #Yknow maybe I should get a real blog and not a tumblr one for this kind of thing #Ten #Brian #Nine #Rose #Eight #Master

37 notes · View notes

de-cryptid · 3 years

Text

So now that Simon’s archive is usable, I decided to take a stroll through and just absorb the scenery. Take in the surroundings, encompass myself in his glory and wisdom...

Alright, that was unnecessarily dry, let’s just dive into this.

I had seen him post links regarding his series chronicling “Monstrous Myths” and, of course, relating them to his species and himself.

The article I finally decided to check out was the one on ghouls, hosted on his creaturescookbook blog (not on tumblr, the wordpress one). And... I don’t know what I was expecting but...

Well, let’s just look together, shall we?

The behavioral comparison to my species seems evident. What is less so are the physical descriptions of such creatures. They can apparently change shape, but as I have upon many previous occasions, I will argue that this is simply a human way of explaining some other catastrophic event, for which the ghoul is not to blame. If you are stupid enough to leave your infant unattended, and it is snatched away by a large and fearless hyena, of course you will not wish to blame yourself. Instead the hyena is not a normal hyena – the sort you have outsmarted a dozen times before, the sort your infant has cooed at and giggled over. That hyena must be a demon in disguise. You rage against heaven or chaos, instead of taking responsibility, instead of killing hyenas, one of nature’s most hideous and malevolent creatures, you instead target me and mine.

My problem begins with “If you are stupid enough to leave your infant unattended”. Sorry to delve into nitpick-y territory here, but something about the utter lack of nuance possible in his imagined scenario, which amounts to “dumb parent leaves baby for hyena to eat” just feels cruel. Maybe this is his attempt at humour, I can’t be sure, but it comes across as insensitive and mean-spirited.

But past that, he talks of how the resulting calamity leads to a shift in belief, reimagining the events with a demon instead of a lowly hyena. He says “you instead target me and mine”.

What kind of a leap is that?

The ghoul, as he said, does not physically resemble his species very much. It looks more like a human corpse. If a distraught parent misremembers losing their child as a terrifying half-dead human consuming them, why would you assume it must pertain to your species? Especially considering there was no sighting of your kind in this hypothetical?

The logic is strange, to say the least.

But this part also bothered me: “one of nature’s most hideous and malevolent creatures”. That’s just... is it silly of me to say ‘dumb’? Does he have some sort of hyena vendetta I’m simply unaware of?

For someone who claims to be very in tune with nature and the world around him, knowing and sensing things we never could, it seems peculiar to reduce a predator species that’s far tamer than his own to an ugly villain.

Ah well. Nitpicking.

Moving on...

Perhaps the human mind must find reasons to blame us, if only to muster the courage to destroy their only natural predator. Perhaps your desire to blame us for all your misfortunes is simply an adaptation. Perhaps you need it. I will not argue that it is vestigial, like the appendix. Instead, I will absolve you of guilt, and say that while I find this annoying, I do not take offense. You cannot help it.

It’s irritating that this becomes all about him and his kind, but that’s what his whole “Monstrous Myths” series is anyway. I shouldn’t have expected any difference, any nuance or actual understanding of why humans tend to have myths revolving around humanoid terrors (psychologically, anthropologically, etc.) He’s running an “experiment” about fiction yet isn’t approaching this from any other angle? Interesting. It’s almost like he’s gone into all of this with a conclusion to prove and refuses to think outside of that.

Another nitpick, I am rather fond of those, the appendix isn’t vestigial. It does have a job in our bodies that we have known about for over a decade. This function is part of the reason it’s so volatile; it holds a lot of bacteria to help replenish our gut’s natural flora when necessary. This bacteria makes it susceptible to infection and inflammation, hence why appendicitis isn’t uncommon.

Alright, onto the last (and most egregious) part I’d like to highlight:

In all other ways, the ghoul is a perfect analogue to the obour, the classic wendigo, even the more exotic sounding gorgon. They are all one monster, fast, strong, in love with shiny things, sharpening their intellect by hunting the sentient. Most importantly – they are ravenous.

Now, research into obours was bizarre, as his blog was actually one of the only hits. But from what I could find, his description of it is simply... incorrect. I won’t get too much into that because there isn’t really a reputable source to rely on here.

But what I do want to focus on is his examples (which I will not repeat) and how they share traits such as “in love with shiny things” (something that his examples do not actually share). He tries to relate them to his species by saying they sharpen their intellect by hunting the sentient, but that also is not something that actually originated in those myths; he made it up.

It’s just a strange and altogether loosely-related series of posts, his supposed monstrous myths. They are poorly researched to the point of cultural disrespect and misrepresentation (hence the terms he used) and simply don’t fit in his canon, as much as he wants them to.

#simon alkenmayer #long post

7 notes · View notes

rosepyrearchive · 3 years

Text

𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

an experiment of posting a drabble a day, from a few sentences to a paragraph or more. i posted them on my old blog, now i’m going to compile them all here !

fingers carefully shift the lavender crystal in betwixt her thin fingers. for years, it had remained faithfully at the base of her throat, the way wolves protect each other’s most delicate parts; her father always did the same. now, there’s somewhere else she’d like to place that power, that protection. what color would the crystal turn, when placed in anakin’s palm ? blue, like his eyes, or red, like the blood he sheds ? the choker she once wore, pastel colored velvet around her neck, has an empty slot where she’d pulled the gem from, and now it finds a new home on a long chain of beskar; where she imagines it will press right in the middle of his chest, beneath his tunic & tabard. no matter what becomes of him, or what tries to hurt him . . . the chain and crystal will remain.

ii.

in her mother’s arms, she is just a daughter, a doll. on stage, she is better than a mortal girl, or even the immortal one she became; she’s a ballerina in tufts of pink & tulle. i am a good girl, even now when they’re all in the ground. now that the curtains of earth & velvet have fallen, though, who is she ? who does she become, without the pale pink ribbons & tight bodice of her costumes ? the voice, the visions, the hallucinations seem to answer for her; a ghost, a hazy, obscure daydream who cannot truly exist. who is she ? where does the camouflage, the eagerness to please end ? serena supposes it doesn’t end at all; and in that, she is a russian doll of nothingness.

iii.

she’s never seen him without his helmet. no one has, serena imagines — not in this state of his life, where removing it means deprivation and vulnerability; the simple act and thought is filled with an intimacy serena knows she could never earn from him, but … the yearning doesn’t stop, nor does the longing and curiosity to see his pallid skin, scarred & tainted, the marks that must cover his cheeks and chest. where do they end ? are they like ripples in waves or a pattern ? and … when she stands near him, does he ever look at her ? the blackness of his shield hides it all, and it does it’s job in making her nervous; serena can never stand still in his presence, thighs shaking and nails digging trench tracks into her soft palms. darth vader is terrible, awful, even cruel … so what is it that allures her so deeply, and why ? then again, if she knew, perhaps the shimmering butterflies would subside and she could see clearly, see this for what it was. he wasn’t even using her — and she is the very picture of devotion.

iv.

to what end does the fae steal a fair maiden ? or is it truly a crime, when the victim is so terribly willing ? allie’s feet move so mesmerizingly, around & around while flowers and mushrooms bloom from beneath her soles; her palm is so open – ❪ come to me, serena ! ❫ perspiration of late summer sticks to serena’s forehead, betwixt her rosy fingers, ❪ 𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂 ? 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙴 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚈 … ❫ and without a regret, she lays her hand in the other girl’s. she sups on honeyed milk, gives her name. the fairies covet gold, and what is serena, if not well - dressed in a golden shroud, from her crown to the hem of her long dress ? what does she have to fear, when she is magic all on her own ? allie’s hand lifts both of theirs high as she twirls serena amidst the flowers, and she swears she can feel grass grow from her steps.

calloused fingers dig deep into serena’s sweet, soft dimples; and from her jaw, trickles of sweet wine drip, down her neck, like spilled rubies on her pale skin. you hurt me, she wants to say. you’ve hurt me, and i am the one who’s sorry. hollis draws his thumb down to her chin, leaving perfect smudged fingerprints across her the way one would drag their fingers across a fogged glass. his eyes are a dull, venomous green as he calls her a name that doesn’t belong to her. that isn’t me, serena wants to cry. non, mon rêve, you’re much prettier than she ever was, hollis would reply, because this isn’t the first time. he squeezes bruises into her little arms as he kisses her, and serena thinks she kisses him back.

vi.

allow the camera to pan upwards, from her pale pink ballet slippers into her soft cotton dress, her feet turn out in first position as she raises her hands into fourth, pulled up by soft silk strings by an invisible puppeteer. the stage is her church, a massive, all encompassing world of history & grace, and then the world becomes it’s own stage; and serena’s performance is all consumed, like an apple in the garden of eden. isn’t she so lovely, so flawless, our little ballerina ornament ? serena doesn’t know who, or what, controls her actions – her lies, her pliés. some entity who refuses to present themselves, only bothering to choreograph her life & watch her from behind the scenes; she is both fresh as a flower, brought up in springtime, & as broken as skeletons that have long withered to dusk in their caskets. even in her most secluded moments, she does not feel alone – not truly. this puppet master is always watching, writing their script, judging her arches and how gracefully she can slide across the floor in her pointe shoes. when she takes her final bow, it’s only the studio mirror that gazes back at her, her own doelike brown eyes, her own slim form – there’s no cables attaching her to the ceiling.

this life is so very boring, so unlike the dreamy world she longed for as a foolish girl. i had long ruined my own life with my own dissatisfaction before someone else destroyed it for me.

viii.

longing lurks deep behind a golden - brown gaze / what comfort can she take in the jedi code, when it’s cold, hard … and ben’s hand is warm, all encompassing ? the code, the code … the temple is a stage, and the council pulls her strings, but the one thing they can’t take from her is her mind; in there, she is strong, stone. they encourage compassion: but no attachments. what is that, to her ? what is it compared to the sunlight she feels in ben’s eyes when he leans down to kiss her temple, or the delight serena can see in him when she enters the room ? ❪ because love is the death of duty, as wiser men say ❫ in many ways, she is greater than other girls; a doll - like padawan, bright, intelligent – but in the end, she is still human, and she finds no love within the code / only does she find the serenity it speaks of in ben’s embrace, and the way he bends over at the waist to hold her, and he is all around her like cologne. that is a glory & a tragedy worth dying for.

viii.

fear has always cut deep within serena’s soft skin; it was easy to pull her apart like a pomegranate, see the little pin - prick razors of fright, but nothing had made her so afraid since meeting the jedi. she’s a fragile heart wound tightly in red ribbons and strings, each tied to the pinkie finger of every person she loves. some of the ends are cut, some fray towards the latter, but she doesn’t forget. she doesn’t let go, not in her deep heart, where they are safe. the jedi don’t agree; and her body wracks with guilt as she resists placing ribbons on their fingers. they cannot love me, she knows / so why isn’t it enough to stop her ?

ix.

every part of my body aches. serena sits on the hard bathroom floor like a stain on the tile, the tulle of her practice skirt shimmering in the dim fluorescents. the plastic stall divider is freezing against her shoulders, and it hurts when her head falls back against it. the bathroom is empty, but the room is loud. DISGUSTING GIRL. IT HURTS. what hurts ? I CAN’T FIND IT ANYMORE, IT’S SPREAD LIKE A POISON. she finds sanctuary in her own little white lies, and this stall where none of the other ballerinas go – she’s a soloist, a prima; she is special. allegedly. she barely notices the wine - red trickle of blood that spills from her nose, gravity pulling it down her perfect pale face. the relief is nearly instant, whatever ache she’d had seems to fade away / her eyes hone in on the empty plastic bag, only remnants of white pill powder left. the same resin seems to linger on the tip of her pointe shoe, that she’d used to crush it all up. the urge to smash the wooden end of her slipper into the stupid godforsaken plastic container as hard as she can and see how much damage she can do washes over her; but she’s too shocked by the sudden violent urge to act on it. instead, serena lets the clarity & ability to focus drown out the voices that scream in her tender head, and brings herself to stand.

❪ 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊 ❫

pink silk shimmers in the early morning sun; her blush is just as pretty, sitting across from her father at the iron balcony table. he is her king, her first love, and serena revels in the attention her father lavishes on her. everything is still so new, so beautiful, when she’s young – serena dreams of the future, of white veils and cotillions. her distance isn’t yet defensive, but a sweet daydream, of romantic notions & hopes. serena dreams of the far away, of paris and rushing crowds. you have the carlisle look, julian had told her, once. your brother has it too. someday, this world will be wrapped around your little finger. be kind to it. serena had smiled so lovely at that – let the world be kind. let it show her kindness.

xi.

❪ 𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘 ❫

this is a private moment; but serena can feel the hidden camera lenses on her, seeking that million dollar photo of palpable grief, or the bullet hole in her father’s chest, as if it weren’t hidden from view behind his favorite suit. she won’t cry. serena had already emptied herself of every golden tear when she’d cleaned her father’s face, when she’d combed his hair. she was the one who’d laid his arms over his chest, with her favorite stuffed animal between them to keep him company. august pulls all her curls behind her head, and lays his hands on her thin shoulders, squeezing just enough to be a reassurance. a million questions ran through her head – every single one beginning with why.

her fingers drift, softly, for the last time, over her father’s cheek. she pretends it’s warm with life, and not chilling to the bone. if he could be killed, then no one is safe.

xii.

❪ 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ❫

be kind to the world. serena’s innocence had died screaming, yet she still remembers the words her father had told her. sunlight streams through the trees above, but she is too stiff to move just yet; so she lies there in the grass, flowers having bloomed over the years of her sleep through her hair and around her body. a new era has begun, everything she knows is gone. everyone she loves is gone. maybe it’s the haziness of first waking up after a half - century, but there’s a determination beneath her silk skin, her ivory bones. serena has become something new, just as the world has – beneath the porcelain, her ribs have grown steel. she will not be so breakable ever again.

xiii.

in the movies, pearls are always being yanked from necks, the precious little beads clattering to the hardwood floor in bunches. serena allows the pretty necklace to drift through her fingers, remembering the time her mother had wrapped it around her neck. she’d felt like such a little madam in her maman’s pearls. there’s a little secret: those pearls in films, dramatic as they were, were fake. maman’s were genuine, and the little pieces were knotted in between, meaning even if she’d ripped them from her throat, only one or two at worst would go missing. her mother was too much of a lady, anyway … prone to melancholy and hurt, but not quite fits. what a complicated love, the one between a mother & a daughter … serena finds herself missing her mother’s arms more often than not these days, and the security that came with them.

xiv.

valentine’s day has always been a non - affair romantically; her favorites were dinner dates with her family, the men being the gentlemen, and the one day her maman would let her wear her red lipstick. the couples on the street below her balcony make her feel something, but is it jealousy, or nostalgia ? her palm cradles her jaw as she leans against the iron barrier. a man kisses a woman, and why does her heart lurch for something so impossible ? to love, to be loved … she would never be capable of it, her last boyfriend had told her so. adam had as well. anyone who would want to spend this day with her is dead, and no one else could accept the things she’d done, the person she’s become beneath the lace and ribbons. hallowed, broken.

xv.

i hate the dirt. i hate the grime that i can’t wash away, and the fingerprint i leave on the pristine envelope that the postman gives me, his gaze apologetic. until i look at the handwriting, i don’t understand why. it’s been a week since he could last reach us on the battlefield, to give us some form of comfort and relief, and he only gives me a single letter. there should be more. serena writes to me every day, there should be at least six or seven, all beginning with my dearest brother; but even the single letter isn’t from my sister, but my wife. i should be excited for that, but i’m not – not when i can’t fathom why there’s only this one letter. when i tear into it, a picture falls out: my wife, holding our son. this is a happy moment, and i can feel pressure build behind my eyes, but it’s distracted, because serena should be in this photo. she isn’t, because for some godforsaken reason she’s here in europe – and that’s enough to push the tears from my eyes. i should be there, and serena should be holding her nephew and accepting our request to be his godmother.

but she isn’t, and i’m not either.

xvi.

the streets of new york now aren’t so different from the streets of new york in my childhood. the fashion is different; women wear shorter skirts, deeper cuts to expose their collarbones, and these are changes i like. the buildings still creep into the clouds like pillars of divinity, and the sidewalks are crowded, but no one pays too much attention to anyone else. the men dress differently too, and those changes i don’t like, but if i sit and close my eyes … it’s still all the same, and i can picture the cars, the pretty women and handsome men … even my silly little girl friends, the ones who would walk with me during breaks in ballet when we had so little else to do. when i close my eyes, it doesn’t feel like a lifetime ago.

xvii.

it happens gradually, then all at once, like the impatience of waiting for a rose to blossom. one day you wake up, and it’s simply bloomed, petals spread wide in the sunshine. in that case, serena wonders which moment it was that made her realize her feelings for ben had flowered ── was it the time his fingers grazed hers on the piano keys, and he played the wrong note to make her laugh ? or perhaps when he smiled at her so earnestly, all white teeth and curled lips that met the crinkles by his eyes ? she can’t pinpoint the exact moment she realized she loves ben kenobi; serena only knows what she feels now, the safety of his warm hugs, the way the word ‘graves’ slips between her teeth and she doesn’t choke trying to reel it back in. home was something impossible, turned to ash & bone, but then she finds herself sitting at their table in the coffee shop & she thinks perhaps a home can be rebuilt.

xviii.

prayer used to come first thing in the morning, a mantra spoken breathlessly to open air. it’s not an ideology that serena subscribes to anymore ❪ part of her wonders if she ever did ❫ , but old habits had died hard. she wants to enjoy a new one. ben is there, barely awake while thick raindrops smack against the balcony doors, and serena shimmies his boxers down his thighs. she’s already asked him nicely, with her polite manners and pretty mouth ── and she tries to mask her eagerness with languid movements, laying her cheek to his hip and letting her long curls fall over his body. serena knows he can feel her by the way he shudders when her eyelashes flit over him, her rose - petal fingers everywhere and nowhere because they aren’t exactly where ben wants them. you should tell me what you like, serena offers with a wicked little smile, dragging his hand until he can grip her curls, holding sunshine in his palms.

xix.

when the legs beat against each other in the midst of a jete, it’s a battu jete … beaten. everything is more beautiful in french, and serena thinks it’s true of herself as well. she had been her company director’s little princess, sliding into his queen; she would’ve been the youngest prima ballerina in history. she would’ve had a life. she would’ve had a brother. orson does so much for her, and serena can hardly find it in herself to be grateful, can hardly repeat the pleasantries and manners she’d been taught to sing since she was a little girl letting words tumble from her mouth. instead, serena tries to create a peaceful world, she jumps at the chance to redesign the building he buys, create a setting of her own making; only to lay under the covers, sleeping next to a pillow she pretends is august.

xx.

disgusting. vile. serena watches august rip a newspaper in half, once, twice, then three times, letting the pieces fly onto the floor and cover the coffee table. the headline had once read about her, calling her a top three debutante in new york’s uppercrust society. not just in the top three, but ranked number one. shouldn’t we be proud ? serena asks him. shouldn’t i be flattered ? august had fallen to his knees in front of the chaise where she sat after that, holding her little hands in his own. he squeezes them so tight serena winces. tell me, he begs. tell me if anyone ever touches you. tell me, and i’ll kill them. with all the naivety in the world, serena giggles, shaking her head. nonsense, my darling brother. the only man i love is you; and the only man who shall ever touch me is not here yet.

xxi.

the sunlight doesn’t seem so bright, but the city is just as bustling as the last time she’d seen it. what year had that been ? somewhere around nineteen forty, serena thinks. her old ballet studio has moved; it’s previous location now just another parking lot in new york city. everything about it gives her whiplash. it’s all the same and all entirely different. she almost expects to see august across the street, handsome smile & hair swept back, but she knows she won’t. he’s dead, and so is everyone else she ever knew. there’s a pressure on her shoulders, wondering when someone will notice the imaginary blood seeping out of her core, or when someone will realize she’s half - dead. little walking dead girl, schrodinger’s girl, dead and alive.

xxii.

photographs from another era are spread all across the wooden table serena sits at, glimmering and shining in their black and white glory, sepia, and even a few colored ones. they all had a touch of grain to them, the consequence of new, unperfected technology, but serena adores them. after all, in every photo she sees the face of someone she loves. her grandfather royce, cradling the toddler version of herself in his arms, and then them at a later age, serena with her arms wrapped tightly around him. in another photo, serena sits in his lap, while her grandmother, the woman for whom she was named, hugs them both from behind. so many lost smiles, shining with no idea of what’s to come. her finger traces along another photo, of her mother posing with her in her first pair of pointe shoes. she’d been so proud that day, and serena can’t help but smile back at her. these little moments are all she has left now; what if she forgets it all someday ? at least she won’t forget their faces. serena glues the back of the photos, pasting them into a scrapbook. there are new people she doesn’t want to forget someday as well, and for them, serena glances at a newer camera. she doesn’t have to forget.

xxiii.

moy lebed. my swan. mr. nikolaev calls her that, from the first moment he saw her complete the thirty - two fouettés in odile’s coda. serena sighs into the open studio. the sky has long gone dark, and every other dancer and crew member has gone home — but she remains. this is the dedication that will make me the prima, serena reminds herself. this is what sets me apart. she counts the steps in her head until she loses herself to the imagined music, eyes closed while she moves her arms and tip - toes across the floor. serena is the very picture of a music box ballerina when she kicks her foot up, finding her north star and turning in pirouettes. not even the quiet opening of a door interrupts her focus. august takes her little waist in his hands and helps to give her the extra momentum. then he hoists her over his shoulder, telling her how mother is so worried, and she has to come home right away… all spoken with his hidden, wry smile.

xxiv.

i had never tried to impress anyone the way i’d tried to impress mr. nikolaev, my ballet master and choreographer. my every waking moment was spent under his scrutinizing gaze, attempting to dissect his utter dissatisfaction with the world for it’s lack of grace and beauty and what he felt towards me specifically … all in a leotard and tights that would only leave the color of my skin to our imaginations, and mirrors on every wall reminding me of that fact. i don’t know if i tried harder to gain his attention in the first place, or if i would have killed myself trying to keep it. no girl is ever more beautiful than they are at sixteen, and though i didn’t realize it, perhaps if i had lived to see him again in my later years he would’ve been impressed with my freckles, my dimples, and my big eyes at the age of twenty – i’ve heard i don’t look so different. still, i was even more girlish then than i am now, and three times as shy ; ballet was all i could use to get him to look at me, to make him pay attention & perhaps remember why he took this job in the first place after his own short, but famed career. i would be perfect ; not just for him, but for myself. it didn’t hurt anything that i was his little prima prodigy. he smiled for the first time when he called me his moy lebed, his swan, and i can’t remember the last thing, even now, that had made my heart soar so much.

xxv.

‘are you ready?’ on the cusp of spring in the midst of march, lies serena’s birthday. thirteen is such a special age for a girl ; not quite a woman yet, not quite a girl anymore, but leaving the throes of childhood behind. august’s question comes with an excited edge to his voice and a slim box in his hands, with pink wrapping paper and white ribbons. the other guests at the party had long dissipated, and serena sits on the edge of her bed, feet swinging back and forth to dissipate a bit of the thrill she feels. ‘i’ve been waiting all day!’ is what serena replies, taking the gift into her lap. her brother sits down next to her ; he’s twenty, seven years older, and a man grown, but it’s as if there’s no difference between them as august wraps his arm around her waist, matching brown eyes gleaming as he watches her carefully pry apart the paper to reveal a box of velvet. ‘it’s sentimental,’ august had said, as to why he couldn’t let her open it amongst the guests. private, serena thinks. her brother was always a private man. when she lifts the lid, and august uses his other hand to fold away the white paper, it reveals a precious, heart - shaped golden locket. he pulls it out by the chain, letting the pendent rest in serena’s palms. ‘it’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,’ serena says, eyes glimmering. august’s fingers snap the clasp, and inside, a photo of himself on one side, and then a photo of their parents from their wedding day on the other. serena beams as august closes it then places the necklace around her neck, the pendent falling just at her collarbones. ‘it’s beautiful, my wonderful brother,’ she says, and august kisses her crown. ‘it’s almost as lovely as you, my sweet little sister, and you deserve lovely things. this way, we’ll always be with you.’

xxvi.

julian’s wedding band was like him ; it was a simple golden band, with ivy growing around it, interrupted only by a diagonal line of diamonds. when serena tilts it back, she can see her mother’s name engraved in it. eirene’s was a little flashier, with a bigger diamond in the center. it wasn’t because of her personality, though … in that, serena can still see her father, wanting to impress her, wanting to give his wife the world. julian’s ring occupies her left thumb ; she couldn’t bear to get it resized for her dainty hands, so it’s the best she could manage. he’d had a lithe frame, and for that she’s thankful – serena remembers sliding the ring off of his finger when she’d crossed his arms over his chest, holding it between her fingers. she had to have it. her mother had worn hers until the very last, until she had slipped from serena’s hand into the ocean’s embrace. serena had only been able to just clasp the ring, before it too could fall from her grasp. now, it rests on her index finger, where at least on her hands, her parents could still be together.

#◞ ⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐔𝐄 ⠀ ⠀ —— ⠀ ⠀ the sweetest flowerets gleam.#◞ ⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 ⠀ ⠀ —— ⠀ ⠀ may these memories break our fall.

2 notes · View notes

crimsonscorpii · 3 years

Text

@goodsouldier

prompt ! The small talk is stifling, and Steve finds himself outwardly sighing in disappointment as he scans the gallery for signs of Bucky. He’d disappeared earlier under the guise of fetching them more drinks, but Steve suspects that he too just wanted a break from drawling conversation. Still . . . he should’ve returned by now . . .

Steve’s gaze floats around until finally he finds the back of a very familiar head. He doesn’t bother with excuses, he owes nothing to his present company and the mutually beneficial deal they have is strong and well weathered enough that Steve doesn’t need to appease anyone. As he makes his way over, he notices that Bucky is speaking with someone, another man, blonde, just a little taller than Bucky, conventionally attractive. He laughs at something Bucky says, placing a hand on Bucky’s elbow affectionately, and oh . . . he must not know just who Bucky is, and who he belongs to. Maybe he does, and he wants to die.

Steve has never felt this way about someone before. Bucky had gotten to him the moment Steve had laid eyes on him. A sweet, kind face despite the world they lived in, a smart mouth that could keep toe to toe with Steve’s, their bodies like two pieces of a puzzle made to fit together. Bucky had consumed him quickly, creeping his way through the cracks of Steve’s steel heart, making a home out of the roughest parts of him and making him soft. Steve’s always been a man of purpose, and while he’d been driven to dismantling the pieces of society he hated and rebuilding it under his own guiding hand . . . he’s never had a purpose before that has made him feel quite so human. Steve doesn’t do anything by the halves so everything that he feels . . . it burns in him like an inferno and his love for Bucky is no different.

It’s unfortunate that Steve is within a crowd that he can’t make too big of a scene in front of. The art world isn’t as used to Steve’s violent proclivities as his usual circle, and there are certain appearances he has to maintain in a place this public. There are journalists and photographers crawling the walls of the gallery and Steve has to weigh up how much trouble it’s going to cost him to keep any outburst that happens here tonight under wraps. What he can’t do now, he will ensure happens later. What he can do, however, is lay his claim on Bucky, a reminder to everyone present that even entertaining the idea of Bucky, even passing a glance over him in appreciation or intent, even breathing in the scent of him, let alone touching him so flirtatiously was an exercise in futility . . . because Bucky was well and truly spoken for. And Bucky would do well to remember that, too.

Steve’s fingers wrap firmly around Bucky’s throat, Steve’s hand almost large enough to enclose him completely. The web of his palm fits snug into his airway, fingertips digging harshly into the muscles at the base of Bucky’s neck --- he can feel Bucky trying to swallow, and failing, but the choked off sound he makes is satisfying. Steve turns him towards him, dragged by the throat, and kisses him on the mouth, equal parts tender as it is domineering, and he eases his grip enough for Bucky to breathe, though he’ll have to struggle around Steve’s tongue pressed into his mouth for air. He pulls away just as Bucky melts into him, lightheaded and made vulnerable by the suddenness and heat of the kiss, and Steve shrouds him with an arm around his shoulders. ‘ You’re mine, ’ Steve murmurs by Bucky’s ear, for only him to hear, and feel the low vibrations of Steve’s voice.

There’s spilt champagne and a broken glass on the floor by Steve’s feet, Bucky’s earlier acquaintance staring shocked and hand empty. ‘ Clean that up, ’ Steve tells him, as he begins to lead Bucky away, the man’s face and name tag engrained in his memory for future reference

It’s a different world here, one Bucky is acutely aware that he doesn’t really belong in. Everything with Steve has been a whirlwind of change, or finding out things about himself he never would have discovered otherwise and while he is an exceptionally talented man, the high world of art and the seedy dealings that occur underneath all the finery was beyond him. Still, here’s here because Steve wants him to be -- and the idea of being away from that man is not something Bucky ever wants to entertain. The overwhelming attachment he has to the most dangerous man in the US is close to obsession.

A feeling matched by his partner ten times over.

His journey to get drinks hadn’t been an intentional long one. The talk wasn’t holding his interest and while Steve gave Bucky a lot of freedom, he still wanted to be good for him here. This world was different, the people were different and Bucky didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing that could fuck all that up. He was still learning, and since his gaze rarely left Steve Rogers, he had been taking his cues from how different Steve had been acting. He was more in control, more... refined than usual.

Still, Bucky had bored easily and left in search of alcohol only to bump into someone who seemed rather pleasant. His flirting was mediocre at best -- though anything compared to Steve was now mediocre -- and not knowing the world here, Bucky hadn’t wanted to be too rude. He’d gotten two more glasses of Champaign for himself and Steve, but the charming stranger hadn’t quite given him a chance to dip out of the conversation.

Bucky hadn’t know what to do, in truth had it been anywhere else he would have told the man to fuck off or even name dropped Steve. Here though, unsure of the territory, Bucky has to weigh up what he wants to do, and what’s best for Steve from what he knows. The man then compliments Bucky’s attire; a black dress shirt with a few top buttons open for a relaxed look, black pants and a white belt, then comments on how well built Bucky looks. Sure, the material of his shirt is straining because of his arm, but Bucky instead makes a joke about how he’d need to wank with the other arm to balance out his muscles.

The man laughs, touches his arm, and Bucky’s skin floods hot with dislike. He doesn’t want to be touched by strangers but the way this man touches, he’s clearly seeing Bucky as nothing more than how the assassin feels -- out of his depth in a world he doesn’t understand. Still, his temper flares a little and he opens his mouth to respond----

The words don’t come. Breath doesn’t come as a strong, familiar warm weight settles tight around his throat and Bucky’s whole world tips. That large, all encompassing hand cuts off his air way, cuts off his circulation in a flood of possessiveness that makes Bucky;s blood run so hot so fast that his world tips into darkness. He’s moved then, trying to swallow the words he had but he can barely get his muscles to flex. He can feel the bruising points of fingers pressing into his neck and then a hard, deep press of lips against his own. His own lips part immediately for Steve’s invading tongue and as the grip eases to allow breath, Bucky sucks in air straight from Steve and a soft, dizzying moan escapes him. The hand on his throat, the tongue pressing so deep into his mouth Steve can surely taste the words Bucky had lost, the press of that solid body against his own; the sound of shattering glass is so distant as Bucky’s world is washed in warmth by those striking words.

He slumps a little, lost in the sensation of Steve’s powerful arrival and Bucky’s thoughts are as jumbled as his body when the kiss breaks and he hears Steve speak. Never had Bucky felt so desired, so loved and wanted and hell, even needed as he did in Steve’s arms. That mission from HYDRA had been the best fucking thing he ever did. As the shock softens and blood flow resumes to Bucky;s brain, he realises Steve is pulling him away and he swallows a couple of times to enjoy the lingering restrictive sensation around his throat, and smiles quite blissfully.

His entire movement is turned towards Steve and his hand comes to settle on Steve’s chest, fingers tightening in the lapel of his jacket as he’s led wherever Steve deems fit. While he’s trying to work out how angry Steve is, there’s no fear in his blood. Only excitement as his mind races to explain, apologise, make it up to him. Unfortunately all his muddled mind can think of to say as he moulds himself to Steve’s side is:

“I left the drinks at the bar...”

#goodsouldier #( muse || bucky )#( goodsouldier || mafia au )#cw: possessive behaviour

6 notes · View notes

ibtk · 3 years

Text

Book Review: THE ANIMALS IN THAT COUNTRY by Laura Jean McKay (2020)

(Full disclosure: I received a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review through Edelweiss and Library Thing's Early Reviewers program. Content warning for violence, including that against animals. Caution: this review contains a spoiler in the form of an excerpt.)

'Well, I’ve got a secret for you, Miss Kimberly Russo.' She digs her sharp little nails into my skin. ‘What is it?’ ‘This flu means people can talk to animals.’ Her head shoots up. ‘I want the flu, Granny. Don’t you?’ ‘Grown-ups don’t wish they had diseases, and neither should you.’ ‘But don’t you?’ Outside, Wallamina and Princess Pie are nose and beak to the sliding door, trying to press their way through. Eyes shining. ‘Course I bloody do.’

I can see the wild in her. She looks and acts like any dog. Plays, wags, stares into my eyes with her baby browns; does chasey, catch, begs for biscuits. Then the dusk comes and she lifts her neck and howls the saddest song in all the world, and there’s that wild. Dingo, owl, night thing — that sound is a warning. Loneliest you’ll hear. Wraps around your face, your sleep, your dreams. She’s saying: ‘Hey, hey. There’s something coming.’ The rangers here are always telling me, don’t talk like that. They say how dingoes are just establishing territory, checking on their pack. Dingo admin. But stand on the hot road that runs from the gift shop to the enclosures, and listen to the dingo in her cage call out to the packs on the other side of the fence. Tell me that’s not special. Tell me she doesn’t know something about the world that you and me haven’t ever thought of.

Jean Bennett isn't you're typical grandma - unless you're picturing Gemma Teller Morrow, that is. Jean drinks, smokes, swears, and sleeps around, usually all at the same time, and occasionally with her gay and committed coworker, Andy. She's got a tiger tattooed on her boob, and a dingo named Sue imprinted on her heart.

A lowly guide who dreams of becoming a ranger, Jean works at an Australian wildlife park, run by her son's ex-girlfriend Angela and owned by Angela's father. Jean and her husband Graham landed there years ago, after bouncing around the world for a while. Eventually Graham left Jean to shack up with another woman; their only child, Lee, jumped ship too, but not before hooking up with - and impregnating - Angela. Now Ange mostly keeps Jean around for the free child care (and maybe also because Ange feels sorry for her).

As for Jean, she stays stuck in this weird, awkward morass for her granddaughter Kimberley - one of the few people she can tolerate, let alone love. Jean prefers animals of the nonhuman variety, and the Park's residents/captives are her found family. She has a special place in her cockles for Sue, a dingo mix who she helped rescue as a wee little pup.

Jean's precarious life is already teetering on the edge of chaos when THE FLU arrives - first in southern Australia, then at the Park's gates, thanks to none other than an infected Lee, as charming as he is irresponsible.

Zoanthropathy (from Greek: zóo, “animal”, anthroponis, “human”, pathy, “disorder”), aka zooflu, otherwise known as "the talking animal disease," allow humans to understand and communicate with other animals:

'The strain known as zoanthropathy affects cognition in humans, and it is believed that enhanced communication between humans and nonhuman animals is possible. Zoanthropathy is hosted and spread by humans. [...] The disease is very high in morbidity and very low in mortality. Infected humans appear able to communicate (encode) and translate (decode) previously unrecognisable non-verbal communications via major senses such as sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound with nonhuman animals.'

When Lee runs off with Kimberley - to commune with the whales on the southern coast - Jean embarks on a cross-country road trip to find them. Riding shotgun is Sue, whose keen nose points the way to Tomorrow (Tomorrow being Sue's conceptualization of Kimberley. Jean is Yesterday, and Lee is Never There. Scathing, yet accurate.)

As with most potentially animal-friendly tales, I was equally nervous and excited to dive into THE ANIMALS IN THAT COUNTRY. As it is, the book both thrilled and disappointed me; I almost feel like it deserves two separate ratings, one for the idea and actualization of the dystopian zooflu future - which is breathtaking - and another for the human-centered plot that propels the audience's journey into this world - which is decidedly less so.

Let's start with the zooflu. It seems like it would be awesome to be able to talk to animals, right? Think again. I mean, really turn the idea over in your head, sit with the superpower, and try to envision what this might entail. Given that most of the nonhumans we encounter on the daily are exploited, oppressed, or otherwise negatively impacted by humans -

be it the 25 million farmed animals we create, torture, and kill for food every year in the US alone; the "wildlife" (read: free-living animals) we displace, starve, and kill through habitat loss; the dogs and cats we buy, neglect, and then abandon at shelters; or the animals we unintentionally hit with our cars (or the bugs we trod on just walking down the street); etc. x infinity

- we are weapons of mass destruction. To most of our nonhuman kin (and sometimes our fellow humans, too). Instead of words of wisdom and messages of hope, we'd be more likely to hear cries of terror. Confusion. Pain and agony. Hellfire, everywhere. Created and fueled by us and our own.

Heck, I'm not even sure it would be beneficial to always know exactly what our beloved, nonhuman family members are thinking. I have a fifteen-year-old dog named Finn who's going deaf and blind and battling dementia. More often than not, I suspect that being privy to his innermost thoughts would freak me the fuck out. Not to mention break my damn heart.

And then there's the mode of communication: not just just verbal, as we're used to, but all-encompassing: "sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound." Think pheromones, sound waves, scratches and ticks. The beating of countless tiny wings, all bombarding your brain and trying to tell you something. That kind of thing, coming at you uninvited and from all directions, is apt to drive a person mad. And it does, as evidenced by zooflu sufferers who stuff their orifices with whatever's handy to block incoming stimuli - or, at the more extreme end, the pseudo-religious trepanners who invite strangers to drill holes in their skulls in a misguided attempt to relieve the pressure.

Talking to animals sounds like the stuff of dreams - but in McKay's hands, it's a nightmare.

And a pretty trippy one, at that: fittingly, the incoming messages that Jean's left to decode aren't quite what you'd call straightforward. There's a lot of translation required, and Google hasn't yet caught up:

I’m reading her body like some language I barely remember from a high school textbook. Bonjour madame, connaissez-vous le chemin de la gare? Let’s go to the station. Or, where the hell is the supermarket? I can parrot the words, but the meaning is in scraps.

Copies of this book should be sold with a sheet of acid, or maybe some edibles. I kid, but also not.

If, like me, you assumed that increased understanding and compassion would surely spring forth from this newfound ability to communicate with nonhuman animals, you'd be wrong. While some people do indeed embrace the flu, many others lash out: animal-free zones are established, and hungry citizens start hunting former pets, since they make for easy prey (apparently they've never heard of fruits and veggies?).

There's one especially excruciating scene that I don't think I'll ever be able to forget. Jean takes refuge in a makeshift church, only to catch a glimpse of how the missionaries make their sausage (stew):

A small fluffy dog has pelted out a kitchen door, thin bit of twine tangled around its legs, body blonde fire, screaming, Hello. Please. Please bite its soft. Quick. Help me. I jump up, calling the poor little bugger, but the parishioners shriek louder, climbing on their chairs like that dog is the snake from the garden of Eden. The woman rushes for her daughter and hauls her by an arm out of the room. It’s funny, for a second, until the laugh dies in my throat. The little dog, too tangled in the twine to move, slumps panting in the aisle. It’s not just m e. Where’s other me. She’s still — The god-botherers are faster than me. They grab that dog with WWF wrestling passion, using real lumps of wood, real knives. The little dog has enough time to issue a thick whiff of terror from its undercarriage, Help her, before they’ve slit it ear to ear right there in the pulpit. There was no blood with Lee. He didn’t even look that drowned. He might have come alive any moment. He might be alive right now in his grave. This little dog, though, is bleeding out on the beige carpet. The door to the kitchen is open. Matthew the soup cook leans on the jamb, then turns back. A fluffy tail on a chopping board. The steaming pots. Pain like a stab to my guts — he stirs a soup very much like the one he was serving up in the park.

Of course, this scene is so repulsive to most of us - Jean included - only because the animal being killed and consumed is designated for "companionship" instead of "food," at least in this particular culture. Chances are you've known and loved a dog or two yourself - and so the doomed beast transforms from a something to a someone. Not an unfeeling object to be used and discarded at will, but a sentient creature with her own feelings, desires, and loved ones. Had it been a chicken or pig, the result wouldn't be quite so horrifying; Jean herself eats meat, and justifies doing so, on several occasions.

Yet an earlier scene - in which Jean comes upon an abandoned tractor trailer truck packed with pigs destined for slaughter - will hopefully challenge readers to expand their circle of compassion:

I’ve seen battery hogs before — of course I have. But not out and about. Not staggering around and trying to walk, calling to whatever they think is ‘more’. Glazed eyes that strain like they’ve never seen sunlight. Skin stretched over bodies fed to the point of bursting — something between swine and meat. Saw some animal liberationists on the street in the city one time, saying factory farms were the same as Nazi camps. I called them bloody racists too. The pigs clatter past me down the ramp, fucked-up eyes on the road ahead, calling, Hello is it more. Those animal nutters were wrong, but not in the way I thought. It’s not the same as the Nazis: that was us doing to us. What’s this? [...] A hurt sow sits on her haunches, then lies down on the verge, panting unevenly under the slathering sun. Another weaves blindly over the asphalt toward her, flies spinning around her head. They push their noses into each other. Send me a postcard, the sick one says. Postcard, indeed. What the fuck. I watch more closely. The meaning bright off that tight skin. All the little bits saying, Leave me, and, I’ll hear about it, and, Don’t you see it. Move on. There’s more. The ones that can walk stretch their legs, for, More, more, more. I stand at the top of the truck ramp watching them break into a group trot toward the next paddock. Skin rippling. Hooves carolling. Know that heart-in-your-mouth run. Know exactly what ‘more’ is. I’ve seen it in Lee and I’ve had it too, at times. These pigs are half dead, they’re stumbling around, blind, mad, and fucking hopeful.

Even if many of the characters in this book resist the humanity clearly evident in nonhuman animals, I hope that readers will hold these passages close - especially at the dinner table.

Sue, our main nonhuman protagonist, is a fascinating character; like many of the semi-domesticated animals in the park, McKay paints her as a series of conflicting impulses: safety or freedom. Hunger or satiation. Dingoes or humans. She is fiercely loyal, much to her own detriment. She has wants and needs of her own, and she's often satisfied to set them aside for the good of her (adopted) pack.

And I guess that brings me to the second half of this review: the humans, most of whom are awful. Jean, exponentially so.

Initially I thought that Jean would be my people: she's a hard-drinking, mold-breaking badass broad who gets on better with animals than people. She has a mini-rescue in her backyard where she keeps some of the park's doomed relinquishments. (The public treats the park like a rehab facility when in fact it's in the business of entertainment - old, sick, injured, and "common" animals are routinely killed.) She and Kimberley spend their afternoons together designing the animal rescue they hope to build one day.

But Jean is kind of a terrible person. To call her a misanthrope is half the story: she's also senselessly mean and cruel, especially when drunk, hungover, or frustrated (in other words, 90% of the time). I don't fault Jean for her substance abuse problem - alcoholism is a mental health issue and should be treated as such - but nor is it an excuse for being such an asshole. (There's even a scene where she trolls people discussing the zooflu online, like a fucking American redhat.) She's shit to everyone around her, except for Kimberley and Lee (Lee, who could use a good ass-kicking).

And then there's Sue: Sue, who followed Jean across the damn country when she should have been settling into a dingo pack of her own. Sue, who found Kimberley and saved Jean's life. Sue, who is nothing but good and true and trustworthy. Sue, who Jean assaults on multiple occasions: kicking her in the ribs, binding her with rope to prevent her escape, and even trying to shoot her (with a gun that's thankfully empty of bullets). At one point, she "forgives" Sue for saving her life - as if Sue's the one who needs forgiveness!

Despite the abuse, Sue continues to stick by Jean's side, which galled me endlessly. Towards the end of the story, following the attempted murder, Sue gets revenge of a sort, dominating a delirious Jean and forcing her subservience. However, the book ends shortly thereafter, cutting any sense of satisfaction far too short.

I really felt cheated with Jean: I thought she might be my avatar in this world - but she's just another terrible human who doesn't deserve the company of animals.

Likewise, the whole subplot involving Kimberley's parentage is way over the top dramatic and unnecessary; it seemed like we were being plucked from a dystopia and dropped into a soap opera for a minute there. Just, gross. So yeah, there are definitely some aspects of the book that I appreciated more than others. THE ANIMALS IN THAT COUNTRY may be imperfect - but I'd still wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone looking to explore our relationship to nonhuman animals in a dystopian setting.

#books #reviews #book reviews #fiction #science fiction #dystopia #nonhuman animals #Laura Jean McKay #the animals in that country

2 notes · View notes

hopesbarnes · 4 years

Text

Gold Dust Woman

Summary: Set Pre-Ragnarok. Inspired by the song Gold Dust Woman. The goddess of temptation and sorcery is ruled by no man and doesn’t do love. You prefer to sleep around and mess with men’s heads for fun. Loki is just the newest in the line of people who have taken to you. He wishes for you to rule beside him as queen, but that type of life isn’t made for you.

Pairing: Darker!Reader x Loki

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Cursing

A/N: This is so different from my usual writings, and I really like it. This isn’t a happy, reader falls in love type story. Reader in this is so unlike me, it was a lot of fun to write. Also the drug mentioned is 100% made up. Bold Italics are song lyrics

In theory, being Asgardian is excellent. Thousands of years to experience the realms, powers that mortals dream of, and being worshipped sound wonderful. The little ones desire to be a goddess like you. Royalty is everything one wants. However, it’s monotonous. No good being loves the goddess of temptation and sorcery. They don’t leave you offerings or pray to you. You’re remarked on the same level as Loki. The people crave a white-veiled princess, and you’ve never been that.

Your lips are on his the moment he opens the door. There’s not a minute for him to digest your presence. The kiss is harsh, your teeth clash together and Loki moans into the kiss. You bite his lower lip to allow the kiss to deepen. His hands dig into your hips and yours lightly tug his hair. The two of you move until your back hits the wall. You pull him down, leaving him kneeling before you.

“What would people say, seeing you kneeling before someone?” you tease.

“What they don’t know is for the best, my love.”

He identifies his place and lifts your dress up and you move your leg over his shoulder to give him better access. Loki starts to move his tongue against your folds and you moan out from the feeling. He continues to tease you until you pull his head back to look at you.

“Continue teasing me and you won’t cum,” you threaten the mischievous god. He nods and moves back to your core. This time he doubles his efforts and fucks you on his tongue. Your hips move and you’re thrusting down on his face. The pleasure accumulates and you orgasm. The good boy that he is, Loki licks up every drop.

You pull him up to reach your lips and kiss. During the kiss, you wave away both of your clothes and activate a birth control spell. The goddess of seduction can’t get pregnant, it would ruin your image. The kiss continues until you reach the edge of the bed. You push him down and straddled his hips.

“I do love seeing you on top of me, it’s a beautiful sight,” he gushes to you.

“Keep being this sappy and I’ll find a new God to fuck,” you warn.

You hold his cock and guide yourself down on it. Once you’re seated fully, you move his hands to the headboard and lock them with a wave of your hands.

“Are these really necessary?” he complains.

“No, but I like the way they look. Plus, it reminds you where you truly belong.”

You start a quick pace, not looking for a sweet lovemaking session. You rock back and forth roughly and scratch his chest as you do. His torso looks as if a cat has clawed it up, and the sight sends you over. This, in turn, causes him to fill you with his cum.

You pull the sheet up on Loki before getting up and magically cleaning yourself up and reappearing your dress on the ground.

“You’re a shitty person, but a fantastic fuck,” you remark while redressing.

“It’s not like you’re quite sunshine, dear,” Loki quips back. He’s lying in his bed with his wrists still fixed to the bed frame. The sheet rests low on his hips and you can’t help but appreciate his physique once again.

“Is that what you want? A little blushing maid to control?” you ask as you straddle him once again. Leaning to his ear, you whisper, “We both know you could never be satisfied without me dominating you.”

His laugh is dark, and he doesn’t refute the statement. He would crawl the grounds naked for you if you asked. You will never truly be his, but he will always be yours.

You flick your wrist to remove the binds and free him. While keeping him tied up and hidden away seems ideal, he has duties as king to see to. You’d rather him as Odin than Odin himself running this wretched kingdom.

“Why won’t you accept my proposal as Queen?” he inquires while dressing himself.

“You and I both realize I’m not made for that.”

“We should rule the realms together, would that really be so terrible?” Yes, It would. You think to yourself.

“I’m no Queen,” you reply.

“I’m no King, and yet…”

“You were born for this life. The regal manner you have to conduct yourself, the diplomacy, the fights. It all fits you. I was born for revenge. I spend my nights high or drunk, fucking whoever falls into my sight. I tear apart relationships and fool people for fun! And I like it. I’m no Queen Loki, get that through your head!” you snap at him.

“If the people truly saw who ruled them, they would quiver in fear. I’m a fucking monster, or don’t you remember? I’m what parents warn their children of.” he spats shifting into his frost giant form.

“They warn of your race, not you. You really want to compare who's the bigger monster?”

“You’re not a monster.”

“Yes, I am. The sooner you realize this the better,” you sigh and walk out of the room.

—————

When you live thousands of years, the people in lesser worlds start to write stories of you. They call you gods and try to make sense of the senselessness way you impact their world. Thor is named Zeus to the Greeks and Jupiter to the Romans. You, on the other hand, are known as Peitho to the Greeks. The goddess of persuasion and seduction. They also created you into the story of the sirens, beautiful women who lured men to their death.

Most of the stories were true. There was a time when you seduced men and killed them. It wasn’t a high point of your legacy. But you never claimed you were innocent.

A few days after the fight with Loki, he came to apologize. Claimed the pressure of the throne was too much.

“Nobody told you to steal your father’s identity and be the ruler,” you quip back. Sympathy wasn’t a virtue you had.

“Father wasn’t fit to rule anymore. Thor isn’t around, too busy gallivanting around to care for his home,” he replied.

“Still didn’t mean you had to be king.”

“Want to destress, Allfather?” you tease just to get him to shut his whining up.

“What have you in mind, lover? He asks. The word lover leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you ignore it.

“Snagged some Ferðalags last time I ventured the forest. Turned them into a potion to drink. Wouldn’t mind sharing,” you offer the vial. You consume the drug with him and spend the next four hours high forgetting the world.

It was only a matter of time before Loki begged for marriage again. He was planning to reveal himself as Loki soon and wished to have a wife for that. You never would love him though, and marriage went against every part of your being. A better person would cut off the relationship, leave him now before it ruined him. But you couldn’t, you enjoyed messing with his head and body too much.

Tensions were running high amongst the realms. Loki’s approach to diplomacy and ruling wasn’t being taken to quite as he hoped. Rumors of Thor fighting and trying to bring peace about spread, and while he didn’t speak you can tell the mischievous God is worrying. You weren’t one for comfort, but you were fairly good at one of the best ways people relax.

Loki was sitting in the throne room, atop his chair. It was late, so he was in his true form instead of hiding behind the face of his father.

“Why are you here so late?” you ask.

“It takes a lot to rule a kingdom, dear,” he replies.

“You know what they say.”

“Hmm?” he questions.

“Rulers make bad lovers,” you remark.

“Is that so?” he asks, beckoning you closer with his stare.

“You better put your kingdom up for sale,” you declare walking to straddle his hips.

“I feel like I should fuck you in this throne for that statement.”

“Honey, the day you are the dominant one in this relationship, is the day I become the Goddess of Marriage.”

“Then you fuck me in this chair,” he suggests sharply.

You tug down his pants, not bothering to completely undress. You hike the long dress you have on up and he whines upon the realization that you had nothing underneath. You readjust your position and take him in one swift drop of your hips.

“This is how I would like to go, encompassed by you,” he remarks as you move your hips against his.

You lean forward to meet his lips as his hand snakes between your bodies. Instead of connecting your lips, a moan falls from them against his. It’s erotic the motion, and he groans against you. You quicken your pace and your head falls against his shoulder, unable to hold yourself up as you fuck yourself on his cock.

It doesn’t take long for you to come apart as he releases into you. You sit for a moment to catch your breath and then wave a hand to clean the mess.

“You could stay awhile, just sit with me,” he breathes.

“Loki,” you sigh.

“Loki what? Why can’t you let me love you!”

“You knew I didn’t do that! That isn’t me,” you snap, aggravated. He kept trying to make you into someone you weren’t. You warned him before the first hookup. Why didn’t he listen?

“It could be. I wasn’t supposed to be regal. I was supposed to die.”

“You wanted to change. You hated who you were. I love being this!” you shout waving your hands to emphasize the point. “I love fucking anything with a pulse! I love killing those who cross me. I love seducing people and watching their lives crumble as a result! I love being a witch in every sense of the word. I don’t get why you can’t understand that. I don’t want to be your fucking queen!” The entire declaration causes his face to fall.

“I love you,” is all he manages to mutter.

“Then I’m sorry to shatter your illusions of love, and what it should be. But this isn’t love.”

“Then I guess this is done.”

“I think I should visit Midgard for some time,” you suggest.

“I figure that’s for the best.”

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #marvel smut #loki odinson #rumors #song fic

125 notes · View notes

luxexhomines · 4 years

Text

you’ve never even ever cared about me

These imagines are a result of a self-prompt: “You’ve never even ever cared about me!” in some shape or form, not word-for-word. I wrote these as a writing sample when I applied to be a mod of truth-and-lies-drv3-imagines, many months ago, and I just decided to post them here. Includes a few of our favorite NDRV3 characters- namely, Kaito, Rantaro, and Shuichi (I know, no Kokichi, what a surprise).

-----

Kaito Momota

You tried to work a smile in and then gave up promptly. Instead, a fiercely angry and simultaneously intensely sorrowful look settled on your face, the two emotions fighting for dominance while living in dissonant harmony.

You couldn’t believe Kaito had the nerve to say something like this now. And he looked at you expectantly, as if you were supposed to just bow down and submit your will to him. You manage to utter a couple words in response, still too angry to form a complete response to his selfish words.

“I’m not going to do it,” you bit out.

He looked shocked and upset. Good, you thought. You were tired of being jerked around by him.

“What do you mean you’re not going to do it?” he replied, voice growing louder and more demanding by the second.

“I’m not going to drop my entire life for you, Kaito Momota! You may be the Luminary of the Stars, but they don’t revolve around you, and neither do I, shockingly. I quit my job so I could take care of the house for us, be the homemaker, but that stops now.” You somehow manage to stay calm in the face of his purpling face.

You thrust a packet of documents in his face. Divorce papers and proof of a new life. A new career. “Read it,” you snap.

He keeps his mouth shut, unexpectedly, and flips through the papers, the tension swirling in the air as he gets closer to the end of the stapled papers. His jaw is clamping tighter and tighter.

Kaito rips the papers in half, furious.

“I’m not agreeing to this!” he shouts. “You want to leave me now? It’s not that easy. You’re mine, goddammit!”

Of course, he’s throwing a tantrum like a spoiled, unruly child. Like you could’ve expected any kind of mature response from him. You shake your head disapprovingly, wagging your finger in his face as your lip curls in disgust, of both his behavior and of your own decision from years ago to stay with this man, this man who seemed to love you only because you had loved him at some point.

“It’s too late. You had a chance to keep me, and you good-as threw it away and spit on it. I predicted that you’d act like this, so I have an extra copy of the documents. No matter how many you rip up, I’ll have more, so I suggest you just quietly sign them and let me go peacefully.”

Consumed by fury, he starts stalking toward you, heavy feet thudding on the wooden floor, and you back up toward the wall, back hitting the wall as his fist does, albeit one much harder than the other.

“I should’ve known you’d betray me like this! You never even cared about me in the first place, did you? You were only delaying leaving out of spite for me!”

He dared say that now? You felt uncontrollable anger, and then it was swallowed by the chilling fires of bitterly crushed hopes and grief. Grief for your lost love, grief for your lost years, grief for your lost dreams, and grief for your lost self.

“No. I stayed with you this long because I loved you too much to let go of you,” you smile ruefully, and reach out, stroking his cheek tenderly. “But that ends now. You’re the one who has never cared about me. You only stayed with me to feed your ego, because you knew I adored you beyond redemption. You used me however you liked because you knew I loved you unconditionally.”

Your voice cracked, and you felt unplanned tears slip from your eyes. Nothing beyond this all-encompassing misery could be imagined, yet you had already planned a future for yourself. Without him.

“I love you, Kaito. But it’s time to face the music. You don’t love me, and the longer I stay with you, the more pain you inflict upon me.”

He didn’t seem to see this coming at all. Frozen, he slowly let his fist fall from the wall, and walked over to the dining chair, sitting down and slumping in his seat, drained.

You leave the documents on the table and set some bandages on top of them for his injured fist. You leave with a quiet goodbye, closing the door firmly with a clack, but he doesn’t respond. Nothing he said would change your mind now, even the truth.

Rantaro Amami

You couldn’t move as you stared at the scene unfolding before you through the cracks of the door. Rantaro was making love with someone other than you. Those soft lips of his were kissing the lips of someone that wasn’t you, and his skilled fingers ran over curves that weren’t yours.

You ran away. What else could you have done? After some digging, you found out he had been seeing her since almost the start of your relationship with him.

A week later, you ask to meet up with him in a cafe, and he accepts, unsuspecting.

“Rantaro, I’d like to break up.” You say this with grave finality and serious eyes, yet he seems to take it as a joke.

“You’re kidding, right? Though that’s not a very funny joke,” he says, and then his green eyes look into yours, see the stoicism inside. “Oh, you’re serious.” His demeanor immediately changes to one of gentle concern. “Why? Have I done something wrong? Can I fix it?” He reaches a hand out to touch your cheek, maybe to offer a friendly pat to your shoulder, but whatever it is, you smack his hand away with perhaps more force than necessary.

“Don’t touch me with those filthy hands of yours!” You’re not in the mood.

He recoils, his face full of confusion and betrayal. You could only think how ironic that the same expression had been plastered on your own face only a week ago.

“You said my hands were beautiful. What’s with the attitude change? Is that why you want to break up? You don’t want me to touch you? That’s fine, I can avoid touching you–”

You interrupt. “Cut the crap. I know you’re seeing someone else.”

He has a very controlled reaction. As expected of a guy as socially adequate and perhaps manipulative as himself.

“What do you mean? I would never. That’s a low blow right there,” he chuckles with a pained expression, putting a hand to his chest dramatically. “To think my beloved s/o would think so lowly of me,” he says.

You have absolutely no sympathy for his acts. How many times had you been tricked by those very same looks?

“I know. There’s a difference between I suspect and I know, and I know, Rantaro,” you retort sharply. “I saw it myself. Be honest, you never even cared about me, did you?”

His eyes widen in realization, and he shakes his head.

“I do care about you. Too much to use you for dirty things like that,” he replies, biting his lower lip.

You stand up to leave, and he does the same, only to have you point a finger in his face.

“Stay right there, and don’t move an inch until ten minutes have passed. We’re over. I don’t want you to act like you actually love me, or god forbid, cared enough about me to even maintain human decency and break up with me if you didn’t want this relationship.”

You turn and walk away, only seeing him sink back into his seat and put his head in his hands. You don’t know what kind of expression he’s making now, but you’re not sure you even want to know as you run from the times you spent with him, times you were now sure were all false and devoid of the love you had believed in.

Shuichi Saihara

You knocked on the door of the detective’s office.

“Shuichi? We need to talk,” you call out.

But there’s no response. You push the door open slightly, only to see him wide awake and fully absorbed in a case file, tapping the desk in concentration. You sigh, and close the door, leaving him alone again.

This continued to happen for months until you finally got sick of it. You had tried reaching out to him, being selfish and asking for time out. But you were more often than not rejected, and Shuichi rarely spent more than an hour with you at a time.

You didn’t bother knocking this time, just burst in the room, only to see him reading his case files like usual. He didn’t even look up at your noisy entrance. You close the door behind you and walk right up to the desk, rapping on the desk.

“Shuichi. I need to talk to you right now. And no, it absolutely can’t wait,” you say.

His head lifts and those amber eyes of his meet yours.

“What is it?”

You snatch the case file from his hands and put it down on the desk.

“I need your full attention.” You sit on the chair in front of the desk that his clients usually use, a wooden chair with a cushioned back and seat.

“I’m listening,” he says, looking distracted. You could take the case file away, but you couldn’t take his attention. Best make it quick, then.

“Let’s break up.”

His full attention is now directed toward you. For once, Shuichi is actually looking at you and listening to you. His tired eyes, rimmed with red from the lack of sleep, are now wide and looking into your own.

“Break up? Why?”

You sigh, looking away from his direct gaze. It was a little intense compared to his usual lack of attention.

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re a detective, you figure it out.”

But when he sits in quiet contemplation for an entire minute, you decide that neither you nor he have got that long and answer him properly.

“Shuichi, it doesn’t take a detective or a genius to figure out that you don’t even care about me,” you state dryly. “You never want to spend time with me, never pay attention to me even when we do and don’t remember important dates that we share, like birthdays or anniversaries.”

His mouth is gaping like a fish, opening, and closing like he wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say. You don’t know what he’s trying, but you plow on.

“Truthfully, you’ve never cared about me from the start, have you? Your work will always be more important to you, even if I’m suffering or there’s an important occasion for me,” your voice wobbles. Tears roll down your cheeks, unwanted and yet there, full of the pain and loneliness you had endured the past months. “If I’m sick, you can’t even take care of me. That’s why I’d like to break up.”

He pins his gaze to his cherry-wood desk, looking equally pained. For what reason, you weren’t sure.

“I… I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone like this. And for the record, I do care about you,” he replies. He sounds sincere, but you can’t be sure. What you are sure of is that you’re not willing to take another chance and risk more time wallowing in uncertainty and misery, alone. You repeat yourself, trying to give yourself some more confidence as well.

“Let’s break up.”

He wipes a stray tear from his own eye, and you feel your heart twinge. After all, feelings can’t be cut off so easily. But you’ve decided. You’re tired of being alone in a relationship.

“Okay, if that’s what’s best for you,” he says, trying to muster a smile, but unable. He grimaces. “Sorry, you should be the one crying. I’ve been causing you so much trouble.”

You smile and stand up. He does the same, and you give him one last hug, feeling the warmth of his slim body before letting go, almost reluctantly.

“Thanks, Shuichi. And you have every right to cry. It’s too bad it ended up like this, but I have had some happy times with you, and I do love you.”

You part ways with him, both of you shedding tears, but offering goodwill and wishes to each other for the future. You do love him, after all, so you spend some time crying it out. But in the end, you were as alone with him as you were without him anyway.

147 notes · View notes

dreamingofscully · 4 years

Text

Season 2 Summary - X-Files Rewatch

(Here’s a link to my Season 1 Summary, so you can see where they’ve been so far.)

THEME: IT'S PERSONAL

There are 3 distinct periods that encompass season 2: Pre-abduction, Abduction, and Post-abduction. Here are the summaries, and I'll go into detail below and provide a summary at the end.

The pre-abduction arc is more similar to season 1 but with the addition of Mulder being beaten-down and feeling like giving up and Scully trying to motivate him and keep them connected. Scully is still "innocent" here, and freely expresses her feelings for Mulder.

The abduction arc has everything to do with Mulder. (It obviously impacts Scully but that is discussed in the "post-abduction" section.) When Scully is taken, Mulder realizes that his priorities are not the same as they were before he met her. He is devastated, guilt-ridden, but cannot give up. The end of this arc is all about the episode One Breath and the roller-coaster of emotions that Mulder goes through in it. His rage and need for vengeance, his grief, and finally his delight at Scully's recovery.

The post-abduction arc is the longest, and it deals with the consequences of Scully's abduction while also returning them to semi-normality as partners on the X-Files.

Pre-Abduction Arc

Mulder is depressed about not having the X-Files, and not being partnered with Scully. He assumes that the first is more significant to him but as he finds out too late, it is the latter that bothers him more. Scully is determined to maintain their connection to one another but she also hates seeing Mulder so uncharacteristically despondent, so she also tries to build him up. I love that about her. She is somewhat successful, and they have several intimate and flirty moments up until the abduction arc (see The Host and Sleepless in particular). I fully believe that Scully would have tried to initiate a romantic relationship with Mulder at some point, if she hadn't been abducted.

___________________________

Abduction Arc

Mulder gets the X-Files back, but it doesn't matter. Scully's gone, and finding her (somehow) is his only consuming thought. You see at the beginning of "One Breath", that Mulder is absentmindedly watching porn, with Scully's case-file and the last picture of her spread out on his coffee table. He doesn't sleep, and he behaves recklessly. BUT HE DOESN'T GIVE UP HOPE. Maggie Scully gave him Scully's necklace, and he will NOT give up that quest for anything, not even when Maggie herself has given up.

When Scully is returned, Mulder's grief turns into a furious quest for vengeance. She was missing before, but now she's hurt. How DARE someone hurt Scully? Everyone tells him there is no hope that she will survive, and all he has left is his thoughts of killing those who did this to her. Melissa Scully is the tether from Mulder to Scully - she hasn't given up either, has some sort of spiritual connection and awareness of Scully that no one else does. The "Nurse Owens" character is mysterious and we aren't sure who or what she is, but she also keeps Scully from drifting away until Mulder is ready to abandon his anger and stay with her, to connect with her. Which he does, thanks to Melissa's intervention.

Mulder sits beside Scully's bedside for hours, connecting with her emotionally. "I'm not sure if being here will bring you back, but I'm here." Melissa tells him to tell Scully how he feels, so I do believe he talked to her about other things. I don't know if he'd be in the emotional space to crack any jokes, so he'd keep it serious and honest and raw. How he wishes she were here, how the X-Files don't mean anything to him since she isn't there beside him. How no one else made him feel like he was worth anything. How he's sorry he never told her the risks of investigating these things. How he would do anything to have her back. How he misses her mind - how she keeps testing him and making him work for things. I'm sure there's more, but this is where I see him being emotionally at this moment.

Once Scully regains consciousness (MULDER BROUGHT HER BACK Y'ALL), Mulder has the softest smile when he goes to see her in the hospital. He is just sososo happy. All of the previous anger and sorrow is gone. His life has meaning again. How can that not be love? He's not quite aware of it as love, though.

___________________________

Post-Abduction Arc

We've lost carefree, innocent Scully for good. RIP.

Things are personal for her now. She doesn't know what happened to her, but she is disturbed that she's lost so much time. She needs to find out, and the X-Files are the best way to do so. She knows that Mulder brought her back, that he cares for her deeply in some way, and if she hadn't just experienced something terrible I think she would have done something about this knowledge. As it is, Scully has different priorities now. She's got personal reasons to work in the basement, maybe even moreso than Mulder.

She took a long while to recover from being sick, and detested that feeling of weakness. She can sense Mulder's concern and protectiveness for her, and while she doesn't believe that he thinks less of her, she is determined that she is back to fighting form, ready to take on the world like her pre-abduction self. She wants him to be looking outwards, to their quest, rather than looking beside him, constantly concerned for her well-being.

As for Mulder, he can't help it. Feelings of guilt and relief combine within him and he is worried and protective of Scully. He doesn't believe she is incompetent - far from it. He knows that now he cannot do this without her - she is the necessary component. Even finding his sister doesn't compare to his connection with her. He gives up the person he thinks is Samantha without a second thought, because otherwise it would mean losing Scully.

We have the Mulder ditching Scully in several episodes, but most notably in End Game/Colony. He doesn't want to risk her so he goes off on particularly dangerous adventures on his own. Usually, these end with Scully having to save him, emphasizing the fact that while he wants to spare her, he needs her in order to survive these outings.

In a similar vein, Mulder is contantly concerned with making sure Scully is alright. Even when he himself is hurt or more at risk he is contantly aware of her (Firewalker/Fresh Bones/F. Emasculata for some examples). He doesn't worry so much about his own life and health but he definitely wants to make sure she is OK. He never intended for her to worm his way into his life but now that she's here and she's BACK, he can't return to the way things were "Before". Things are personal for him because its not just about his selfish quest anymore where he doesn't have to care about anyone or anything except answers, its about Scully.

The season finale ends with the "It's Personal" theme as well. "My name is in those files." Scully tasks Mulder with figuring out why but she can't stay with him (and probably regrets not doing so). They are always stronger together, no matter how much Mulder tries to keep Scully away from danger by ditching her or Scully tries to wall off her emotions. It doesn't work - she ends up needing to rescue him and they go through so much together that Scully's feelings for him deepen only further.

Conclusion

The abduction arc changes a lot of things about Mulder and Scully and their relationship. The theme "It's Personal" means that things hit a lot closer to home for the both of them. Mulder has been obsessed with his quest before now, of course, but it was always something that he could pursue without caring about the personal costs, since it was only him that was paying them. Now, he is worried about losing Scully, and can't even function if she's gone. For Scully, the work is now something she pursues to get answers about her abduction, and to hold the people responsible for it to account. The work was interesting and exciting beforehand, but it was "Mulder's quest", but all that has changed now.

In season 1, Mulder was focused outwards, consumed with the X-Files while Scully slowly wiggled her way into his heart. Scully was primarily focused on the work as well, but she was also in love with Mulder - and knew it even back then. In season 2 things have flipped. Scully is focused on getting answers, while Mulder is focused on making sure Scully is there, that she's OK - because he needs her for the quest (he tells himself), but more importantly because he loves her deeply (which he can't admit to himself quite yet).

#xfiles #x-files #x-files rewatch #x files rewatch #msr #msrheadcanon #mulder and scully #fox mulder #dana scully #season 2 #season summary

44 notes · View notes

microsuedemouse · 3 years

Text

hhhhhhhhhhhhhwoof I hate fandom/ship drama

anyway I’ve been thinking about how. there is nothing, inherently wrong,, with being interested in exploring ships (or even non-romantic/non-sexual character dynamics!) that are unhealthy in-universe.

here’s something: there is value in recognising that a ship is unhealthy or toxic or abusive or whichever other descriptor you feel fits best. (I am going to be using��‘unhealthy’ as my umbrella word in this post; obviously it’s an understatement to call an abusive relationship ‘unhealthy’ but it’s still accurate and it encompasses the variety of things I’m talking about.) there is value in taking that as fact and acknowledging such in whatever exploratory work you may choose to create or engage in.

I wanna take a second here to clarify part of what I mean: it is not inherently wrong to enjoy an unhealthy ship, and you are not required to defend a ship as healthy/‘not abusive’ in order to justify your interest in it. this is a very weird result, imo, of purity culture and virtue signalling. when you have a healthy understanding of the difference between fiction and reality, and a recognition of what’s acceptable in reality and what’s compelling in fiction, it’s actually very worth exploring what interests and engages you about Fictional Bad Things.

you know that phenomenon where people love villains? a lot of discourse around purity culture naturally leads to the conclusion: “it is wrong to like villains.” most of us are capable of recognising that this... doesn’t make sense. because obviously, we aren’t - or at least, the great majority of us aren’t - claiming that we would like and support this person in reality, or that we would be entirely comfortable with the deeds they commit if those deeds took place in reality. we’re saying that the character appeals to and compels us for some reason, within fiction. that’s a different thing - and it’s usually a sign of good writing! it’s very worth exploring that experience: what about this villain makes you like them so much? what about them makes them relatable to you, or sympathetic to you, or perhaps even cathartic to you? these kinds of questions can offer both entertainment value and, possibly, some new insights into yourself as a person. those insights might turn out to be interesting and meaningless, or they might provide you with new ways to express yourself, or they might even offer you a new avenue for growth.

(moral purity often also extends to the conclusion ‘you shouldn’t enjoy stories in which the main character suffers, because it’s wrong to enjoy someone’s pain.’ we all know this makes no sense, because that includes most stories. a major reason human beings tell stories is to share in the emotional journey of a protagonist ultimately overcoming great obstacles. but anyway, this is a whole other issue, really.)

what I’m getting at is - the same can apply to ships. there are a few approaches to unhealthy ships, and I wouldn’t go so far as to say they stand on equal moral ground, but there are a variety of ways you might be able to explore them without it making you an inherently evil person, or whatever. it’s also worth noting that while, obviously, I’m expressing here what aligns with my moral position and encouraging you to think similarly - but, I also encourage you to think critically about your own moral positions. decide what is comfortable for you, and what feels right to engage with. it’s fine and it’s normal to draw your own lines in the sand and say, this is where the range of acceptable ends for me. I won’t support or engage with what’s on the other side.

to give a quick overview of some approaches I’m not as comfortable with: sometimes you’ll find a writer/artist/other fan who likes to depict a ship as totally healthy in a way that can only be described as out-of-character. sometimes this seems to be a denial of the actuality of the ship; I don’t like that so much because it’s often a refusal to acknowledge that their canonical behaviour/dynamic is bad. other times this is depicted as a sort of AU; this doesn’t bother me quite as much personally (often depending on what the writer’s overall attitudes seem to be) but it’s also often less interesting to me. in my experience, this is usually very self-indulgent work and has a lot more to do with the writer’s own experiences than with canon itself. which is fair, honestly. sometimes that’s cathartic for the writer and that’s enough - I don’t have to be into it personally to respect it.

another thing that crops up that’s kind of worrisome, imo, is when a writer/artist/etc. depicts the ship as in-character but denies that it’s unhealthy. now, in fairness, if you’re simply reading a fic or looking at a piece of fanart or something, you cannot always tell exactly how the creator thinks the ship actually operates. not everyone is always going to include a disclaimer that says ‘hey I don’t think this is actually Good.’ so try not to immediately ascribe intent to the writer/etc. unless you’ve seen them state outright somewhere: this isn’t abuse, it’s just cute! (or whatever it is they’re seeing.) at that point it is worth being concerned about what this person thinks constitutes a healthy relationship, and if you don’t feel good about supporting their work that’s entirely fair.

HOWEVER. there are also other approaches. two in particular stand out to me that I think are worth discussing. one is simply exploring the possibilities of an unhealthy relationship, with total acknowledgement of its flaws. one unhealthy dynamic that I admittedly find really engaging a lot of the time? ‘these two characters are Very obsessed with each other, and it sure ain’t healthy psychologically, but it’s definitely mutual.’ I love that shit. gimme a couple of unhinged, incredibly codependent pieces of shit, and you have my full attention. particularly if they’re on equal footing - if they’re damaging one another, it’s reciprocal, or at very least they’re both getting exactly what they want out of the relationship. obviously this would not be a dynamic I could support in real life! that’s terrible and I don’t want anyone to go through it! but in fictional characters it can be fascinating to explore. and if the content is going to upset or trigger certain fans: that’s why we use tags and warnings. AO3, where many of us go for a huge amount of our fan content, literally has a whole system in place for precisely this purpose: so we can let each other know what’s inside, and make informed choices about what we want to consume.

the other common approach is the redemption arc. it’s always gonna be up to you which characters you consider redeemable and which ones you don’t - that’s okay. again, it’s your choice what content to engage and what to pass over. but as people we’re traditionally very fond of the redemption arc story, and as fans we love to create the redemption arcs our favourite characters don’t get to live out in canon. because we love something about the character and want to explore them further. like I said earlier, that in itself is worth giving some thought to. sometimes we’ll even end up writing partial redemptions: this character goes from totally reprehensible to kind of appealingly awful. the ship goes from abusive to a much more regular level of fucked up. that can definitely be an interesting story in itself, and it’s okay if you want to explore it.

the main thing is that you always exercise your ability to think critically about what you’re consuming and why you like it - which, honestly, you should be trying to do all of the time, anyway. be clear about what you do and don’t endorse, about what your actual values are, about where you draw the line. (as both an example and a disclaimer, since I know I still have followers from A Certain Fandom where this cropped up a lot before I mostly dipped: one line that I personally draw, and always will, is at ships involving an adult and a literal child. I am not comfortable with exploring this even in the hypothetical space of fan content. it is too objectionable to be compelling.)

go forth. explore your unhealthy ships and shitty favourite characters. experiment and learn why they compel you. write properly-labelled fanfic about them hurting each other and loving it. just remember that everyone has different boundaries, and that fiction and reality are very separate spaces. acknowledge that what you’re enjoying is not inherently right or acceptable in real life just because you enjoy it in a story, and it doesn’t have to be. if you’re a content creator, consider portraying these things in such a way that your audience is well aware of your position on the matter, in order to help them also understand what is and isn’t healthy. be a ruthless writer and a kind person, and you’ll do just fine.

#this got SO long jesus christ #anyway there's a reason I no longer go into ship tags or engage heavily with meta fandom #I like just throwing my fic over the fence and then scuttling away #long post #fandom #shipping

3 notes · View notes

wickedgamesoyaoya · 4 years

Text

Amnesia - Hearts - Aug 5

Warm rays of sunlight poured through the unmasked glass separating the living room from the balcony. Intuitively, your hand was sent to shield your features, an attempt to preserve your drowsy state. It is said that the first few seconds of each morning are sacred due to fact reality has not registered in the brain. For only a mere three seconds one could experience pure bliss. Three seconds were not even remotely enough to arm you with the courage to begin your day.

Last night, after the shock had warn off, you had spent several hours reading old entries in your diary. The decorated notebook remained open on your stomach, a reminder that unfortunately the information disclosed was not a hallucination nor a dream. The only positive was that you were able to piece together some information about your identity and past. While your memory had deserted you, a good old-fashioned diary had swept in to save the day.

Curling your right hand into a fist, you gently rubbed your index finger against your swollen eyelids. How long had you slept? It certainly did not feel very long. Your y/e/c irises were forced open to scan the glass coffee-table for the one device that could answer your question. It was six, damn am.

It was strange how you had to mimic the texting patterns of your past self – it was as if you had body swapped with a stranger and were now attempting to hide the truth. Technically if the unknown person on your cell was correct you had body swapped with an alternate version of yourself. But you were hoping the whole ordeal was fabricated. That was why you had invited Kuroo over, based on your past exchanges and the fact you were supposedly in love with him, he was perhaps the best person to aid you in determining the truth.

“Here goes nothing.” The declaration parted your bare lips, and signalled the beginning of your first quest.

***

Kuroo arrived thirty minutes later, grocery bags dangling from his wrists as he waited for permission to enter. What was he a damn vampire? Just kidding. At least you hoped. Murderers, alternate universes, would a vampire really be out of the question?

“I’ll make your favourite, sound good?” In a matter of seconds, the black-haired male was behind the kitchen counter, reaching for cooking utensils with ease. It was a clear indication that he had completed a similar task before, and as you suspected – you two were close.

“Okay. Let me know if you need any help.” Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, your gaze was cast aside, as you skimmed through the limited knowledge you had retained last night for some idea of what your favourite food was.

“Go rest, I’ve got this. Or do you not trust Omi’s protégé?” The slightest hint of a smirk had tugged at the ends of his lips, prompting your heart to complete an involuntary skip. Should he really be smiling like that?

Thankfully you knew what he was referencing – Sakusa Kiyoomi, another worker at Jack Rose, a friend most likely. He was the one who caught you when you had ‘fainted’, according to your Twitter-feed. Currently studying culinary arts, Sakusa was the germaphobe version of Chef Ramsay. Was it likely that he was the one hunting you? Most likely no. Although, he would be the most skilled with a knife…

“I trust you. Do you mind if I watch?” The hesitancy laced in your voice had earned you a puzzled glance. Pausing in the middle of slicing the fresh vegetables that decorated the marble counter-top, Kuroo’s golden irises searched yours for something he would not find – recognition.

“Is this about that tweet of yours? What feelings are you hiding?” The questions were tactful, they could also qualify as a trap.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” A cryptic response to a question with no clear answer – fair play.

“Are you in love with Atsumu?” Kuroo did not bat an eyelid, nor did his voice quiver. It was steady and each syllable had an energy that resembled a physical attack. “Is that why you are acting so weird? Are you afraid of how I’d take it?”

Instantly your fingers were pressing against the bridge of your nose, you had initially thought he found out about your – well your past self’s – feelings. But nope, the boy was seriously on the wrong wavelength.

“Oh god. No. I’m not in love with him.” Groaning, a hand was brought to mask your features. Strange how his presence shifted something within you – the more you were around him, the more you felt like…you. Although this conversation was less than ideal, it was incredibly normal.

Denial of his accusation should have provided him relief, and yet the absence of satisfaction mocked him. Laying the knife onto the counter, he leaned forward, exhaling a breath through his nose.

“So then why do you look at me like I’m a stranger?” Without being an empath, one could easily spot the pain clouding him. He was unfortunately an innocent causality to the game you were forced to participate in. Knowing that the fault was not yours did not ease the guilt consuming you. Could you tell him…? Disobey the warnings that were bestowed upon you?

Before your mind could reach a deliberation, your hand had already fetched the device that could answer the question that remained unanswered. Kuroo’s gaze followed your movements, before exiting the kitchen he ran his hands under a stream of water, then plucked the phone that was held loosely in your grasp.

“Is someone bothering you? I won’t check unless you want me to, but I need to know what’s going on with you.”

You could trust him – at least that was what you chanted inside of your head as a weak nod was provided. Maybe this ‘unknown’ person was a prankster, albeit it still would not explain the loss of memories, but it would be nice to know there wasn’t someone out for your blood.

The manner his eyebrows twitched demonstrated his own distress upon reading the messages. Upon reading the first message the one that disclosed your current mental state, his attention shot up to you, seeking affirmation that his eyes did not deceive him. The silence that awaited him had confirmed his fears. Then came the rage –

“This person messaged you yesterday. Looking at the timestamp it was around the time you woke up…” Wheels were turning in the brilliant mind of his, a solution to the “problem” was brewing. “Y/n, we need to get you to the hospital. Your memory loss isn’t connected to this… sick joke.”

Each inch of your heart wished you could believe him, but could you really take the chance? Dying was not an option.

“What if you’re wrong?” A sob had formed in the back of your throat, causing the words to become muffled.

“Hey hey. We’ll figure this out,” Soon your cheeks were bathing in the comfort of his palms, a gesture that elevated the slightest bit of tension from your chest. The confidence in his voice was compelling you to place your trust into him. “I have a friend who can trace this person’s IP address, I’m going to send it to him and then Atsumu and I will go check it out. Once we show you that this is just some prick living in his mom’s basement, we go to the hospital. Okay?”

Was there really any other option than to obey?

“Okay.”

As his arms encompassed around your middle, enveloping you into the safety of his embrace, for a single moment, you believed him.

* * *

Kuroo’s contact had delivered an addressed after sunset. Despite your suggestion to wait until tomorrow, your childhood best friend was adamant on addressing this situation tonight. Atsumu did not help. Upon hearing the contents of the message, the blonde male was in panic mode. The possibility of losing you was far too much to bear. Truthfully, his persistence to go tonight arose from his desire to avoid what really terrified him – your memory loss.

A single kiss was pressed to the crown of your head before the pair had left you in what they considered a ‘safe-zone’. No one would attack you in your own home… Right?

Anxiety surged throughout your bloodstream, prompting your fingers to curl towards your palm. The sound of rhythmic clicking drew your attention to the balcony glass. Pebbles collided with the thin barrier followed by a larger piece, resulting in a thin crack to spread. Scrambling to your feet, adrenaline had triggered your autopilot to take reign. Retreating to the kitchen, you seized the largest knife in your collection then crouched under the counter. The murderer was already outside, leaving now would only expose you further.

As the sound of clicking ceased, your heartrate increased to new levels. How long would it be until the banging would be redirected to the front door?

Seconds. It was seconds.

But the knocking was accompanied by a familiar voice.

“Y/N? Open up!”

“Bro just use your spare key; I know you have one.”

Liquid spilled gracefully down your cheeks as the two figures burst through the front door – you were saved, at least for now. Soon you were no longer on the kitchen floor, and the knife was removed from your grasp. The one carrying you to the couch whispered assurances to sooth you, not that it helped.

It was real. Everything you were told – it was all true.

Amnesia - Hearts ~ Aug 5

Masterlist - Previous - Next

A/N: I really liked how this turned out. >.<

Tag-list: @kara-grayson04 @namyari , @cuddlesslut , @iloveanime691 @shakiraisawesome @idiot-juice-enthusiast@fangirling-25-8 @krynnza @yetchann @chxrry-wxne @tsukiak4ri

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smau #haikyuu #haikyuu fanfiction #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo x y/n #kuroo tetsuro imagine #kuroo x you

9 notes · View notes

imagine-loki · 4 years

Text

Return

TITLE: Return CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Three AUTHOR: theterrifyingtermite ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine that, at the end of Endgame, Loki comes back. Only one problem: this isn’t your Loki…

RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: So my fingers and brain disconnected. The Ring™ was Frigga’s, so naturally homeboy was a bit unhappy to see it on some mortal’s hand.

Chapter Three:

It was only after days had begun to slip away that she realized the surge of power she had felt, and what had repelled Loki from her mind was her child.

It was only later that she realized Loki had inadvertently awoken something in the baby, and that she was powerless to do anything to contain it.

She found herself at times losing energy in mass amounts; leaving her to drop where she was, curl on the floor, and half faint, half sleep until the child stopped drawing from her reserves.

Originally, it had happened only every few days.

And then, it wasn’t the only thing occurring. She was still cold; colder than she thought possible. Eventually, she recognized she was slowly freezing from the inside out.

Baby is half Frost Giant, her mind reasoned within her.

And then, there were days she was lethargic – if it were even the right word. It took too much effort to even sit herself up in bed or drag herself out to find something to eat. Then she would sit and sit or sleep and sleep and wish it were over. Eventually it would pass, but it was becoming too much.

Now the effects were getting stronger.

She was getting weaker.

But she couldn’t blame the baby.

She wouldn’t.

So, she began searching. Starting with the Avengers had been logical. There was more information than in years past about them out in the public. The list of Blipped heroes had been published years ago as a memorial.

It hadn’t taken her long to realize there was an actual wizard mentioned, and that if Blipped, he had to have come back.

The Internet had only grown in intelligence over her lost, five years. While she was determined to find an answer, and find him somehow, it was difficult when her days were interspersed with blackouts or the inability to function.

What might have taken a mere day took nearly two weeks.

She made up a story about switching doctors when called about a missed appointment, laughing off their concern.

What she didn’t tell them was that she was too scared to go in; too scared to think about what they might do if they ever found out.

Besides, she had her answer…at least, she hoped she did.

Five months down.

Five to go – if they both made it that long.

___

The second time that he had come, she was no more prepared than she had been the first time.

He had sworn when he had appeared before her in the kitchen, immediately leaning back on his heels, defensive at what she held.

Well, perhaps she was a little more prepared.

When the Tesseract had pushed him out next to her, her back had immediately pressed against the counter, and she had instinctively pointed her chef’s knife at him, gripping it tightly with both hands.

They stared at each other, until she slowly lowered the weapon and his posture relaxed.

Minimally.

But not enough to comfort her.

“What are you doing here again?” she faltered, feeling the spark; the ever-so-small flicker of hope.

If he noticed it in her tone, he ignored it – lifting his chin and glaring down at her until she felt herself shrinking; decimated – falling through the floor, surely. Her gaze dropped to the tile.

“What happened to Asgard?”

She merely blinked, face falling into confusion as she looked back up. “What?”

His hands tightened into fists, raw energy crackling around them. “Asgard is gone. The entire planet. Everyone on it. My moth-” His voice broke then, face twisting in pain.

Shaking her head, even as he began to creep towards her, the power in the room surging, she tried.

“I don’t know exactly. Something happened. But they’re here-“ she broke off, moving down the length of the counter, holding out her hands as he reached for her. “Wait,” she begged. “They’re on Earth. They built a place called New Asgard; it was mentioned on the news. You could go there and ask Thor-“

She shrieked then, as she walked backwards into a very solid, very much behind her body. The Loki in front of her flickered out of existence as she was harshly spun around by the flesh and bone version of the god, hands grabbing at her shoulders.

“Do not ever mention that name to me again,” was ground out.

His face was full of rage. She could see it; she could feel it.

She could also feel her child lashing out.

And then Loki flinched abruptly, swiftly removing his grip on her and taking a step back.

She knew the moment he understood when his glare settled on her stomach.

He made no effort to reach for her again.

“I hardly believed you the last time,” finally came from him, the words biting in accusation.

Her arms folded over the child defensively, even as she felt her ability to stay standing slip away from her. Sliding down the cabinets to the floor, she felt all the fear flood out of her.

He would never stoop as low to hurt a child.

He knew all too well what that was like.

“Nothing ever happened before you came,” she eventually offered, wondering if he would –

– But no, of course not.

Even as she spoke, he turned away from her and summoned the Tesseract.

He was gone before she could take another breath, but…

Had he looked back, just then, in that last glimmer of light?

___

Her heart was racing; the door in front of her seemingly loomed in an eerie, archaic lord sort of manner. Fear of what may happen had consumed her over the past two weeks. Feeling herself slip further and further away and out of touch with her body was terrifying.

Whatever he had done when he had tried to accost her, Loki had somehow granted or unlocked magic in her growing baby. She was doing what was necessary.

She had no other choice.

Counting to ten slowly; forcing herself to even out her breathing, and silently begging the baby to behave, for once, please – she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

She waited.

As soon as she readying to knock a second time, a muffled “Coming!” was shouted from a distance, and footsteps nearing the door followed closely behind.

A lock was turned – she could have sworn her heart had stopped – and then the door opened, and one Dr. Christine Palmer was smiling into the hallway.

That smile faded when she met the bedraggled expression of the woman on the other side. Christine looked her up and down twice, before hesitantly asking if she had the right place.

“You’re Doctor Palmer, right?” she whispered, feeling the baby shift, No, not now, and bracing for the spiral soon to follow.

“Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?” The question was not said unkindly, but the doctor’s posture had stiffened, and her grip on the door shifted.

She nodded. “You can. I hope. I need to speak with Stephen Strange.”

Christina was already shaking her head before she had finished his name. “I’m sorry, but you have the wrong person,” and then the door was closing.

A gasped, “Wait, please! I’m pregnant,” and she reached forward; for the wall, or for Christine; for anything to keep her upright as she felt power drawn towards her womb.

At the strangled sound and sputtered words that escaped Christine, she shook her head, leaning heavily against the wall. “No! Not his. I’m sorry; not his – but the baby’s magical, and I can’t do anything, and I think I’m dying,” she ended with a sob as the child viscerally reacted, and her body began to slip.

“I know you knew him. He looks like the wizard that was Blipped. Oh, god – if you have any way of reaching him, please – just, please,” and then she was rambling; she was trying to explain it all at once, and was anything coming out straight?

Vaguely, she was aware of Christine’s hands coming under her arms, and the other woman practically dragging her into the apartment.

Vaguely, she was aware that she was being tipped over onto a couch, and that she was so very cold.

There was a shouted command in the background, and then there was nothing.

___

The stereotype was that things happened on a ‘dark and stormy night.’

Perhaps, more truthfully, things happened when one’s life was encompassed by that of a Norse god.

Particularly when said Norse god came to visit unscheduled and unhappily, bringing the proverbial storm cloud.

To put it simply, Loki was on edge.

She could tell the moment he arrived.

To put it more directly, as she knew him well enough, he was simmering with some untold fury. His tone was clipped; his answers to her in such a manner that she knew he was holding something back for her sake.

He would never take his anger out on her; she knew that.

In a future time, she remembered that fact keenly.

In the time she missed, he was brooding on her couch, staring out the window. It was raining.

Yet it was not even the soothing rhythm of a summer shower. It was a loud, outrageous thunderstorm.

On top of whatever was already bothering him, the very distinct reference to his estranged brother had only made him close off more.

With an inward understand of Oh well, she shifted closer to the sullen god, ignoring the anger rolling off him, and curled up against his shoulder. Wrapping a hand around his arm, she murmured her love, and then was silent.

Lightning sparked.

Loki growled.

It was some ancient tongue, for it sounded nothing like it did on earth. Yet as he spoke, her window vanished, and an eerie silence fell over the little house.

Gasping at the sudden disappearance and stillness, she found reality floundering in her grasp for a moment.

A quiet curse, and then a clipped promise to fix it later.

He made to pull away from her; to rise and find himself a spot of seclusion, no doubt.

She held fast, tugging him back into his seat, asking him to talk; to let her help.

A turned head.

A hand over his heart.

Please.

A heartbeat.

Another.

Then a hand covering her own; fingers tucked securely around her own.

It had been two men.

Having disguised himself in another form, leaving the servants to think Odin was meditating and Not to be disturbed, do you remember what happened the last time? Loki had taken it upon himself to skulk about the palace, listening in on conversation; taking notes on what people were saying.

Her suggestion, not that he would ever admit to it.

At one point, when he stepped in to help two soldiers in the armory, they had gotten into a conversation.

Comparing Loki to Thor.

As everyone always did.

Laughing that he had met his end.

As everyone had apparently wanted.

Waving off the servant who had offered to help when he quickly remembered something else for which he was needed.

As he left, Loki heard one mention something about ‘cheap tricks,’ earning a joke in response; laughter following him as he fled back to the throne room, and the power of his concealed identity.

Even though she tried to insist they were wrong, obviously, and he was important, he was valuable, no, he wasn’t Thor, but who else would want to be; please, he was a very talented man-

But what would she know? She had never seen anything, was the haughty retort, the imperial mask falling back into place.

A grin came, and a challenge to show her – along with a poke at his cheek.

It was hard for one to remain regal when the other one continued booping his face.

Finally, he agreed to give her a personal demonstration; had whisked them both away to a more open, more dry space.

Though he had sighed, and postured briefly, she couldn’t help but notice the lines on his face soften.

#Loki #Lover #Angst #Father #Others #Submitted fic #submission #theterrifyingtermite #chapter 3 #return

50 notes · View notes