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wri0thesley · 4 years

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Forever- Vampire!Lisa Lisa x Fem!Reader (Kinktober Day #16: Biting)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader. Fem pronouns. Vampire Lisa Lisa, biting, blood, possible dub-con/hypnosis (your mileage may vary depending on how you read it - i think of this all as entirely consensual).

You are in search of the Lady of the Island.

The man steering the boat had not wanted to take you out to Air Supplena Island. He had been most insistent of the fact that the moment your feet touched solid ground on the island, he would be turning back - his mouth had set in a grim line, his eyes shadowed.

“I ain’t gonna be responsible for her findin’ me trespassing on her land,” he’d said. “N’ if you ask me, you’re a damn fool to be goin’ no matter what.”

You had still tipped him, of course. He had been the only man with a boat who’d been willing to even make the trip, as little time as he would spend on Air Supplena Island’s shore notwithstanding. You had sat in his boat with your hands folded in your lap and your posture ramrod-straight, anxiety gnawing through to your bones; but you would not rest. You would not turn back. You had followed the legends and the whispers of who the lady of the island was for too long and tried too hard to waste all of your hard work because your fear held you back at the last moment.

You step off his boat and onto the island proper with your purse significantly lighter and evening filtering out the last vestiges of the day’s sunlight. You turn to thank the man who brought you here, feeling unsteady and afraid - to see that he has turned around with a second glance at you.

He thinks you are mad, and perhaps you are.

You are slow as you approach the buildings themselves, aware that night is falling all around you. All of this, from one brief encounter in a warm speakeasy and a beautiful woman at your side?

She had kissed you, once, and you had tasted danger on her lips and felt it when her hands had caressed the shape of you in your ugly dress. The entirety of the world had seemed to stop - everything had become unimportant to you, except her lips and the way her eyes seemed to shift ruby tones in the low candlelight. You had been dragged here by the young lady you had been hired to be the ladies companion of; whilst her parents had clearly thought you’d be a good influence on her, they had also not reckoned on the wild streak in her nature.

So you had been dragged along to all kinds of seedy underground places she should not have known about. You had always stayed in the background, watched, tried to make sure she did not get into too much trouble, waiting to intervene just in case she overstepped that small boundary. But it had been in a smoky underground cavern in Paris (“The fashion capital of the world!” Your charge and companion had told you. “You simply must wear something more fetching than that old thing.” You had not acquiesced.) that had changed you forever.

“Come find me,” she’d breathed against your neck, and you had felt something sharp scratch briefly across the join where your neck and shoulder met. “You could be so much more than this. I’ll show you.”

And she had gone, and you had not been able to shake her lips from your mind for months.

Your companion had noticed but thought it prudent not to say anything; even in the free-spirited nineteen thirties, she was not quite ready to accept that she had seen your eyes glaze and your mouth part for another woman. But she had noticed your distraction; that you were less hard on her for going against her parent’s wishes, that you were wistful and maudlin and daydreaming about the night - eventually, she had taken pity on you and come to you to relieve you of your service with an early pay packet of far more than you’d expected.

“I went back,” she said, off-handedly, though her shoulders were tense. “To that seedy little place in Paris. They told me her name was Lisa Lisa - the lady of yours. They called her the Lady of the Island, though I don’t know which one. She’s Italian, apparently - or she makes her home there, now. Don’t ask me anything else. I don’t know it.”

You’d looked at her, slowly, some of your lethargy fading away as you’d felt a hum beneath your skin of promise.

“Thank you,” you’d said - and you’d left the next day for Italy.

It had not been easy. Though your purse was heavy with your payment for a year spent travelling Europe, you were aware that you were plain and simple and prime victim material for shoplifters and men of opportunity. You had stayed in lodgings that were out of the way, perhaps shoddier than what you could and should have afforded, giving them all the same story; you were in search of an older brother who had ran away and had last been seen in the company of a lady that he called the ‘Lady of the Island’.

You did not get your first bite until you had found yourself in Venice, in a small art shop by a canal. The piece itself was of an island, all gothic cathedral imagery and towering columns; you’d been looking at it, and the proprietor and artist had come to stand beside you.

“That’s Air Supplena Island,” he had said to you, obviously able to tell that you were not a local. “They say that the Lady of the Island lives there and slaughters anyone who comes close.” He had shrugged broad shoulders. “I don’t believe it myself, but people will cling to their stories, won’t they?”

You’d beseeched him to tell you more, trotting out that tired old story - that you had become tired of telling, as weeks had grown into months - and his nose had wrinkled, brows drawn down.

“Oh, the Lady of the Island isn’t interested in men,” he’d said, and the stress he’d put on the last word had convinced you that you were on the right track. You had done your best to tamp down enthusiasm as you’d asked and probed about Air Supplena Island - and as you left, you hid your smile behind your hand as you’d bid the man a good night.

You had wanted to employ somebody to take you to the Island as soon as you could, but you had done your best to be sensible. You asked around a little more, probing for information about this Lady - having your suspicions of her legend confirmed.

“They say that she bathes in the blood of virgins,” one older woman had told you. “They say that she will drink a man dry if he so much as breathes in her presence,” - another. “They say that the buildings on her land are made of bones and teeth.”

They confirm what you had thought; that the woman you met in the smoky jazz and the press of bodies is something more than human. The idea should fill you with fear. You should have gotten as far away from Italy as you could; instead, the thought of her inhumanity sets heat aflame between your thighs and makes your heart hammer in your chest.

If she kills you, you think, you will die happy. At least you won’t dream about her any more - the silky sweep of her hair, the curve of her lips, pinpricks sliding into the soft flesh of your thighs. Your shoes sound very loud on the stone, as shadows begin to claim the island entirely. You continue to walk.

You imagine you hear whispers, rustling, the sound of shadows converging and waiting to be told to jump upon you and consume you entirely - still, you walk. And when the foreboding wooden doors that you think give entrance to the vast majority of the building that dominates Air Supplena Island open as if by unseen forces, you do not question yourself - you walk forward, into the entrance hall.

“I thought you’d come.”

The voice is amused. It is low, and deep - shivering with suggestion in every syllable. You recognise it as the same voice that has haunted your dreams since the first time you heard it. You stop where you are, transfixed as she seems to melt from the shadows, just as beautiful and statuesque as you remember. Her skin seems to shimmer like mother of pearl in the moonlight; her lips are redder than blood, her eyes dark and beautiful. She looks at you and smiles, and you see the faintest flash of sharp eye teeth - and immediately, a rush of confusing feelings tumblr all around inside you.

She’s beautiful. She’s terrifying. You know the rumours are true, from her easy stance and her elegance and how she looks at you like a cat stalking a canary - but you cannot find it in yourself to be afraid. Instead, you feel your thighs slick with desire and your body ache to be touched. If she wished to bathe in your blood . . . you think you would open your veins for her. All she need do is ask.

She steps towards you like a leopard hunting her prey, though you have no intention of running anywhere. Her hips move seductively with each step, her eyes not moving from you for a moment - you take in a deep, shuddering breath as she gets closer and closer to you, waiting for her to pounce. You imagine you’ll see your own neck snap as if from very far away - you wonder if the man who brought you here on his boat is even now laughing at your terrible fate.

“Oh,” she breathes, as she gets closer. “Look at you. You found me all on your own, hmm? I knew that you’d be a perfect choice.”

“Are you going to kill me?” You ask her, softly. She stops in front of you, raising a hand to your face - her thumb ghosts your cheekbone, traces the lines of your lips, and all you can do is let her. Everywhere she touches you feel trails of fire spring up in her wake, your body singing in a way that you don’t think it ever has.

“If I were going to do that, dear heart,” she whispers, “you would have been dead before you step foot on my island.”

You swallow as she tips your face upwards, studying you in the pale moonlight. You wonder if you’re pleasing to her - the thought makes you feel curiously hot and bothered. You have never put much stock in your appearance, but if it has helped to win her attentions . . . surely you cannot be that unfortunate to look upon?

She laughs as if she can read your mind.

“You’re extremely pleasing,” she says - and then, she kisses you.

Lisa Lisa - she gives you her name like a secret, and you whisper it against the cool marble of her collarbone, marvelling at how it rolls around in your mouth - has you in her chambers in what feels like moments, though you know it must be longer. Her fingers dance over your skin, working open the buttons and hooks of your plain dress - when it falls from your body, you want to pull yourself in and shy away, but she is above you on the bed and she sighs against you, her breath cool.

“Look at you, little flower,” she murmurs. “You’re beautiful. Ripe for the plucking.”

Her nails scratch sharp across your sides as she caresses the curve and dip of your hips and waist. Her hands take hold of your breasts, testing their warmth and weight, squeezing them so that your back arches and a soft noise of surprise escapes you. She bends her head and the sheet of her hair falls across your skin, a silky sweep that has goosebumps rising along your newly bared flesh.

Her mouth fastens about one nipple, her tongue teasing the nubs to hardness. You have only ever touched yourself under sacrosanct cover of darkness, chaste and afraid - but Lisa Lisa is not at all shamed by how she enjoys your body. She holds you as if it’s perfectly natural to do so, and though you feel exposed, you also feel . . . beautiful. Like something precious to be held against her and kissed and stroked.

“You’ll do beautifully,” she whispers, moving her mouth from your breast to kiss up your collarbones, to trace the fluttering pulse point in your neck. She traces your jawline with her lips, up to your ear - you gasp as she nips at your earlobe. “Oh, you were wasted anywhere but by my side.”

“What will you do to me?” You ask her, breathlessly, as she rears up onto her knees and reaches to tug off her own clothes. You are transfixed by her figure, slowly revealed to you beneath the fine fabrics she’s wearing. She’s like a Greek statue - marble, untouchable, unmarked. Only . . . she takes your hands, brings them to her hips, lets you feel how smooth and cool and soft she is.

“Nothing you won’t like,” she says - and as she dives back down to kiss you again with the hunger of someone who’s been starved for a week, you do not doubt her.

As she kisses you, nipping with her blunt front teeth at your lower lip, her hands urge your thighs apart. You feel ashamed to spread them - especially as you hear the wet sounds of them parting - but she breaks the kiss to inhale deeply.

“I forget, that mortals are so warm,” she says, as one of her hands slides up your inner thigh, nails teasing at the sensitive skin. “You’re boiling to the touch, my darling. You’re hot and warm and soaking wet - did you know?” The last words are conversational, her middle finger swiping through your damp slit, briefly parting your labia lips as your hips arch and a whimper falls unbidden from your lips.

“I haven’t done this before . . .” You say, your cheeks uncomfortably warm - and Lisa Lisa laughs, a rich, deep noise that feels like black silk running down your spine.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she tells you. “I’ve done this many times - and you’ll have plenty of time to learn it too. For now . . . relax, dearest. Lay back on the bed. Let me take care of you.”

There’s a sharp edge to the words; even as you let yourself relax into the soft coverlets beneath you, you feel like she is asking for permission for more than she lets on. Still - you cannot think, at this moment, what you would deny her. Not as she spreads your thighs even wider, those same nails scratching at your skin so your spine prickles, her fingertips leaving blazing trails despite how cool they feel against you.

She makes sweet, soft noises - like placating a baby animal - as your thighs jump as she parts the lips of your sex, exposing those slickened folds to the chill of the air.

“Look at you,” she says, enthralled. “Oh, I have picked beautifully--”

You do not know what she means, when she speaks of choosing you. But her fingers are stroking your folds, now - teasing at your clit and your entrance, making your entire body sing, and you cannot concentrate on anything but how that feels and the way that the fabric beneath your fingers bunches up as you fist hands into sheets.

You are sensitive. Your body reacts with shivers and shudders; little electrical currents going straight from the place between your legs to every other part of you, sending signals of white-hot pleasure to your brain. As she slides one elegant finger inside you and your sex clamps tightly about her, she laughs a noise of soft amusement.

“We’ll train you to take more, my dear,” she says, and she pumps the lone finger in and out of you, rubbing against sensitive patches inside of you that have your hips wriggling. You’re aware that you are making little noises - whimpering and moaning, gasping out noises intended to be words. Her lips are a dark red curve in the white of her face. Her thumb swipes across your clit, rolling the bud beneath the pad, toying with the swollen little bundle until you whine.

“You’ll take another,” she says, softly, and you nod - a sob bubbles in your throat at the brief stretch of two, scissoring you open and wider for her - but it quickly devolves into a groan as your hips cant forwards towards her, urging her to be more thorough in how she’s thrusting the fingers and and out of you. She makes a little chastising noise, clicking her tongue - but you can hear the pleasure in her tone as she murmurs. “Now, now. One thing at a time.”

It’s good. It’s so good. The way her thumb grinds against your clit, the way that her fingers rub against those sweet spots inside of you, the feeling of fullness and the sweep of her hair and the knowledge of who it is and what she is that’s making you feel like this . . . Your body seems to seize up, teetering on the edge of something - and, abruptly, fingers are pulled out of you and the pressure on your clit ceases. You whimper out a noise of confusion and distress; that you were so close to something wonderful, and had it torn away--

“One more thing, before I let you come,” Lisa Lisa says, her lips that perfect red curve again. “Creatures like me do not do things for free, you see.”

“I’ll do it,” you say, feverishly - her index finger lazily strokes your folds, toying with your clit in a way that makes you shudder and your head feel cloudy and strange. “Wh-whatever it is . . .”

Lisa Lisa leans down, kissing the mound of your sex. Your back arches as her tongue flicks out, briefly darting to taste you. She makes a noise of sheer pleasure at the wetness on her tongue that intensifies the ache inside of you and makes you feel as if a curtain is descending all over your judgement. Slowly, she laps at you again - her tongue rolling your clit luxuriously, slow rocks of pleasure overwhelming you.

“You’d agree before hearing my terms?” She says, though she does not sound at all surprised - if anything, her tone is pleased. “You’d trust me so completely, even knowing what I am?”

She does not tell you what she is. She hasn’t - you have known since far before you stepped foot onto her island, and perhaps even before you’d made it to Italy. She knows that you know.

“You can have my blood,” you tell her, wildly, without thinking. “Just, please--”

She pulls back again. Her body moves over you like a cat once more, so that her face is close to yours and her cool breath brushes your cheek. Her breasts press against your own, one marble-smooth thigh between your own legs.

“I want more than blood from you,” she says. “I want you to stay with me, here. Forever.” Her hands trace your hips, cold as she grasps you. “You deserve more than a boring little life and a boring little husband. I can make you a Goddess, my darling. I can make you feared and loved and reviled; I can make you like me. I can give you a life by my side.” She lowers her mouth, pressing her lips to your cheek. Your entire body feels like stone.

“You already knew what I wanted from you, didn’t you, my clever girl?” Hands sliding over your thighs, her body moving. Your legs spread wider, urging her hand and her fingers back between them. She laughs, like a bell tolling. “You’ve known since you walked into my home.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes. To all of it.”

(You have known, this whole time - since those first words and the promise you were made for better things than this. It had taken her touching you and feeling you and driving you to the brink of release to see it clearly, but now you can - you can see you by her side for eternity.)

“My good girl,” she breathes - and, as her fingers dive inside you again, three pressing against the walls of your sex and clenching around her, her thumb grinds back into your clit. Her fangs slide into your throat.

Both of them feel like fireworks in entirely different ways - low between your thighs, like a man diving into the sea, your body all flaming hot wetness as a tidal wave of heat and need crash over you. In your throat, an explosion of colours and sounds as your head is tipped back and you feel the wetness and heat of your own blood cascade down your body. The rhythmic sucking of Lisa Lisa’s lips against you coupled with the rhythmic way she rocks her fingers into you.

You let your eyes close, the sensations wash over you. It’s the first of many, she said. The first day of the rest of your life.

The two of you have an eternity now, after all.

#writing #kinktober collection #lisa lisa #not sfw #afab reader #fem pronouns #jjba #blood for ts #vampires #biting #dub con for ts #hypnosis for ts

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octalove · 4 years

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VII: By Invitation Only

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader and Jason go undercover in a Mafia den. Part one, two, three, four, five, and six.

My mind buzzed with the sights and sounds of Little Italy. Boots scuffing sidewalk, and the persistent hum of the moving parts within the heart of the city. Quiet, serious conversations mumbled low between men of business, and enthused gossip among thick-accented women at every café and park. The ever-present stream of conversation in the townhouses and shops was exciting. I fell in seamlessly to the strange mix of wealth among poverty, the stringent immigrant culture surpassing both.

The mission itself was straightforward- the kind of business I actually didn’t expect the Red Hood to bother with himself. He got some info from one of his contacts, Giuseppe Bianchi, whose job was to, according to Jason, “sing like a fuckin’ canary”. Bianchi informed him a week ago that one Adriano Cliffs was trying to strike a deal between two mafia families under Red Hood’s control. It was in the realm of real estate; ‘property’ investments that were actually investments into the nefarious affairs that would be taking place on said properties. According to Bianchi, moving chemicals. Red Hood didn’t care about chemicals; it was part of drug trade or domestic biowarfare or what have you, but it was the principle of them moving under his nose. Trying to grub up some deals he wasn’t a part of.

“With the mafia,” He said. “You give ‘em an inch, they take the whole fuckin’ county.” Thus, our job was to go to a dinner party, unassuming guests, and try to figure out who else was involved, so Red Hood could later pay them a visit.

I didn’t ask if he’d kill them.

I had the invitations in my clutch; beautiful little parchment cards with gold lettering. Thank you, Bianchi. There was a stark contrast between going on a mission in my Batgirl suit, and going on one in a green silk dress. I had no trouble dressing the part of the socialite- and apparently Jason didn’t either. He wore a red satin dress shirt, unbuttoned to feature a plunging neckline, paired with a black blazer that had an asymmetric stand collar. Frankly, I was impressed. It looked better than the suits Bruce used to put him in.

The location of the party was a quaint little townhouse nestled in upper Luskan Square. The building was all cream paint and red brick, with pretty green vines cascading from window planters. I could hear music from inside; raspy strings and jaunty horns in a dixieland, swinging tempo.

The two mafia families were Pellegrino and D’amici; two bloodlines that were previously in a feud so contentious that 1/4 of Gotham City Morgue was full of its casualties at any given time. All that until around four months ago when Kane Pellegrino married Penelope D’amici like something straight out of Romeo and Juliet, but with more guns, cocaine and happy endings.

Jason leaned over to me as we approached, whispering lowly in my ear, “The matriarch- Olivier D’amici- she’s a touch odd. Paranoid. Just keep her busy durin’ the party, and I’ll do the rest. Cliffs should be here, too.” I nodded, and flashed a blue-ribbon smile at the doorman.

“Invitations?” He asked. I gave him the cards, and after a brief inspection, he nodded. We entered the foyer, welcomed by the smell of warm food and laughter. The living room was lit by an elegant and tasteful chandelier. It had a more antique and eclectic charm than the manor’s modern refine. Able to attract less attention if we split up, Jason vanished into dining room while I stayed in the living area, mumbling the occasional polite “excuse me” as I tried to make it seem as though I were a frequent guest of mafia dens. I looked around for a woman matching Olivier D’amici’s description- old, blonde, haggish. I silently kicked myself for not asking Jason to be more specific, because as it turns out, old, blonde and haggish was the memo for tonight’s event.

“Oof-“ I smacked right into what felt like a brick wall in a Versace suit. At least, I was right about the suit. I looked up to see a man of about forty peering down at me. His hair was a rusted gold, and he sported magnificently manicured facial hair- it made him appear very leonine.

“My apologies, dear.”

“Oh, it was my fault. I should be the one apologizing.” I said, suddenly nervous with the idea of being roped into a conversation. I was a fighter, not a liar. He chuckled, took a drink of his undisturbed wine.

“That’s sweet of you. It’s refreshing to find someone around here that isn’t too stubborn for their own good.” He said. “You aren’t from one of the families, are you? I don’t know that I’ve seen you around before.”

“I’m a friend of Penelope’s.” I quickly supplied the lie. Something like surprise flashed in his blue eyes, before his face steeled back agreeably.

“I see.”

“I was actually just looking for her. You wouldn’t happen to know where...?” I trailed off as he nodded his head, gesturing to the opposite corner, where a beautiful olive-skinned brunette appeared to be object of adoration in a small circle of people. I’d never actually seen her before- anyone who entered to living room would’ve notice her immediately.

“Oh!” I laughed. “I don’t know how I missed her! Please, excuse me.”

I took my time inching through the crowd, stalling. But the man didn’t take his gaze off of me until I reached Penelope D’amici, and her pool of admirers. Damn. He was going to keep watching until I talked to her. It would be utterly obvious it was an introduction and not an anticipated reunion. I took a deep breath and dug in my heels.

If you’re going to lie, I could hear Bruce’s voice in my mind. Dedicate yourself to it.

“Penelope!” I called. She turned, planting her stunning, doey brown eyes on me. I pressed a couple friendly kisses to her cheeks.

“Hello!” She said, clearly inured in the art of greeting. I stole a glance to the man, who had moved along just as Penelope gave me a politely curious look.

“Have we- um,” She looked so apologetic, I almost felt bad.

“Louise Casteñes?” I said encouragingly, giving her my fake name. “We met at the wedding.” Penelope’s face went a shade of pink, and she gave me a bashful laugh.

“Oh- the wedding was quite the evening, I’m really sorry if I forgot. You must think I’m so rude.”

“Oh, it was months ago, no need to feel bad.” I offered.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Cliffs. Are you two familiar?” I blinked. Adriano Cliffs. The man trying to sabotage Red Hood- and now was suspicious of me within fifteen minutes of the party. Good fucking going.

“Not really, I just accidentally ran into him. I’m lucky he didn’t spill his wine.” I replied. Penelope laughed, the sound like wind chimes.

“If you asked my grandmother,“ She said. “She’d say he’d deserve it.”

“Olivier, right? Your grandmother?” Penelope nodded.

“Did you meet her at the wedding as well?”

“I didn’t get the chance, I’m afraid.”

Her face lit up and she looped her arm in mine. Together we waltzed through the bodies and expensive antique furniture into the dining room. Jason was nowhere to be seen; he must have begun his hunt for information.

“Oh, you have to meet her! She’s the host.” Once away from the crowd, she leaned close in cospiracy, and added. “And I need an excuse to get away from those people. Looks like you’re my savior tonight.” She winked, and I laughed as she pulled me into a small, secluded reading room.

Olivier D’amici was- well- old, blonde, and haggish. She had pale skin like worn leather and powdery makeup, but her fashionable ensemble of emerald green silk and sapphire jewelry was stylish and unconventionally attractive. She was like a peacock personified. She was indeed a touch odd, and more than a touch paranoid- though not of me. After thirty minutes cradled in scandalous conversation about everything from the horderves to Kane Pellegrino’s bedroom habits, I learned that Olivier stuck her poignantly upturned nose away from the likes of Adriano Cliffs and his slimy business deals. She made no mention of Red Hood, but complained in great detail that real estate competition between the Pellegrinos and D’amicis was a problem solved by the marriage and that was that. Cliffs had been pestering her for months, but she wouldn’t sign a thing. When thirty minutes turned into an hour, I finally caught Jason’s face amidst the party. I hadn’t expected the following relief that washed over me as I excused myself.

We reconvened, settling on a chaise in the lounge.

“I got everything I need.” He said simply, with no further indulgence as to what he’d been up to for the past two and a half hours. I lowered my voice as I updated him on my end.

“Olivier doesn’t want to work with Cliffs- she thinks he wants to break up the families again. Penelope’s marriage was bad for his business.”

Jason nodded thoughtfully. “Good work, little bird.”

“She’s nice.” I added.

“Hm?”

“Penelope. She’s nice. And innocent.”

A beat passed before Jason sighed lightly, and leaned close, eyes moving across the crowd.

“You see that woman over there?” I followed his gaze to a pudgy, but frail woman in a wheelchair who had to be in her late eighties. Her purple blouse was adorned with a matching silk bow on the neckline, as she smiled as she cupped the face of a young boy. A grandchild, perhaps.

“Pepper de LeShapelle.” Jason’s lips grazed my ear for the closeness of them. “If the D’amicis enlist the help of some third party goons- guys just tryin’ to whip up some extra cash, feed their families- and those guys wind up in Finger River afterward, de LeShapelle signed the order. She pays the legal team, too. Been doing it since the eighties.” My gaze fell away from her. “Nobody’s innocent here, dollface. If Penelope is now- which I doubt- she won’t be in a couple years. Maybe she won’t gun anyone down, but she’ll sure as hell be signing the orders for somebody else to do it. That’s D’amici tradition.” I didn’t respond, letting my silence speak for itself. I still couldn’t get the picture of Red Hood pointing a gun at Penelope out of my head.

“Andre! Come, come.” A voice interrupted my thoughts. Jason turned and gave a charming smile to a man with a thick accent in a monochrome black suit. “Pardon, my dear, but I must steal your companion for a moment.” He addressed me. I smiled agreeably.

“He’s all yours.”

Jason- Andre, as it were- left in a blur of suits and pocket watches, and I wandered around the townhouse for a while, busying myself with scones and inspecting baby pictures until ten minutes passed, and the air began to dizzy me.

Nights in Gotham were always pretty; the shadows filled all the cracks and made the flaws too dark to see. In Little Italy, the view from the balcony was particularly breathtaking, with colors like oil paints against a dusk canvas. Stars hung low in the fading light, competing with the twinkling lights of the city below. I could see a ferry steaming along in Finger River. The shade of blue made me realize how the chaos had worn on me. Stepping onto the terrace was a cool and much-needed repose.

After a while, footsteps sounded behind me. They were heavy and relaxed; lazy strides that could only be Jason’s. He was intimidating in his armor, lurching into a fight with fistfuls of firepower and that daunting stance he always took. But somehow, he was more intimidating here, out of his element, with wine and music and satin blouses, affluent society moving around him like water in a stream. He was uncharacteristically poised to pretend. In a fight, I could see the anger, the strain, the stubborn willfulness in the way he trusted completely the momentum of his own body. He was a great combatant, but I knew his moves. I always knew what he wanted. Here, even though I could see his face, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Everyone was his enemy, everyone was his friend. He could smile at a mafia goon and scowl at servant, and feel the exact opposite way. I felt like he was always lying.

Jason sauntered over and leaned against the Romanesque stone railing. He smelled like cologne and wine, and in fact tipped his glass to his lips for a sip.

“Hope it wasn’t too overwhelmin’.” He muttered, eyes falling on the city. He looked apologetic- but perhaps it was the lighting.

“No, it’s fine. I just needed some air.”

Something like glass breaking sounded from inside, followed by a chorus of laughter. He glanced back, amusement dancing on his lips. I wondered if he’d rather be back there; he did so seem to love the fray.

I ran a finger across a crack in the railing. Dick would have loved to know I’d attended a party with the upper echelon of mafia society. I thought I’d remembered a stupid story about his escapades with congressman’s daughter at the G.C. Opera House.

“What’s wrong?” Jason’s low voice broke through my thoughts, and I looked at him, surprised at the expression of interest he wore. I hesitated, shifting my weight as I stalled. Of course I didn’t want to tell him I’d been thinking of Dick.

“It’s stupid.” A beat.

“Yeah? Tell me anyway.” He said, with some finality. Again, I paused.

“Go on, little bird.” He said, drawing almost imperceptibly nearer, dipping his head close, drawing a line between ourselves and the mansionful of strangers. “Tell me.”

I was agonizingly aware of the modest inches between us. “My moms… they loved to travel. Everywhere they went, they always did something- something memorable. They were the life of the party, everywhere. They had a lot of stories.”

He didn’t say anything. It made me nervous, so I kept going to fill the silence.

“They probably came to Little Italy a lot. Probably before I was born. Ma used to tease me, because I never did anything. Or went anywhere. I just studied and… stayed home.”

More silence. I didn’t even want to look at him. He was the Red fucking Hood and I was telling him about my dead moms like he was alcoholics anonymous.

“I can’t help but feel like… I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t disappointing them, really. But I keep thinking how happy and proud they’d be now if they… if I could tell them all the stories I have now.” I concluded, watching cars with golden yellow headlights file like ants down the cobblestone streets.

“Huh.”

I blinked- not really sure what I was expecting out of him. Emotional intelligence-wise, he did die when he was a 15 year old boy. I never really yearned for him to offer me solace; but the way he just looked at me and listened made me feel like I could say anything.

I looked over at him, and he flashed me a toothy, wolfish grin and sipped his wine.

“So, if they were here, what tales would you tell em, darlin’?” He asked, eyeing me with some unreadable plan formulating in his head.

“I… well, I don’t know. I guess I don’t have anything that impressive yet. I’m spending my first ever mafia party on a balcony.”

“Easily remedied. Come on, I’ll get ya another glass.” He stood.

“Well, I‘ve never drank wine either.”

He looked at me with genuine surprise. “Ever?”

I shrugged. He settled back against the railing. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know…” I hesitated. I’d had beer before, and burning liquor in the dark quells of some distant classmate’s basement party. But that, I could barely remember. I added quietly, “It smells bad.” He laughed his uncanny, jagged laugh.

“Yeah?” He gave me a vexatious look. “How ‘bout just a taste?” I glanced at the empty glass hanging in his fingers.

“Too bad you drank it all.” I said teasingly.

“I said a taste, not a sip.”

He drew closer. Leaning on the railing like we were, it was easy to forget my height reached only his chest. Before I could give any forethought to what any of this would mean for me, his calloused fingers were tilting my chin upward, tipping my face toward his. I could feel the warmth of his body and breath- it made the night seem colder, though I knew it was tepid at worst. His lips were soft and considerate when they met mine, gently adding pressure. It was a feather-light, brief thing. What startled me more than the kiss itself was the gentleness of it.

When he pulled away, I breathed, realizing I’d forgotten to. I blinked as he let go of my chin, a small grin playing at his lips as he surveyed my reaction. Realizing he wasn’t going to kiss me again himself, I leaned in this time, butterflies fluttering in my stomach as I did. Jason kissed me back, more enthusiastically this time. His tongue danced against my lips until I parted them, whereupon he slipped it past my teeth. The intimacy cradled me like a blurry dream- I hadn’t at all been expecting to be here with him, tonight, like this; and yet here I was, and not wishing to be anywhere else. Jason was with me- tall, strong, gorgeous Jason Todd- choosing me over all the rich and beautiful people of Little Italy beyond the stained glass french doors of the terrace. Choosing me over the criminals and vagrants he had the power to puppeteer for any purpose he so chose. The way his mouth and tongue felt was dizzying. And he was right; I could taste the wine. Fruity and tangy, with a more earnest, earthy bitterness just below the surface. When my breath hitched, asking for air, he pulled away. After a deep sigh, I leaned into him, letting his arms encircle me, laying my head against the fabric of his shirt.

Our mission was over. We could’ve left any time. But there, then, I couldn’t even associate with the idea of pulling away from him.

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hannigramficrecs · 4 years

Text

Murder Husbands

The Horror Of Our Love by thefangirlingdead [words: 4,392]

They're two parts of one whole, Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. Sometimes, Hannibal wishes their victims could see it. Sometimes he wishes that somebody else could appreciate the beauty of their relationship. But then again, he'd have to kill them.

Show, Don't Tell by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite [words: 3,680]

“The bedroom,” Hannibal murmured. “Do you have the patience to get there?” In answer, Hannibal gripped the backs of Will’s thighs and hoisted him up, settling him onto the kitchen island. After the fall... Will makes Hannibal wait. Just... to see what he would do.

Deviation by Creed Cascade (creedcascade) [words: 4,301]

This is an alternate universe where Hannibal and Will met in boarding school and form an inseparable (murdery) bond. All grown up the Murder Husbands are targeting other serial killers. Freddie is covering their kills, hopes they are hot and isn’t sure exactly why Jack wants to stop them. Alana likes to drink their beer. All them make Jack cranky. Features flashbacks to boarding school days.

In Sickness and in Health by BonesAndScales [words: 67,450]

Everyone knows that Will and Hannibal are married. Not everyone knows that they are married to each other.

Sha-la-la-la-la-la, My Oh My! by Watermelonsmellinfellon [words: 888]

Imagine Hannibal kissing Will in front of his students.

Slice of Life by AVegetarianCannibal [words: 6,332]

It's time to take a look into the life that Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter now share, from cooking together to doing the laundry to taking walks in the balmy Havana evenings. Somehow, most of these things lead to the bedroom.

A Different Kind of Wedding Night by harleygirl2648 [words: 1,784]

Hannibal and Will haven't killed together since the Dragon. Tonight, they remedy this.

Just What We Need by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite [words: 8,348]

“I brought you a gift,” he finally said, “I killed that man for you.” “No, Hannibal, you killed him for you. The only thing you did for me was make me the most likely suspect for your crimes. You’re good at that.” Post-fall, Will and Hannibal have a fight, and Will's not sure they can come back from it.

Karalius by rainbowdracula [words: 1,315]

Hannibal is lord of his kingdom, and a good lord protects what is his. At any price.

Mizaru, Kikazaru, Iwazaru (Do No Evil) by Fallswithgrace

The effects of Will and Hannibal having developed a relationship 20 years prior in Florence.

In the Truly Gruesome Do We Trust by sidnihoudini [words: 9,473]

Hannibal and Will have murder husbands mind palace sex, and Alana watches obsessively.

Love-blind by BloodunderMoonlight [words: 29,944]

Will met Hannibal two years ago during the investigation of the Wound Man case. They fell in love quickly and married to each other a year later. Now another year had passed, they still had not realized their partners were the serial killers they admired the most.

Gauge Your Interest by WrathoftheStag [words: 1,956]

Will secretly learns to knit so he can make Hannibal a scarf. Somehow doofy Hanners thinks Will is having an affair. Domestic fluff ensues.

A Corner of Paradise by bymoonlight [words: 3,242]

Will loves his alpha, cannibalism and all.

Practicalities by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite [words: 4,670]

"You brought your ex-wife on our honeymoon, Hannibal.” “You make it sound much more scandalous than it is, Will, you’re overreacting.” Will didn't imagine his honeymoon would include Hannibal's ex-wife following them around Europe as a source of fresh meat, but here they were.

A Crown of Broken Bone by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe) [words: 6,572]

Hannibal and Will have a disagreement about interior decorating when they get their first house together. It all boils down to taste.

Of The Night by the_heart_and_the_brain [words: 1,476]

A little something I've been playing about with for a while, where Hannibal and Will are husbands that kill together...

Homewrecker by teacupsandtime [words: 4,111]

An old acquaintance of Hannibal's is in town and finds out he's gotten married since they last saw each other. Later, she sees Hannibal and a scruffy stranger out at a dingy bar and assumes Hannibal is being unfaithful to his pristine, perfect husband.

Say Cheese! by Devereauxs_Disease [words: 6,545]

Hannibal and Will get the paparazzi treatment from Freddie Lounds. One handles it better than the other.

We've Met by acheforhim [words: 997]

“He wanted you to work on my profile,” Will says, and Hannibal nods. He gathered as much. “Can’t ask you to do it if our relationship is too personal.” “How personal is it?” Crawford asks, looking to Hannibal, but he is more than happy to let Will speak for both of them. “One could argue, intimate.”

The Secret Existence of Hannigram by Rising_Phoenix [words: 6,000]

Hannibal and Will have been married for three years when Jack Crawford approaches Hannibal with the request to assess Will - a marriage nobody knows about, and the couple has way too much fun with this.

Say That We're Sweethearts Again by harleygirl2648 [words: 2,665]

Will has taken up a new type of fishing.

It's Always the Quiet Ones by TheSilverQueen [words: 2,545]

A stranger recognizes Hannibal Lecter on the streets on Italy as the Chesapeake Ripper and attempts to kidnap Will to force Hannibal's hand. Cue extremely irritated and sassy Will and incredibly amused Hannibal.

Receiver of Many by PaperPlaneChemTrails [words: 1,551]

There are a lot of things to notice about Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, but no one at the BAU seems to have caught on.

Collateral Damage by quenchycactus [words: 3,064]

They are kept on complete opposite sides of the BSHCI, under Alana’s watchful eye.

1 (25/25)

#murder husbands #hannibal au #hannibal fanfic #hannigram fanfic #hannigram #mh

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mxalexwhat · 3 years

Text

Sooo I got bit by a big dog a couple days ago and I'm still kind of emotionally wrecked because of it so here is my overdramatic Last Will and Testament if I die of rabies/tetanus/infection:

My sister is NOT allowed to sing at my funeral. If you could grant me just one last peace offering, one final gift to me, it would be to not turn my funeral into the Amanda Show. I love you, I just don't love your singing. Its good, it's just not my thing and you get really full of yourself when you do it at funerals like it's a one woman show and this is my special day, not yours.

Dye my hair pink for the funeral. REAL pink, please. Or even just put me in a long pink princess wig. I wanna look as banging as future Neo Queen Serenity in her crystal coffin in the future in that one Sailor Moon arc.

Put my cat's ashes in the coffin with me before cremation. Even though Binx died a year ago, I never did figure out what to do with his ashes and it just feels like that would be one less weird thing to clean outta my closet.

Dump our ashes somewhere in Italy. Could be a dumpster for all I care. I'd just appreciate you getting me there in the first place. OOO! Or use me to plant a tree outside the family mausoleum in Lecce. That'd be dope as hell.

Somebody please go burn down biological dad's little camper trailer. I was hoping to get around to it after he died but oh well. Do not empty it; just burn the whole thing. And if you could somehow make sure he doesn't get any insurance on it, that'd be swell. (My step mom can have it, but not him.) Doesn't even have to look like an accident. Hell, giving him a note that says, "Alex sends her regards," or some shit would be fucking sick.

I want my funeral catered as well. Like, GOOD shit. Not garbage funeral food. I want a banging pre-fixe menu with cocktail pairings. Just put a smattering of everything in my coffin as well like some Egyptian queen. My cat and I would like some good little ghost nibbles for the afterlife.

I'm gonna work on a hand signal so in case you're curious if I'm still around, I can do the thing and you'll know. Don't know what it is yet but I'll get back to you on it. Or maybe I'll just let it be a fun little surprise. Just know: I'm haunting y'all. But not like all the time because honestly so few of y'all have my taste in music and movies and stuff and like ugh, snore fest.

Kill the dog that bit me and then give it's owner a pamphlet on dog training and how you don't let a dog back in the house after it's already bit someone and then keep it in the house after it tries to bite two more times. Doesn't have to be violent. I'm not a monster. Even in it's sleep is fine. Just put it down while I smile from the ethereal plane.

#about me #last will and testament #my will #my will be done #dog bite

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kissthegogo-goat-witch · 3 years

Text

Misery of the Vampire: Chapter one.

I want to try something and post the first chapter of a novel I wrote up. Its the auto biography and journey of a vampire through out the ages.

breech The years pass by like grains of sand in an hourglass. Agonizingly slow with each passing day, a far cry from how a writer would describe my people. It would be a dream, a wish fulfillment for it to go swiftly by and bring us closer to death who awaits us with its welcoming, open arms. I have seen how the mortals often described us and the life we live. There is no glamour, no beauty, nor charm.

An only pure tragedy with so many flaws to our being. There is nothing beautiful about falling from God's grace. I am both ashamed and outraged about how the modern world perceives vampires such as myself, spreading lies and turning humans gullible as they fall into a trap. I have taken it upon myself to inform future generations of the unspoken and forgotten world of the true night creatures. Let my story be a warning to those who are lusting for a life in which would soon make them seek death itself.

My rebirth took place within the country of Italy, during the time in which many had fallen victim to the Black Death. Or what we know now as the bubonic plague. I myself was a coward, fearful of dying a horrific death such as my beloved wife and daughter. I know now that I should have gone with them. But alas I was no more but a fool. A young man who was but a boy inside.

My desire to live have outweighed what I know now would have been right. To bury me along with my small family. But how is an ungrateful fool such as myself supposed to know that while barely above the cusp of manhood? This was when I met my sire, a tall and elegant older gentleman who had the darkest hair and fairest skin of Verona. He was unaffected by the plague, having others believe that he was in God's favor. Including myself.

I sought him out so I could have a chance to avoid the Lord's wrath, even if I was a peasant at the time. I can still remember it as it was a muggy summer night. The stench of death rose from the bodies piled in the streets. Amidst the foulness he stood, arms wrapped around a young man. His back was facing me while I watched him a feast. Back then I did not know what he was doing, but as a human, I had been drawn to such chaos. Well, I myself would not call the death of a mortal chaos but primal instinct told me otherwise. That is when I have uncovered the ghastly truth of how he survived the disease which struck and killed hundreds, if not thousands.

He realized I was watching him when his head jerked up, blood seeping into a crimson pool beneath them both.

That gorgeous, which beguiled any woman who gazed upon it, turned ghastly. In its place was a pair of wicked eyes made worse by the fangs of a putrid yellow, jagged like the shiv of a crazed convict. Blood was smeared across his lips, chin, and cheeks. and I soon realized I was staring at the face of a corpse. I did what any man would and ran, though knowing that he would pursue me, and I hid in an alley that stank of urine and worse. Covered by pitch black darkness like my own funeral veil, I thought foolishly that he could not see me. now I know that my kind can pierce through the blackest of darkness with their keen sight. Despite this, he did not pursue, and for the time being I knew not why.

When I returned home that night I simply went to sleep, thinking that this was all a nightmare and that I would wake up to the usual bellows calling for corpses. This is how we capture you, we simply come when least expected. There is no invitation, that myth about vampires is foolish. We do not give warning, we are cheaters to when it comes to getting what we want.

You can ask any vampire, even some of the purest of blood and they will say the same thing such as I, a dirty blood states as mere fact. When I awoke, my whole body was burning from the inside out. I was plastered in a sordid sweat that soaked my sheets, while my veins threatened to burst through my skin likes plants bereft of light... ironic as that now seems. That, however, was not the worst of it- for when I rinsed my face with water, I noticed two obscene marks on the side of my neck. They were fresh and like forbearers of my fate, also weaped. As you most likely know, If you are not careful, a bite mark can become infected. For me, they began to swell to a size like that of spring tomatoes; red, ripe and raw- leaving two horrid scars that shall remain upon me forever, the physical manifestation of a memory desired forgotten.

For days I have suffered to where it felt like I was the victim of the plague. My skin was pale while the appearance of my body was grotesque, black liquids were seeping out of everywhere as the stench was horrid. I dared not to venture outside in this condition, nor I couldn't for I was bedridden. Sooner or later, somebody would find my corpse.

The last final phase of turning is the hunger. Do you know how it feels when you are starved? Multiply that by one thousand, add the heat of a fever, and every single muscle in your body tearing itself apart. Now I still had my morals, but my dignity was nonexistent. Desperation caused me to slip out in the night, unseen with only corpses as witnesses.

They were my first victims. I still remember the putrid taste and how easily their flesh torn. They were rotten of course. The cysts upon their bodies bursting with the faintest of touch. Those disease-ridden corpses would be the source of drink in which kept me alive. I endured days of agony, due to myself being repulsed by consuming the blood of the already dead. But when it became too much I had no choice. It was either to feast on corpses during my weakened state or else, children.

I am no monster, I can tell you that now. My own decisions are based upon my morals, for I still have kept my humanity. Most vampires chose to leave it behind due to the traumas their new life can lead. During the phase before my sire, I was a ghoul. No one in the city had caught on to what was happening to the bodies.

But my sire had, for he watched as I suffered. There was no intervention as I struggled to manage my very existence. It was a test to decide whether I would survive or not and if I was worthy of his own teachings. To this day I do not know why I was chosen, for my sire was a madman. After the course weeks, he finally deemed me worthy enough to claim.

It was another typical night, the moon was high on her perch while shining down, illuminating the streets below. I stepped out of my home while wrapped in a tattered cloak. Hiding in the shadows, I used them to my advantage not to be seen, silently making my descent towards the nearest corpse I could smell.

By now I have grown accustomed to this vile act. I can remember the corpse being still fresh, having passed during the hours of daylight. Even though, it did not sit in the hot sun and become putrid, the disease was still evident. I still grimaced upon the nights I fed. The blood was still disgusting as ever. Above myself, I heard a soft flutter.

Suddenly I felt a large hand grasp around my neck. Roughly, I was jerked up and came face to face with my sire. His eyes were blazing like embers, amber in color with blackness ebbing around them. Rows of hideous fangs were inches away from my face. He was like a statue, still and silent. I was fearful of what was to happen next. My face was plastered into a mask of horror. My heart would have been pounding if it was alive.

"Pathetic is what you are, ghoulish corpse eater. Not one of my finest creations, but you have too much resilience to waste."

His voice was smooth, deep and calloused. There was no emotion to it. But I could feel his own rage. Suddenly he had a look of disgust. I remember being over his shoulder as he took off into the night, leaping into the air with a powerful force. He danced from roof to roof with his graceful movements. No one would believe that such a man in Verona existed. Not even I, if I wasn't here telling you my life, that is. Just as swiftly as we had left, we arrived at where he lurked about during the daylight. Before I had a chance to look, to take in my surroundings, a coffin was sealed.

#personal #writeblr #writing drabble #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #vampire writing #vampire novel #misery of the vampire #chapter #novel chapter #chapters

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tsingadark · 4 years

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Monthly Fic Rec

Yoonjinkook

in morning light by almostsophie1 T | 2.2k | AU | Jeongguk wakes up on a rainy Saturday. (He wakes up to the people he loves.)

the best medicine by almostsophie1 T | 3k | AU | Jeongguk is sick and plans to cough his way through it alone. Seokjin and Yoongi aren't about to let that happen.

to be enough by softlyblue G | 5.1k | AU | First thing you need to know - music and magic are almost completely alike, and not just because they’re two letters apart. There is magic in the world. (There is music…)

Yoonjin

all they want for christmas by springwei G | 2.1k | AU | Namjoon knows nothing about Yoongi and Seokjin. But he's pretty sure they're dating.

Jinkook

'til your body burns up by honeyboyyoongi for Kinqarfur T | 1.6k | AU | “You have that one friend who’s a stripper, right?” Yoongi asks. Taehyung looks up from where he’s reading on Yoongi’s bed. “Yeah, Jungkook.” “Do you know what his rates are like?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask why my boyfriend is hiring a stripper?” “I want to embarrass Seokjin.” “Oh, yeah, that’s cool. I’ll text him.”

Pretty Smart by Only_A_Fangirl E | 12.1k | Canon | If he focuses on the things being said about Seokjin, it’s always a simple no-mix ‘handsome,’ which Seokjin is. He’s very handsome. So, Yoongi doesn’t know exactly what it is that’s bothering Seokjin all that much. Yoongi has apparently been declared ‘cute’ unanimously, which he’s pretending not to be annoyed by. But maybe he’s not pretending well enough, because he notices Seokjin looking at him.

what’s yours is mine, mine, mine by jeonthebun NR | 2k | AU | jungkook is always stealing seokjin’s clothes, but he can’t find it in himself to really mind that much. soft magic au ft. boyfriends jinkook + library shenanigans

Yoonkook

bright and clear by suisei_honeymoon M | 14.1k | AU | “my house is nearby,” he begins, standing up. “you’ll die out here. stay until the storm passes.” yoongi holds out his hand. after a few moments of hesitation, the boy takes it.his fingers stain yoongi’s own fingers crimson red. (or: yoongi finds a lost boy in the woods.)

the snow had changed to rain by suisei_honeymoon G | 2.4k | AU | yoongi brings jeongguk to meet his friends when the snow begins to melt.

the clear and sunny light of dawn by suisei_honeymoon E | 4.4k | AU | “you know I love you, right?” yoongi breathes out, when jeongguk pulls away. it feels like he’s falling, like the world is tilting, just to make room for this moment. “yeah,” jeongguk says back. “I love you too, hyung.” or: love comes in many forms, but love can change into many forms.

a thousand splendid suns by notyoongs M | 9.3k | AU | as jeongguk keeps talking, yoongi rolls over just enough to watch him, to feel his heart swell with every word. maybe there are deeper conversations they ought to be having after two and a half months apart. maybe they should be making the most of it in another way. but this is right where yoongi wants to be: listening to the love of his life ramble about how much he loves waffles. yoongi wants to listen to jeongguk talk about waffles for the rest of his goddamn life. (or: even after five years of being together, yoongi hasn’t gotten any better at knowing how to contain everything jeon jeongguk makes him feel.)

engaging by xiajin G | 2.8k | AU | “hyung,” jungkook starts as soon as yoongi opens the door to the apartment they share, “let’s get engaged.”

come (back home) by lichtweh E | 5k | Canon | he could’ve stayed at home, could’ve made excuses to get their friends off their backs, slink away with jungkook for some reason or other preferably within the first five minutes. but, but— that’d be obvious as all hell. too obvious to claim jungkook for himself, too obvious to stare at him with pent-up longing from an entire— well, week. a week in busan and yoongi can’t wait to have him back. (yoonkook, 1, 11:21, 69.)

Namkook

is it true you blow out the stars? by strangedesires E | 68.1k | AU | "I'm also horrendously clingy in bed. I hog the blankets, I've got a reputation for being notoriously needy and if I'm not the little spoon when cuddling, forget it," Jungkook jokes, tone shifting from something innocent to something that opens Namjoon's mouth in awe, "I'm needy in other ways, too." He has to force himself to swallow around his tongue that feels like lead, wincing when his voice cracks, "I'll have to carefully tend to that neediness of yours then, won't I?" Jungkook speaks more slowly, more coyly when he replies, "You will, baby."

Drown in your hands by Aguacates E | 11.4k | AU | He dries off his neck and chest; the guy shakes himself and looks back at Namjoon’s face, cheeks a little red. “I’m Jeongguk,” he says anyway. (Namjoon and Jeongguk meet on a cruise.)

I Swear We've Been Here Before by taepolymorph E | 29.2k | AU | “It's been... How long? Ten years?” Hoseok asks. “Nine.” Namjoon won’t tell his friends that he looked up the exact date of the last day they’d spent together. All seven of them. That he looked at almost-forgotten photographs, which left him drenched in nostalgia and with a weird feeling in his chest. He remembered the day before Jungkook’s departure to the US, so vividly as if it were yesterday, felt like he could taste the sweetness of the peach soju on his tongue again, hear their laughter in the air, steeped in alcohol and the youthful illusion of invincibility, and Jungkook’s voice from the speakers inside the noraebang booth, could feel his breath, warm and wet against his ear: “Hyung, will you miss me?”

it's purrfect, me and you by starlit_tae T | 28.5k | AU | Namjoon just wants to get some work done without feeling like his head's going to explode. Jungkook complicates things. (In the best kind of way). (or, the one where namjoon & jungkook both have a lot of feelings but can't seem to see past the mountain of obliviousness between them, until a wayward little calico cat gives them a push in the right direction)

everything you feel is good by floralspeech T | 5.2k | AU | “Hyung,” Jungkook says. He feels like Namjoon’s words have caught him off guard, like they’ve washed away all his defenses and he’s just out here, chest wide open. But he always feels like this, when Namjoon speaks and what comes out of his mouth feels a lot like beauty, like the comfort of rain sliding down a window, like a candle burning bright and defiant in a dark room. Jungkook thinks, chest: open. heart: out. It's a lot like that. or: college boyfriends namkook, lots of loving, lots of tender touching

in search of... by jeonbenet E | 8.6k | Canon | A new match message pings. MuscleHxg58 likes you! Namjoon snorts at the name. There’s no way somebody with that sort of username will amount to anything, but the tightness still comes in his chest, the unknown of a new message never not overwhelming and exciting. Maybe this will be the one. The one he fucks, he means. Nothing else. (Or: Namjoon downloads a hook-up app called Jack'd and finds a match.)

108° by aggravated E | 18.2k | AU | This must be some sort of karmic retribution for something Namjoon has done. He’s deep in Buddhist country, and now he can finally understand the cultural underpinnings of this specific religion in the way it feels like he could reach some sort of anti-nirvana if he were to just let his eyes rake over Jungkook like he so badly wants to. God, he’s been reading too much Murakami if he’s thinking stupid shit like that. -- Or, Namjoon learns how to thaw.

Exodus: Glow by springup_suga E | 3.5k | AU | It’s been a terrible week and Jungkook just wants a chance to sit on his couch in sweatpants and play video games until the sun comes up. Namjoon has other ideas.

thursday flavour by dygonilly E | 5.9k | AU | Jungkook finds Namjoon shaving his legs in their shared hotel bathroom

gains of the heart by snooki E | 5.5k | Canon | Namjoon is hot and Jungkook has to do physical exercise to cope with it. Namjoon is oblivious. Jungkook does 100 pushups.

we can’t have heroes by Miralana E | 8.2k | AU | Namjoon intends to spend the Purge like he does every year. Holed up in his apartment, pretending like he's not there and hoping that his neighbours or the government don't decide to kill him. He doesn't expect one of his neighbours to bang on the door during the Purge, begging to be let in. And he definitely doesn't expect to be stupid enough to open the door.

Under The Tuscan Sun by jooniepop M | 15.4k | AU | “You’re really going to do this to me? You’re going to send me to Italy to confront my unrequited crush.” “I think it’s more like love at this point Kookie.” Or What happens when you take a secret crush and add the magic of Florence, Italy? Jungkook was about to find out.

Namgi

All About the Bounce In My Step by Runchrandom (infraredphaeton) T | 2.9k | AU | There’s a guy who runs the fire stairs outside Yoongi’s office every day. What an idiot.

Heal My Weakness by Only_A_Fangirl E | 6.3k | Canon | “So, it’s like a submissive-dominant kind of thing then?” Seokjin asks. “I don’t know,” Namjoon replies. “I’ve never thought of myself as dominant. And with the way Yoongi behaves, to think of him as submissive seems kind of silly. It’s just in those moments. It’s like he changes.”

final countdown by sequoiasem T | 8.7k | AU | min yoongi would like to fight busybodies, or his autonomic nervous system, or possibly both.

Namgikook

vanilla, chocolate, honey by hammersandstrings G | 24.9k | AU | Namjoon has come by the bakery more than a few times over the few weeks since they first met, with the flimsy excuse that their frankly very basic coffee is good enough to walk five minutes off of his usual path, but mostly to lean over the counter during slow hours and talk to whoever’s around before he has to either leave for work, pick his son up from school, or head home to start dinner. To flirt, really—he’s about as subtle as a summer storm with it, but Yoongi doesn’t mind it. Isn’t sure which of them he’s flirting with sometimes, or both, but likes it just the same. (In which Jeongguk loves easily, Yoongi loves quietly, and Namjoon is love embodied.)

Happy Orgasming by Only_A_Fangirl E | 81.7k | Canon | “I can’t…” Jeongguk tries again then exhales sharply, takes a deep breath and, “I can’t come.” “Come where?” Namjoon asks. “To the interviews tomorrow? That’s okay. We’ll figure something out. Reschedule-“ “No,” Jeongguk cuts him off, blushing and looking down into his lap. He can’t believe he has to say it again. “Come, like… Like, I can’t… orgasm. I can’t orgasm.”

Taegi

Secret Someday by NotLaura for Itherael G | 3.8k | Canon | That's the thing about expectations, if you're not careful, they can ruin everything. (Or: Run BTS! Christmas Manito)

Vminkook

bloom by automaticshine E | 15.3k | Canon | Jungkook doesn't think of himself as ace — he just assumes the rest of the band is as disinterested in sex as he is. But one night, during a lull after 4th Muster, Jin comes home from a club in Gangnam with a girl, and Jungkook realizes he's wrong. Or, Jungkook discovers his asexuality the hard way, featuring ultimately non-sexual maknae line OT3.

#Yoonjinkook #yoonjin #jinkook #yoonkook #namkook #namgi #namgikook #taegi #vminkook #fic rec #fanfic rec #bts

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yootaesowlwrites · 5 years

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Requested by; VettelFerrari

Prompt- "You're Bleeding." "It's Just A Scratch."

Request; Hey! So I saw the "you're bleeding" prompt and I was wondering if I could request that for Vampire!Sebastian where reader finds out since he hasn't fed and only realises once she's cut herself accidentally? Thank you

Note; I read this request a few times and the only thing that popped in my mind was Elena and Stefan when Stefan wanted to cook her and she accidentally cuts herself trying to cut veggies, so I honestly hope I didn't completely copy that scene, also I will be using the vampire version from TVD.

••••

You had met Sebastian about a month or so ago when you decided to invite him over for dinner, he however insisted to help with it wanting to impress you with his cooking skills he had learned over the hundreds of years he was alive, well he didn't say it in that way, it was more ''I want to show you the dishes I've learned over the year.''

"So with what can I help?" You ask stepping up beside him, you didn't want him to do all the work considering he was in your home.

"Could you cut those tomatoes?" Sebastian asks, you nod your head and took out a knife from the drawer and placed the tomatoes on the cutting board, you begin cutting the tomato when your hand suddenly slipped and the knife sliced your palm.

"Ouch." You hiss as you drop the knife in pain, Sebastian turns to you about to ask if you were okay when he saw your bloody palm.

"You're bleeding." Sebastian states more to himself.

"Don't worry, it's just a scratch." You say turning to the sink and grabbing a washcloth, you wrap it around your hand, you turn to face Sebastian and saw his back turned to you. "Hey, are you okay?" You ask taking a step closer to him, you could see him visibly see his posture stiffen.

"I just.." Sebastian begins to say, you place your other hand on his shoulder only for him to spin around with lightning speed grabbing your hand, razor-sharp teeth were on display and veins underneath his eyes.

"Oh.." Was all that you could get out, Sebastian releases your hand and takes a step back.

"I didn't want you to find out this way.." Sebastian says, you slowly nod your head. "I'm a vampire.. and I would completely understand if you want to break communication."

"No.. no.. I'm just taken by surprise.." You say. "I now understand why you were always so stiff when somebody was bleeding.."

"I usually can control myself but.. I haven't fed in weeks." Sebastian says.

"Oh.. okay." You say.

"I should.. I should go." Sebastian says while turning around.

"No wait!" You quickly say. "You can feed on me." You say, Sebastian slowly turns around to face you.

"Come again?" Sebastian asks.

"I know I'm suppose to be scared, screaming for help but.. I'm not and I'm not sure if it's because you're so hypnotic or if I've already fallen for you, but I'm not scared." You explain, you were in confusion with yourself, you were asking yourself why you weren't running away.

"You're offering to feed me your blood." Sebastian states.

"Yeah.. well, you need it, don't you?" You ask. "Just like I would need food, you would need blood to survive and you said you haven't had anything in days." You say.

"I could kill you." Sebastian states once again.

"I know.. but if I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have offered." You say, Sebastian slowly walks towards you.

"Just a taste.. a small drop." Sebastian says, you nod your head.

"Afterwards I want you to tell me from which place this dish we're making came from." You say, A smile cracks on Sebastian's face.

"I will." Sebastian says, he takes your hand that was wrapped with the washcloth and unwraps it. "I'm going to be honest, it might hurt." He says, you nod your head and he slowly brings your hand up to his lips and fangs. "Just tell me if I have to stop."

"I will.." You say softly, he bites into your hand, his fangs piercing your skin, you gasp as you feel your flesh being torn open, Sebastian glances at you and you nod your head reassuring him. "It's okay.." You whisper, a few seconds later Sebastian slowly removes his fangs from your hand and wraps the cloth around it again.

"Are you feeling all right?" Sebastian asks, you nod your head. "Dizziness?"

"No.. no dizziness." You say, Sebastian nods his head.

"Okay.. good." Sebastian says. "Thank you for trusting me enough.."

"Yeah.." You say looking into his eyes. "So uh.. tell me about this dish." You say, Sebastian nods his head.

"Well it was created in Italy and it is one of my personal favorites." Sebastian begins explaining.

#f1 imagine #formula one imagines #sebastian vettel imagines #au

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ayoub06me · 4 years

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The 25 Worst People Ever

While their square measure heaps of individuals we tend to may have enclosed on this list, we tend to were restricted to solely twenty-five slots. In several cases, our call was created for the U.S. because of the evil nature of the individuals’ crimes.

Moreover, there gave the impression to be a general agreement regarding what constitutes badness during a human. folks like potentate and commie square measure perpetually on these styles of lists (yes, they’re on ours as well).

The real challenge came, however, indecisive World Health Organization was the worst among the worst. repeatedly the individual’s infamy has become immortalized in legend, even to the purpose of redaction history.

So, we tend to acknowledge the subjective and polemical nature of such a task and that we encourage you to depart your own opinions within the comments below.

At any rate, we tend to gift to you our list of the twenty-five worst folks ever.

25-Attila the Hun

Attila wasn’t simply any Hun, he was the leader of the Huns, and beneath his rule, the Hunnic empire consisted of virtually something that didn’t fly a Roman flag. it’s been aforementioned that there’s no extant first-person account of his look, that isn’t shocking considering the fate of most of the people World Health Organization interacted with him.

However, he was a person with a passion for invasion. It had been a passion thus nice that on his thanks to acquiring his bride, Honoria, he determined to prevent in Italy…and destroy it. Razing a rustic on the eve of your wedding? unusually wicked.

24-Maximilien Maxmillien Marie Isidore de Robespierre

Generally speaking, revolutionaries tend to be lauded for his or her spirit and temperament to require a stand. Max, but — though being a frontrunner within the revolution — determined that he would rather live to tell the tale in infamy and instituted what has come back to be called the Reign of Terror.

As we tend to all grasp, anyone World Health Organization starts one thing known as a Reign of Terror belongs on an inventory of dangerous people…period.

23-Bloody Virgin Mary

Imagine your name is prefixed by the word “bloody”. That in itself ought to be enough to order a spot on our list. however, will that even happen? Queen of {england} of England, it seems, had a passion for burning folks at the stake, notably those that opposed her ideologies, thus the nickname.

22-Emperor Hirohito

This Japanese Emperor was the mastermind behind one thing that came to be called the Rape of Nanking (what was the capital of China). Raping the capital town of the foremost thickly settled nation on Earth? This list is for you.

21-Genghis Kha

Founded what would eventually become the biggest contiguous empire in history and nearly managed to overcome not only 1 however 2 continents. Compared to several folks on this list he was comparatively benign, however, a minimum of giving up the prospect to surrender before continuing to destroy everything in view.

Just to color an image of what that might seem like, some historians have calculable that the Iranian population didn’t come to pre-Mongol levels till someday within the late twentieth century.

20-Caligula

Sometimes it appears that being an Emperor was incongruent with maintaining your mental health. Case in purpose – this guy. What started with a touch gambling and wasteful outlay quickly became a circus of bloody mayhem.

But not solely did killing become his favorite recreation, however, he conjointly complete that he was God and so ought to have a sculpture of himself erected within the Temple of the capital of Israel for folks to worship. No marvel Rome burned to the bottom.

19-Muammar Gaddafi

Issuing troopers sildenafil to assist them rape and kill girls, indiscriminately capital punishment his folks, and sponsoring international terrorists, he was solely the second still-serving state leader in history to possess arrest warrants issued against him.

Translation: he was very, very dangerous at his job. thus dangerous if truth be told, that even Fidel Castro Ruz once delineated him as being reckless.

18-Ayatollah religious leader

Although the ruthlessness of this man ne’er ceased to astonish the trendy world, we tend to at List25 weren’t shocked by his lack of fine behavior. however does one expect your oldsters to discipline you with a reputation like religious leader As-Sayyid Ruhollah Mostafavi Musavi Khomeini?

17-Jeffrey Dahmer

Not solely did he kill seventeen men and boys, the murders all concerned rape, mutilation, mania, and pattern. to create things worse, he somehow got the concept that he may flip his victims into submissive “zombies” by drilling holes in their skulls and filling them with boiling water whereas they were still alive.

16-Nero

Yet another half-crazed Emperor. It’s laborious to be worse than having your mother dead and poisoning your blood brother. Oh, wait, however regarding burning prisoners in your garden in the dead of night as a supply of light?

last updated on Transfiguration, 2019

15-Jim Jones

The leader of the People’s Temple, a cult that was forced to relocate from the city to the jungles of South American nation wherever he managed to convinced over 900 of its members to kill themselves with cyanide. That’s the biggest loss of Yankee civilian life in one event before 9/11.

14-Saddam Hussein

For over twenty years leader served because the President of Asian nation instituting genocidal campaigns against the Kurds, Shabaks, Yazidis, Assyrians, and Mandeans.

What’s a lot of, he gave the impression to have Associate in Nursing impulsive need to manner} invade neighboring countries and once things didn’t go his way he would simply do away with his frustration on his people…with a chemical weapon.

13-Leopold II of Belgique

It’s spectacular that from such a little country may come back such a huge tyrant. Deciding that his country wasn’t large enough Leopold did what any leader would do and visited Africa…to begin his own. In what’s the contemporary Democratic Republic of the Congo, he managed to subject, torture, and kill over three million folks with great care he may sell some ivory.

12-Osama Usama bin Laden

As the face of the contemporary terrorist act and therefore the founding father of FTO, he lived an honest portion of his life with a $25 million bounty placed on his head by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In spite of that, he managed to evade capture for the higher a part of 3 presidential administrations before tasting Yankee steel.

11-Mao Zedong

“Revolution isn’t a ceremonial dinner, nor Associate in a Nursing essay, nor a painting, nor a chunk of embroidery; it can’t be advanced softly, gradually, carefully, with consideration, with all respect, politely, plainly, and with modesty.

A revolution is an Associate in Nursing battle, Associate in the Nursing act of violence by that one category overthrows another. ”Well aforementioned Mao…exactly why we have a tendency to created guaranteed to reserve an additional spot on our list.

10-Idi Amin Dada

Few folks in history will say they’re directly accountable for killing 0.5 1,000,000 folks, and this Ugandan dictator is one in all them. In power from 1971 to 1979 his resume enclosed human rights abuse, political repression, ethnic ill-treatment, illegal killings, nepotism, corruption, and gross economic misdirection.

9-Dr. H. H. Holmes

One of the primary documented serial killers in Yankee history, he designed a building specifically for the aim of killing his guests. placed but two miles from the 1893 Chicago World’s honest, he would lure guests to “Murder Castle” wherever he had rigged all of the bedrooms with gas lines, soundproofing, lime pits, etc..

He would then proceed to torture and kill them, ultimately dissecting their bodies and commercialism the items to medical colleges.

8-Vlad the Impaler

You know you belong on this list once you square measure the only inspiration for the foremost illustrious evil spirit novel of all time – Dracula.

And to relinquish you a thought of why, here could be a list of a number of his favorite pastimes: nails in heads, alienating of limbs, blinding, strangulation, burning, alienating of noses and ears, accidental injury of sexual organs (especially within the case of women), scalping, skinning, exposure to the weather or animals, and boiling alive.

7-Judas Iscariot

6-Pol Pot

The leader of the terrorist organization and Prime Minister of Kingdom of Cambodia within the Seventies, he managed to relocate the whole population of the Kingdom of Cambodia onto farms wherever they slaved away planting seeds that might grow into food that nobody would be allowed to eat.

And this is often why we tend to study economics…so that in contrast to our pal political leader Pot, we tend to don’t starve a simple fraction of our population to death. however that’s not all, Pot {and the|and therefore the|and conjointly the} terrorist organization were also accountable for mass executions in places called Killing Fields.

And though nobody is sure of the toll, it’s been aforementioned that to save lots of ammunition, the executions were typically administrated victimization spades, axes, hammers, and sharpened bamboo sticks.

5-Elizabeth Bathory

A Hungarian Lady from the 1500’s World Health Organization has been labeled the “most prolific feminine serial murderer in history” and has come back to be called the “Blood Countess” or “Blood Queen”. we tend to at List25 believe those to be applicable titles for somebody speculated to bathe within the blood of virgins to take care of their youth.

According to court records, Elizabeth and several other accomplices would lure young ladies to their habitation so proceed to beat them, burn them, bite the flesh of their faces, freeze them, perform surgery on them, starve them, and abuse them sexually.

4-Adolf potentate

Ruining the lives of tens of many folks, being accountable for a lot of deaths than anybody else in history, and destroying a whole continent…all at intervals half dozen years? Words cannot describe.

3-Ivan IV

He was the primary of the Tsars and along with his resume, it’s shocking that the Russians allowed there to be any longer. throughout one in all his escapades to a European country, he had a thousand prisoners brought before him each day to be dead.

Assuming that he got a full night’s sleep (8 hours) that might mean witnessing one execution for each minute he was awake.

2-Joseph commie

To start with, he managed to starve a whole country (Ukraine). however as dangerous as that’s, it falls way wanting to showcase the amount of badness this man was capable of. In classic dictator fashion, he had several of his nighest friends and confidants dead. Total kill count: around sixty million.

1-Heinrich German Nazi

As the leader of the SS, Chief of German Police, and head of the secret police, he in person coordinated the deaths of nearly ten million folks and once the war was over not even his former colleagues wished something to try to to with him. Cyanide anyone?

There is little doubt that these square measure the worst folks ever! Did we tend to miss someone? World Health Organization does one assume ought to air this list. or even you’d value more highly to look at these twenty-five Leaders accountable for The Worst Genocides Ever Committed.

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introvertguide · 4 years

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Spartacus (1960); AFI #81

Our next film that we reviewed is the bleak but powerful story of Spartacus, (1960) the Kirk Douglas answer to missing out on Ben Hur. According to some background viewing on the DVD and on YouTube, Kirk Douglas wanted to be the lead in Ben Hur and was angry when his part was given to Charlton Heston. He bought the rites to his own Roman Empire epic that he believed would rival his missed opportunity and Spartacus was adapted for the screen. Although Spartacus did not win the awards that Ben Hur did, the film won a Golden Globe for best Drama as well as 3 technical Oscars and a Best Supporting Oscar for Peter Ustinov. Spartacus is now generally considered the superior film (OK, specifically by me), mainly because it does not go in the direction that the viewer would expect for a movie of the time. Before I go any further, let’s spoil the story for those who just want to talk about the film without having seen it:

SPOILER WARNING! THIS MOVIE DOES NOT END LIKE ONE WOULD EXPECT SO THIS IS A LEGITIMATE WARNING! THIS REVIEW WILL RUIN THE ENDING SO WATCH THE MOVIE FIRST!

The movie starts with eight minutes of music and establishing shots, making sure that the viewer knows this is an epic. We see our main character, a slave named Spartacus (Kirk Douglas), is so uncooperative in his position in a mining pit that he is sentenced to death by starvation. By chance, he is displayed to a sniveling Roman businessman named Lentulus Batiatus (Peter Ustinov), who – impressed by his ferocity – purchases Spartacus for his gladiatorial school. He tells his instructor Marcellus (Charles McGraw) to watch over Spartacus specifically because he thinks "he has quality". Amid the “training”, Spartacus forms a quiet relationship with a female slave named Varinia (Jean Simmons). She falls for Spartacus when he refuses to rape her for the entertainment of the guards claiming that he is not an animal. When she says “neither am I,” he respects her and realizes that she is kept for her physical abilities just as he is. Spartacus and Varinia are subsequently forced to endure numerous humiliations for defying the conditions of servitude, but their bond grows stronger as they suffer together.

Batiatus receives a visit from the immensely wealthy Roman senator Marcus Licinius Crassus (Laurence Olivier), who aims to become dictator of the stagnant Roman republic. Crassus buys Varinia on a whim and, for the amusement of his companions; arranges for Spartacus and three others to fight in pairs to the death. It was promised to the training gladiators that these death battles would only happen at the Colosseum. Crassus offers enough money that Batiatus can’t refuse, but this sets the rebellious attitude of the gladiators. During his fight, Spartacus is disarmed and his opponent, an African named Draba (Woody Strode), spares his life in a burst of defiance and instead attacks the Roman audience, but is speared by an arena guard and then finished off by Crassus. The next day, with the atmosphere still tense over this episode, Batiatus takes Varinia away to Crassus's house in Rome. Spartacus kills Marcellus, who was taunting him about his love, and the fight escalates into a full blown riot. The gladiators overwhelm their guards and escape into the Italian countryside.

Spartacus is chosen as leader of the fugitives and he decides to lead them out of Italy to the sea where they can leave the country. The growing army of slaves and gladiators plunders Roman estates all over the countryside, collecting enough money to buy sea transport from the pirates of Cilicia. Spartacus and his group encounter numerous other slaves who wish to join, making the procession towards the sea as large as an army. One of the new arrivals is Varinia, who escaped while being delivered to Crassus. Another is a slave entertainer named Antoninus (Tony Curtis), who also fled Crassus's service. Spartacus feels mentally inadequate because he is uneducated, but he proves an excellent leader and organizes his diverse followers into a tough and self-sufficient community. Varinia, now his informal wife, becomes pregnant by him, and he also comes to regard the spirited Antoninus as a sort of son.

The Roman Senate becomes increasingly alarmed as Spartacus defeats the multiple armies sent against him. Crassus's populist opponent Gracchus (Charles Laughton) knows that his rival will try to use the crisis as a justification for seizing control of the Roman army. To try and prevent this, Gracchus channels as much military power as possible into the hands of his own protege, a young senator named Julius Caesar (John Gavin). Although Caesar lacks Crassus's contempt for the lower classes of Rome, he mistakes the man's rigid outlook for nobility. Thus, when Gracchus reveals that he has bribed the pirates to get Spartacus out of Italy and rid Rome of the slave army, Caesar regards such tactics as beneath him and goes over to Crassus.

Crassus uses a bribe of his own to make the pirates abandon Spartacus and has the Roman army secretly force the rebels away from the coastline towards Rome. Amid panic that Spartacus means to sack the city, the Senate gives Crassus absolute power. Now surrounded by Romans, Spartacus convinces his men to die fighting. Just by rebelling and proving themselves human, he says that they have struck a blow against slavery. In the ensuing battle, after initially breaking the ranks of Crassus's legions, the slave army ends up trapped between Crassus and two other forces advancing from behind, and most of them are massacred. Afterward, the Romans try to locate the rebel leader for special punishment by offering a pardon (and return to enslavement) if the men will identify Spartacus, living or dead. Every surviving man responds by shouting "I'm Spartacus!". As a result, Crassus has them all sentenced to death by crucifixion along the Via Appia between Rome and Capua, where the revolt began.

After the battle, Crassus finds Varinia and Spartacus's newborn son hiding amongst the dead and takes them prisoner. He is disturbed by the idea that Spartacus can command more love and loyalty than he can and hopes to compensate by making Varinia as devoted to him as she was to her former husband. When she rejects him, he furiously seeks out Spartacus (whom he recognizes from having watched him at Batiatus' school) and forces him to fight Antoninus to the death. The survivor is to be crucified, along with all the other men captured after the great battle. Spartacus kills Antoninus to spare him this terrible fate. The incident leaves Crassus worried about Spartacus's potential to live in legend as a martyr. In other matters, he is also worried about Caesar, whom he senses will someday eclipse him.

Gracchus, having seen Rome fall into tyranny, commits suicide. Before doing so, he bribes his friend Batiatus to rescue Spartacus's family from Crassus and carry them away to freedom. On the way out of Rome, the group passes under Spartacus's cross. Varinia is able to comfort him in his dying moments by showing him his little son, who will grow up free and knowing who his father was.

So just to really hit this spoiler home: the slaves who escape are all slaughtered in battle or crucified along the road into Rome, the senator who tries to help them commits suicide, and Spartacus kills his close friend and is himself crucified to the sound of his slowly dying army. His one consolation is he sees his wife leaving with his child under the same man who turned him into a gladiator in the first place. Kubrick really knows how to end on an up note (sarcasm). This is not that surprising since Trumbo adapted it and he was not feeling like a happy ending was in his future. It was probably very cathartic for him to write out the script.

This movie brags of having a cast of thousands and that is no lie. My mom commented during the battle scene when all the armies are marching out that “nobody was unemployed during the making of this movie.” There was no green screen or CG effects, just 8000 members of the Spanish military dressed up like Roman soldiers and marching in formation. There were apparently many gory scenes that were cut out of battle towards the end and only a shot of Spartacus cutting off a man’s arm remained. When envisioning the project, Kubrick had no intention of holding back.

I did learn from the DVD extras (this is released through Criterion so there are tons of bonus extras and commentary) that Kubrick considered this the only film in which he felt he did not have complete creative control. He fought with Trumbo about the lead character being too perfect. Spartacus was a rebellious slave with no formal education and a huge chip on his shoulder. Why would he be so nice and understanding when so few people had shown him any kindness? The studios also did not like that somebody who had been shown to be so good would end up dying so badly. Kubrick really distanced himself from this film as he got old because he considered it the one example of a movie that he helped create that wasn’t really his.

One specific scene that both Kubrick and Trumbo agreed on but the studios did not like was the famous “snails and oysters” moment between Crassus and Antoninus. This is a famous moment in the history of homosexual representation in American film and involves two of the most well known actors of the time, Sir Laurence Olivier and Tony Curtis. Antoninus is tending to Crassus during a bath and Crassus asks a series of questions about moral actions. He asks if Antoninus eats oysters and snails and asks if eating one is morally superior to the other. Crassus concludes that it is a matter of taste and not a question of morality. During the questioning, Antoninus continually refers to Crassus as master while oiling up the man in a bath. Crassus is blatantly hitting on Antoninus and the only reason it got past the studio censors is that it was the villainous Roman tyrant. This scene would have been cut at the time if it would have gone any further, I think. Very interesting moment in movie history.

More than any single scene, Kubrick was constantly fighting about his need to put in his special touch of over perfectionism which translated to demanding a lot of takes. This really slows down production when you are trying to direct and you are dealing with so many people. He is reported to have done a dozen or more takes for each dolly shot of the dead bodies on the battle field with specific instructions for every single extra that lay on the field. I am all about sticking to your vision, but that might be going a little bit too far when you are using studio money. I do love the final product, however, so I am probably not allowed to complain too much about the director’s process.

So does this movie belong on the AFI list? Of course. It is an epic historical drama that won 4 Academy Awards. It stars some of the biggest names in movie history including the great Kirk Douglas in possibly his most memorable role, it was directed by the iconic Stanley Kubrick, and this movie marks the end of the blacklisting of writers who had been accused of being communists. This is a piece of cinema that strongly represents the time of its creation and should definitely be studied by groups like the AFI. Would I recommend it? Across the board. It is a great movie that actually moves through its 3+ hours. I found myself taking less notes during the movie and simply enjoying the entire viewing. I even watched again with commentary without a single gripe. Fantastic movie and a real tribute to the great actor Kirk Douglas. RIP and thank you for the entertainment. I am Spartacus!

#spartacus #Kirk Douglas #award winner #academy award #Stanley Kubrick #roman empire #afi films #60s #golden age of hollywood #introvert #introverts #movie review #spoilers

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kariachi · 5 years

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Levinstar wedding planning fic! Which I have spent the last like, six hours on.

Love it or perish.

He’d never expected Mike to propose. Why should he have? Someone like Gwen, yes, eventually they were going to legally latch themselves onto somebody, but Mike? He’d never seemed the type. He had been, as far as Kevin could tell, perfectly happy to be in a position where getting tired of the way things were wouldn’t mean dragging in lawyers or anything to change course. And Kevin had been fine with that. If he hadn’t then he wouldn’t have bothered keeping up the relationship. It was cool.

But he had.

Which had been so fucking confusing.

Literally Mike’d sat there for ten minutes getting more and more aggravated at not getting an answer while Kevin had been shifting his worldview enough to acknowledge the question.

Really, they were probably the only couple in Bellwood who could get into a yelling match over a welcomed marriage proposal.

It should’ve been considered a sign.

“Mike, babe, what the fuck?”

There was not a square inch of flat surface free in the Morningstar livingroom that wasn’t floor. Everywhere was calendars and books and papers and a stack of pizza boxes Kevin was very tempted to set on fire just to make a point. Domino’s, really, as if he couldn’t make him better asleep and half-dead.

“I’m trying to figure out a date for the wedding.” Mike didn’t even bother to look up, instead glowering at a list of dates like it had personally offended him. Kevin just shook his head, leaning over the back of the couch and draping his arms over his shoulders.

“Without me?”

“I was going to give you final pick when I find the best days.”

“Of course you were.” Rolling his eyes, Kevin plopped his chin onto Mike’s hair and began scanning the list. It looked to be covering the next few years, for all that there weren’t that many dates on it. “Just how long were you intending us to stay engaged, by the way?” Mike shrugged.

“I’d prefer to the married within the year, but the Miramonte is more heavily booked than I’d like for the next few. We could probably get Ocean Bleu though, which isn’t quite what I’d like but your mother’s family could get there easier. Or there’s the Cedar Lakes Estate, but that’s so… rustic.” That last word was said in about the same tone Gwen had used when she found out they were dating in the first place. This did not stop Kevin from glancing at the relevant booklets Mike gestured to and crinkling his nose.

“You realize we could just have the whole thing at Kay’s place, or at the farmhouse.” Mike turned to him with a look like he’d suggested getting married in a sewer, which he might out of spite.

“I am not getting married on a farm.”

“Why not? They’re perfectly good farms, pretty, got plenty of space, and we don’t need to worry about when venues will be available.”

“I am worth 237 million dollars,” Mike said haughtily, “you’re worth the cost of a small planet, we are not getting married on a farm. What next, do you want a cow to officiate?” Kevin punched him in the shoulder. “We’re getting married in all the finery you deserve.”

For a brief, shining moment Kevin wasn’t aggravated. What he deserved, specifically. He loved these instances where Mike’s attitude, all pride and vanity and narcissism, slipped just enough to show how he held him in high regard as well. It was sweet. It was romantic. It did not mean he was giving in.

“Consider- I don’t want chandeliers and crystal and shit. It’s a waste of money for what’s gonna take up a weekend at best.” Mike leaned forward and turned to face him.

“Consider- suck it up, you’re getting it anyway.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Kevin glowered at Mike. Mike glowered right back. Neither backed down. Really, fancy venues, they didn’t even know enough people to fill one of these venues, and it’d probably be a bitch to get the catering crews to do the amount of food they’d need.

“Look, we’ll get married at one of the mansions-”

“No, then people will think we couldn’t rent a place.” Oh good fuck. Biting back a growl, Kevin took a deep breathe and turned his attention back to the list of dates. That couldn’t be nearly as aggravating as this. It couldn’t.

“Why isn’t the Winter Solstice on there,” he asked, “that’s a good day for weddings.” It was the day for weddings, among Osmosians. Still, Mike shook his head.

“We celebrate your birthday on the solstice, whether it is or not-” Another Osmosian thing “-and it’s bad luck to get married on your birthday.” Kevin blinked.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okaaay,” he took a deep breath, “and since when were you the superstitious sort?”

“Since now.”

There just, there were no words.

In the end they settled on a Wednesday in August, which Mike swore backwards and forth was the best possible combination. More specifically one a few years in the coming.

Kevin had a grim suspicion that they’d need the time.

“I’m sorry, let me rephrase, we will not, under any circumstances, be having a potluck wedding reception.” He was impossible, Kevin swore it.

“And why not?”

“It isn’t done.”

“It is by my family.”

“Your family can’t afford catering, or else it wouldn’t be.” Which wasn’t entirely wrong, but he would eat his own tongue before he admitted it.

“You don’t even like other people’s food,” he replied instead. “You can’t even taste it most of the time, half the pack has adjusted their recipes for you!” Mike just kept that easy ‘I’m right and you aren’t smart enough to know it’ look he got from time to time up on his face.

“So we’ll take that into account when we choose our caterer,” he said. “Maybe Indian food or something.

“Why though, when we can just as easily get family and friends to handle the whole thing, and not have to pay out the ass?” Heaving a sigh, Mike looked up at the kitchen ceiling like Kevin was the one being unreasonable.

“Because we can pay for someone else to do it and not have to worry ourselves and our guests. Plus, the food will look better.” It would’ve been very easy for Kevin to argue that nothing looked as good as Casey’s mutton ribs, except maybe the man across from him, but he didn’t. There were more important factors.

“And what about diet shit?” That got Mike to stop, gently setting his spoon back in his bowl. “Argit, Ken, and Pierce can’t have chocolate, Ben can’t be in the same room as peanuts, I can’t have anything that’s been in contact with strawberry and neither can a decent number of my relatives. If family’s doing the cooking I know I don’t have to worry about any of that, but all it takes is one person with only half a brain cell to fuck that up with outsiders.”

Mike went quiet, lips sinking into a frown and brow furrowing like maybe, just maybe, Kevin had a point. It was guaranteed the very thought would have him sulking until dessert. He closed his eyes and took, then released, a deep breath.

“I’d still rather get catering,” he said, quietly, “but if it would make you happy, then we’ll see about getting somebody we can pay enough to not pitch a fit if your family brings in food too.” Victory. A small victory, but still. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Kevin leaned over the table to plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks, babe. Sounds like a plan.”

They had three more arguments about venues before finally settling on one. Mike wanted elegant and upscale, someplace people would talk about. Kevin wanted homey and down-to-earth (and preferably cheap). In the end they’d settled on a middle ground, moving the wedding out of the county and to the Morningstar’s household in Italy.

Apparently, upon bringing his new wife and son over to the states, Greggory Morningstar had noted how she missed their homeland and had the house built for her so she could pick up and visit whenever she wished. He also apparently bought her a plane, and Kevin thought the whole thing as ridiculous as it was romantic. Michael just seemed too damn proud of his grandfather’s actions.

Proud enough he started a whole new argument by asking if Kevin wanted him to build him a house.

“Why am I marrying into money, this is a horrible idea.”

“Because you’re a golddigger until the bitter end.”

“Fuck, you’re right.”

“Also I’m pretty.”

“That too.”

Helen and Elena had wisely left the room fifteen minutes ago, and were probably continuing in their quest to help throw this wedding together so Mike didn’t drive himself mad and Kevin didn’t kill him.

Back in the dining room though, both men were on their feet, teeth bared and chins lowered, all but growling at each other.

They had been in this position for, you guessed it, fifteen minutes.

It turned out their ideas of décor, which had seemed to meld so well before when they were just leaving their marks on each other’s homes, were not surviving the wedding process. Again, Mike wanted flashy and elegant (tacky, he wanted tacky, why couldn’t he stop throwing money around for five minutes-) while Kevin wanted earthy and simple (cheap, neither of them were on the streets anymore they could afford to indulge in nice things-).

“Okay boys,” Helen said as she strode back in, ignoring the tension- she’d known these two since she was quite literally born, she was used to it- and dropping a small stack of books on the table between them, “Elena and I have figured something out. First off, we’ve decided on greys, golds, and blues for your colors. Shut up.” Both men closed their mouths before even getting the chance to speak. “They’re what look best on you both and you’d argue about it just to argue. Anyway, we’ve got a plan, we’re gonna handle it, we just need you boys to pick some flowers that’ll work.” She patted the stack, which a quick glance proved to be on the topic.

“We don’t care if you do them together or apart, just get us at least four to work off and don’t kill each other. I’ve already got a dress bought and I’m not wasting it because you’re stupid.” Neither of them answered, but when she rolled her eyes and left Kevin stuck his tongue out at her back.

If nothing else it made Mike bite back a laugh.

They split the job. Mike chose daffodils and false indigo, which meant Kevin had to scrap his plan to choose daffodils. (He should’ve known anyway, given how fond Mike was of them.) Instead he went with irises and tulips, and if it was because the idea of tulips for a later summer wedding seemed so very Michael to him, well, it wasn’t like anyone was going to ask.

Thankfully, they all really worked surprisingly well together.

“So,” Kevin asked one evening while they hung out on his couch, “what are we doing with your uncle?”

“What do you mean?” Mike didn’t take his eyes off his game, but his shoulders tensed under Kevin’s arm. He pulled it back enough to be able to massage one.

“Are we inviting him or- I mean I know you guys’ relationship is… weird, right now but…” ‘But everyone on the list so far is either a mutual friend or someone there for me.’ Mike was quiet for a moment, then paused his game.

“Do you think we should?” Kevin shrugged.

“I think I’d have to start shaming the Tennysons into not flipping their shit tomorrow if we do,” he said. “I mean their history with him is as bad as it is with me, possibly worse given I never tried to kill either of their moms.” Mike groaned under his breath. “But he’s your uncle, and if you want him there…” He shrugged again, but threw up a grin and nudged Mike’s shoulder.

“If you want him there, I’ll drag him to Italy myself if I have to.” Quietly chuckling, Mike leaned against him.

“I think,” he said slowly, like he was rolling the idea in his head, “I’m more likely to regret not inviting him someday than I am to regret inviting him. Besides, if anyone is going to go all out to celebrate my wedding, it’ll be him.” Kevin chuckled.

“Given he tried to kidnap you when we were three because he loved you so much, I’m not surprised.”

“Excuse me,” Mike replied, smiling, “he did not try to kidnap me. He succeeded in kidnapping me. And given how my stepmother turned out I don’t think he can be blamed.” There was no way Kevin could really argue there.

“Still, I’m glad our dads tracked you down. He really doesn’t sound like the type who should be raising children.”

“Oh fuck no,” Mike said. “Maybe he can come babysit on occasion, but we’re definitely not leaving our kids to him or anything.” Not that they’d ever really agreed to have kids (they’d agreed it seemed likely to happen at some point, given how Kevin’s family was, but not to have them specifically) but Kevin still nodded. It wasn’t a discussion for now.

“Oh no, we leave them to Argit.”

After another four arguments Mike got permission to build Kevin a house up in New England, closer to his mother’s relatives. In return, two other Morningstar properties were being converted into a foster care center and housing for families traveling in pursuit of healthcare for mutant children.

Mike accepted the terms as soon as he got them.

“Cookies, pie, or something else?”

“What?” Rolling out from under his car, Kevin looked up to see Mike standing there with one of the notepads he seemed to have an endless supply of lately.

“I assume you don’t want us to have a cake, so what do you think we should have instead? I want to say cookies but that seems…”

“Inelegant.” Kevin had been at this long enough at this point to hear that word ringing in his dreams anymore. Still, he smiled at Mike’s remembering how he felt about cake and sat up, crossing his arms over his legs. “You want pie then?”

“Unless you can think of something else. Croquembouche maybe. It would be traditional, but given how many children are likely to be at this I’d worry about it being damaged.”

“And pies won’t suffer from that,” Kevin chuckled.

“They’re not likely to topple over at any point.”

“They will if we stack them high enough.” His bright smile was met with a glower, which was really the goal with that one. Sometimes getting a rise out of Mike was fun.

“Don’t start, Kevin. I just want to know what you think.” Kevin took a minute the think it over, rising to his feet with a long stretch and stepping over to rest his head against Mike’s, ignoring the resultant complaints about mussing his hair.

“Order your pastry tower,” he said, “I’ll ask the fam to make pies and tarts and we’ll just, form a protective ring of them.” With a snorting laugh, Mike shook his head.

“Alright, sure.” He raised an eyebrow at Kevin in a way that might have been stern if he wasn’t smiling. “If this thing gets knocked over though-”

“You can skin me alive, I’ll deserve it.” Pressing a quick kiss to his lips, Kevin backed up. “Was that all you needed, babe?” Purring, Mike nodded.

“I think so, for now at least. Thank you, Daffodil.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?! You’ve spent the past year and a half insisting this be the most posh, elegant wedding ever on the planet Earth and now you don’t want me in fucking formalwear?!” He was gonna kill him, right here in a tailor shop he was going to kill him.

“You look awkward,” Mike snapped by way of explanation, “and weird dressed like that, like someone put jeans on a swan! Just-” He stepped forward and began wrestling Kevin out of his outfit. “-take off the jacket- There! That looks right!” He didn’t look in the mirror. He refused. Over a year of fighting him, and losing half the time, on the topic of how elegant this whole affair should be and now, now Mike decided there was a line.

He was gonna kill him.

Even if it felt nice to lose the extra fabric around his neck.

“And what, pray tell, are you going to wear then?”

“The full suit, obviously.” Yep gonna kill him. “I look good in it and you…” Reaching out, Mike adjusted his collar and tie. Smoothed out the fabric over his chest and arms. “You look better like this.”

“Do I now?” Some old bit of Kevin’s brain swore that if this was some attempt to make him look unkempt, out of place, at his own damn wedding just to make his bastard shine more he would- Mike leaned in and kissed him.

“You look like you,” he said when he pulled away, then gave the outfit a critical eye. “We’ll just have to make up for the jacket with the jewelry.”

Kevin stared into the velvet-lined box in his hands. There was just, everything in there. Earrings, noserings, cufflinks, if it was a piece of jewelry he could physically wear it was there. And white sapphires, the lot of it. (“I know how you feel about the diamond industry, Levin.”) He just, didn’t know what to say. He’d never legally held this many gemstones in his hands before. Forget hundreds, there had to be thousands of dollars’ worth of jewels there.

“Mike, I-”

“Kevin Ethan Levin-Jones, I swear if I get to the altar and you aren’t fucking sparkling with all this I am going to turn around and come right the fuck back home.” Oh. Well then. He chuckled and grinned up at him.

“Whatever you want, babe.”

The coffeetable was littered with papers containing every possible combination of their first and last names. And relatives’ last names. And Mike’s clan name which it turned out didn’t work with anything. Because apparently the fates hated them.

“I’m telling you, ‘Kevin Morningstar’ works the best out of the lot.”

“Yeah but do I want to be associated with that level of wealth?” Mike looked at him askance.

“It’s not like we’re the fucking Bezos family.”

“Still.”

“Besides, you could get rid of that stupid pun. Honestly, I’m still pissed you didn’t get rid of it when you changed your name. Kevin E Levin, really, only you would make your name worse.”

“What can I say, I’m my father’s child.”

“You’re not making puns out of my children, you know.”

“We’ll see about that.” Shifting some papers, Kevin chewed the inside of his cheek. “‘Michael Levin-Jones’ doesn’t sound bad.” Mike groaned beside him.

“No, but it doesn’t sound as good as ‘Michael Morningstar’ does.”

“That’s just because of the alliteration. Besides, that way Argit wouldn’t have to kill me for changing my name after he legally snatched it up.”

“He can deal.” Kevin shook his head with a heavy sigh, dropping it onto Mike’s shoulder.

“We are going to be here forever,” he said, which only seemed to aggravate his fiancé.

“No, we are going to figure something out if I have to pull a name from a goddamn hat.”

In the end, somehow, probably thanks to the girls, it turned out to be a nice wedding.

The house was lovely, large enough that family could take over the kitchens but not huge, with nice landscaping and a lovely view of the Mediterranean that they’d used as a backdrop for the ceremony and pictures. Kevin did feel more comfortable without the jacket and found himself unable to argue about clothing choices when Mike showed up in full formalwear, mostly because he was too busy alternating between staring and trying to discreetly swat Ben and Argit for laughing at him. The traitors.

The ceremony was as lovely as was to be expected given Kevin had puppy-eyed Zak into officiating and Mike had written half the damn thing. Multiple people had cried, including Kevin himself. The rings had been revealed, homemade by Kevin, at which point everything seemed to hit Mike and he nearly cried. They had to do the whole ‘you may kiss the groom’ thing twice, purely because Kevin couldn’t resist being a shit and littering Mike’s face with the kisses the first time, but they were both smiling after and Manny fell down laughing so nobody could really argue against it.

Besides, any embarrassment it may have caused Mike’s poor battered pride was overshadowed at the reception, when Mr Zomboni decided to make a toast and speech detailing some of the embarrassing things they both did as toddlers before bursting into tears again as how grown up his dear nephew was.

Was a lovely reception though, Helen and Elena outdid themselves. Everything in crystal and flowers, steel, gold, and chains. Elegant enough that Mike could bear to attend (cue eye roll) and mellow enough Kevin didn’t feel out of place at his own damn wedding. And the food was spectacular, even- Kevin hated to admit- the catered stuff, though he happily noted, aloud, that Mike ate more of the home cooking on offer.

After his bitching he was never living it down.

All in all it was, good.

Right.

Perfect.

“Ya know,” Kevin said, quietly because they were both suffering from monster hangovers post-reception, “I’m just amazed we survived this long. I was sure we were going to kill each other.” With a tiny huff, Mike burrowed further into his side, face slotted against his collarbone.

“Couldn’t kill you,” he mumbled, “spent too much on that damn engagement ring to waste it.” Kevin snorted a quick laugh, flinching when his headache didn’t agree with it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to his hair, “love you too, Sparkles.” Mike huffed louder this time, throwing one arm over his face and around Kevin’s head as he mumbled something into his skin.

It sounded suspiciously similar to ‘love you more’.

#fanfic #levinstar #ben 10 #kevin levin #mike morningstar

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hellolittleogre · 4 years

Text

Dusting off the archives

Since I like a lot of other fanfic writers are spending this time aggressively staring at different WIPs and NOT WRITING I thought I would dust off various WIPs which have stalled through the years. These are to a large extent morgue files, they will probably never be finished fic. I thought I’d share what I have written, plus synopsis or outline if I have it. I feel like they are like rings in the core of a glacier and different trends and tropes can be read in them. Some of them are also incredibly embarrassing.

Under the Cut: Avengers kid fic

Fandom: The Avengers

Paring: Clint Barton/ Phil Coulson

Working Title: Uhhhhh.....Superspy Daddies (not brilliant I admit)

Year written: 2012 (god help us all)

Synopsis: Clint meets Tasha when she ‘s a wee spy child and decides to adopt her. After a few years on the run they are caught up by SHIELD and recruited. There is something mysterious going on and they are assigned an alias as a family, with two dads and Natasha. Enter spy shenanigans and fake marriage and falling in love. Yay! Everything is safe and nothing hurts.

Natasha was seven when she met Clint. She can still remember the impact when she hit him, how she had launched herself into his body and sent them both tumbling. They had ended up on the floor. Natasha with her knife to his throat and Clint with an arrow in his hand the point just pressing against her ribs.

It should have been easy, a clean-cut job of getting into the house, making the target and getting out again but something had been wrong, men positioned in places they shouldn’t and suddenly hostiles everywhere and a blond man with a bow taking out people with unerring accuracy.

She remembers the surprise in his face, how open it was.

“But you are just a child,” he had said in astonished and slightly accented Russian. It made her want to smile because she hadn’t been a child for a long time now.

“I am Black Widow,” she said simply, when she had planned to say nothing at all. The man stared at her.

“Ok, so, I’m going to lower my hand now, nice and easy, like this yeah?” The arrow was slowly removed from her ribs. “We have about ten minutes before my backup gets here so listen. You can kill me and go on doing what you are doing or I can get you out of here, somewhere safe and you can either come with me or go your way, but you don’t have to do this anymore.”

He is, possibly, the first person she can remember who has offered her something without asking anything of her. The idea intrigued her, that somebody could do something for you without wanting anything in return, that there could be actions without purpose or gain.

“You are not a pervert, are you?” She knows about those, they are easy, all soft words and soft hands right up to the point where they are not but then usually it is already too late. He actually laughed at that, a soft huff of air as if she had said something honestly funny.

“No, no perverts here m’am. Nobody but us chickens.” She does not understand that, it had been nobody but them and maybe a handful of dead men, no chickens at all. She frowns at him.

He sighed. “I’m Clint.”

She thought about it, the sharp edge of her knife resting against his throat, but. He has offered to do something for her without asking anything in return. He could have killed her but he didn’t. And he doesn’t want her to kill anyone, he doesn’t seem to want her to do anything. Maybe she can trust him.

“I’m Black Widow,” she says again. She doesn’t have to trust him much, or for long.

In the end they had gotten out through the air ducts. Crawled out a couple of yards behind the perimeter and Clint had then calmly walked her through the tail end of the increasingly panicked ranks of the mission, even snagging his own jacket and bow case from the back of a van. He had draped the jacked around her shoulders and pushed her lightly in the back. “Just keep your head down and walk, nice and easy.”

Natasha had to admire the audacity of it, she is not sure anymore but she believes at one point he even nodded to somebody he knew before getting her into the night. Quietly slipping away.

They go through Europe first, down through Ukraine and Romania to Serbia, Croatia and finally Italy. Clint makes Natasha cut her hair in the bathroom of a gas station. Says that maybe a man and a young boy might draw less attention. Hands her the scissors with an: I ain’t going to touch you, kiddo and closes the door. Her hair is now short and jagged and fiery red and she likes it. It takes her three months before she finally tells Clint her name is actually Natalia Romanova and he grins at her, delighted. “I’m Hawkeye,” he says.

Slowly as Natalia learns to trust him she tells Clint about the Red Room. She has a hard time remembering anything before that but she remembers training, learning and the experiments.

They had been together for nearly a month when Clint accidentally cuts himself. Its straight across his palm and deep and painful as fuck. Clint tries to stem the blood flow with a shirt and cursing under his breath. Natasha is strangely unperturbed, as if she can’t understand why he is making a fuss.

“Its not so bad, you just put band aid on it and it’s gone in the morning,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. Clint takes it that she meant, it will be gone in a sort of, it will still be there but at least it wont bother you fashion. As it turns out she means it quite literally.

The next night as they make camp she gives his bandage a suspicious look but says nothing. Clint is cleaning the wound with some water heated on the fire, it stings like a bitch but looks like it will heal nicely, looking up he sees Natasha across the fire, her face is white and her eyes are like saucers. Then she is by his side, prodding and poking at his hand with ungentle fingers.

“You are still hurt, why are you still hurt, why hasn’t it healed? Are you ill, what is wrong with you?” She is as animated as he has ever seen her, shaken up and honestly confused and terrified. It takes a while to calm her down to explain that when ordinary people get hurt it takes weeks and weeks for them to heal, and this is normal and it doesn’t mean that Clint is sick or dying. It is perhaps the first time Natasha lets on that she really cares. It is also the point when Clint realises how truly different she is, and the extent of those experiments. She takes out his knife and makes a shallow cut across the back of her hand and lets him watch as it fades into pink nothingness in a couple of hours.

In Croatia, Dubrovnik, Clint takes her to the beach, all blue water and fishing boats bobbing on the waves. It's the first time she has seen the sea. The water is so clear you can make out all the little fishes darting after each other along the shallows. After only half a day in the sun her skin was so burnt her back broke out in blisters and the heatstroke made her throw up on the bus back to the room they’re renting. Clint pets her hair and nods to the large woman across the aisle, who has been making sympathetic noises and has given them a plastic bag.

“Red hair, can’t stand the sun, any of them. Her mother was just the same, God rest her soul, always so sensitive.” The woman clucks in distress and finds a cough sweet in the horrifying depths of her handbag. Natalia swears she can still feel the taste of it in her nose even after she has thrown up twice.

All she could do was lie on her stomach in their tiny room with an ice clamp wrapped in a wet towel on her back. She doesn’t cry in pain but she considers it, the possibility. There would be nobody here to punish her for it now. Cling gave her purple and yellow ice lollies, the first she’s ever had, until her mouth was skinned and raw from them. She peels afterwards and sits in the bathroom and gets Clint to peel strips of skin off her back showing her the longest ones.

“This is so gross,” he tells her after he’s managed to peel a strip of skin all the way from her shoulder down to the small of her back. The new skin underneath the flaking was pink and tender and dotted with tiny freckles. It’s the closest to fun she has had in years.

Clint has never taken care of anyone in his life, not himself and much less anyone else. Things such as regular meals, bedtimes and food which is not pizza is pretty much new and foreign country to him. It took him about a year to figure out that Natalia needed to go to school, because he could teach her English just fine (except maybe not words like corium and discombobulate) and some maths, as long as it had to do with geometry and seriously, he has been briefed on so many cities that they are probably good for geography for a while, but the rest of it? He has no idea.

They stayed in Naples for six months, long enough for Clint to work out a way to get into the US and for Natalia to lose her accented English and learn a quite impressive smattering of Italian. Then, they are found. The same car stands parked on their street three days in a row, inconspicuously nestled under a great chestnut tree and Clint calmly tells Natasha to grab the overnight bag in the hall and they walk past is slowly and calmly, looking straight ahead like they were just heading for the park to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. The agents are Russian and in the end it turns ugly, they barely get away and leave corpses on their trail. They get on a plane to America a month ahead of schedule and it is a far too narrow escape. It’s only after this, after their narrow escape to relative safety that Natalia begins to have nightmares.

“Clint?”

“Yeah”

“Can you tell me a story?”

This is the third time the same night Natasha has woken from nightmares and Clint has resigned to sleeping on the floor by her bed instead of going back to his own. He has a lumpy pillow wedged under his head (in fact, he suspects it to be Natasha’s stuffed bear, Phillipov).

“A story, what about?”

There is a silence; it is long enough that he would have suspected that she had dropped off but for her calculated breathing. She is thinking about something, not sure how to phrase it.

“Angela has stories,” she says at last. Angela is Tasha’s friend from school, one of the few she has made. “I mean, her mom tells her stories about her, when she was little, what she said, when she was bad, you know. Could you, could you tell a story about me? When I was little?”

And Clint opens his mouth to say he can’t do that, he never knew her when she was little and lived in a facility where they trained her and filled her blood with god only knows what and then realises that’s not the point. Natasha knows this, but she wants a story. Not a lie, a story, about herself, when she was little, what she might have done. Clint exhales deeply and tries to think.

“Do you remember when we lived in Italy, in Naples? In that tiny apartment and your roll out bed? Well, a couple of years before that we lived for a while in Rome, but you were so little, only four, you can’t possibly remember. We lived, you and me then, in this small apartment outside of Rome. The kitchen was tiny, but it had this huge fridge-freezer unit, this monster from the fifties in avocado green with a door thick like the safe to a bank vault and the freezer on top of it. It was like a fridge for a large Italian family with a grandma and a fat uncle with a moustache and not just for the two of us. Now it was summer and that apartment was always hot and you wanted gelato but I wouldn’t give you any because it was just before dinner and you couldn’t reach the freezer by yourself. So you had this trick of wedging a kitchen chair against the fridge, on its back legs and then climb up onto the back of the chair so you could open the freezer.”

Clint could actually see it before him, this small, determined version of Natasha, dragging the chair across the room and her bare feet soft against the linoleum floor.

“It used to make me so mad, y’know. You could fall down and split your skull, knock your teeth out, anything. And I caught you this one time, balanced on the chair with your head in the freezer and I got so mad and I yelled at you, and I said: You are driving me nuts, you’ve got to stop doing this. Do you want me to go crazy?”

And you said, without even looking away from the ice cream box: I don’t want you to go crazy. I want ice cream.”

There is silence and then Natasha laughs, it’s just a puff of amusement, there and gone again but its genuine. After a while he reaches up a hand and feels Nat stick her little paw in his. It is soft and slightly sticky, squeezing around his for a moment before she settles down.

“That’s a good story,” she says sleepily and after a while she falls asleep. Clint is not so lucky but at least there are no more nightmares for tonight. After this she wants a lot of them, Clint tells her about fishing trips, about that time in the Natural History Museum when she thought she was lost in the room with all the gorillas, when Clint was standing right next to her all the time.

Clint sweats the whole ten hour flight to America. Tasha curls up in her seat and pretends to sleep the whole way, the air hostess giving her a colouring book and nearly subconsciously petting her hair. There is just something about the short curls that people seem helpless to resist.

In the end it is only bad luck that Shield found them. A lot of bad luck at the same time but only chance in the end. Anyway that’s what Clint claims, Agent Coulson maintains that luck had nothing to do with it and it was the result of several years of hard work on his part and if anything it was lucky that Shield found them first and not the Russians.

They have been living in the US for years now, slowly drifting across the north and the mid west, Clint picking up work where he can find it. They always have emergency bags packed but it was a while since they’ve had to use them.

It was nearly five years since Clint found Natasha, or she found him, four years of Clint jumping from job to job and Nat from school to school but lately the time between moves become longer and longer. Clint had a job he actually likes, working as a bit of everything in a school for deaf kids. Natasha has friends to sit with her at the lunch table, has started playing soccer, and it turns out she is menace on the grass. They feel safe, five years have gone by and nothing has been seen or heard and maybe it has made them complacent. Maybe its just nice to belong somewhere. Tasha has friends on her soccer team and comes home grass stained and happy. She’s hit a growth spurt and reminds Clint of a foal with long gangly limbs.

It starts with a parent teacher visit, just a stupid mistake. It's Tasha’s homeroom teacher who gives Clint a considering look and remarks that he looks a bit young to have a daughter her age. And that’s all it takes to get the ball rolling, somebody looking just a little extra at the adoption papers and suddenly there is a social worker outside the door. Clint and Tasha are professional liars and it comes to nothing in the end but the notice is already logged into the system, leaving a minute paper trail for people who know where to look. And then Clint had gotten ill with the flu, enough to just not pay attention the nondescript car parked on their street for two days in a row. They are unprepared for it when Clint, kept awake by coughing, spots the stealthy movement on the street and there is no time, no time for anything other than getting out. The rain is pouring down and Tasha is still in her pyjamas, shoes held in one hand. As it turns out the location of their backup storage is compromised and Clint barely makes it out with one bag, containing a change for Natasha and barely enough cash to make it out of town. They don’t try to go to the second one, where Clint’s bow and arrows are stored. It hurts, that bow is as much a part of Clint as his arm, but if it is undetected they can come back for it and if it has been found it is not worth trying to get it back. They make their way north on foot and hitchhike, avoiding gas stations and bus stops, suddenly nothing feels safe anymore, everywhere is strange and threatening. Clint’s flu had gotten worse and developed into a deep rattling cough that won’t let go and claws at his chest with dull teeth. There was no time to rest and the constant chill of their travel had made it into pneumonia.

They end up in a motel, where everything within the range of the little electric heater is stuffy and fever-hot and everything outside of it cold and damp. Clint lies propped up on the two slim pillows, Natasha is sitting at the foot of the bed, cleaning out her gear, her face cool and efficient. They both know Clint can’t go much further without rest and proper care, they both know they can't turn to a hospital and there is not enough money for any under the table dealings, even if they had the contacts in this part of the country.

It's only logical that she should go on alone, she has a much better chance to get away. How she is going to make it in the long run neither of them mentions.

“You have a quarter?” she asks “I just wanted something from the vending machine.”

Clint nods towards his bags and when she comes back she packs everything in her bag neatly, all her gear cleaned, three knives on her, one in her sleeve, one in her shoe and one at the small of her back. She puts the blankets over Clint. Go to sleep, she tells him. When he wakes up Tasha is curled up next to him and Shield breaks down the door.

They are being debriefed by Hill and Coulson, and a team of junior agents, even Fury is there, scowling behind the eye patch. Howard and Tony Stark is their target, it is just a scouting mission, there has been some untoward suspected HYDRA activity in Stark Industries.

The pale manila folder lands with a dull sound in front of Clint. It contains, in addition to information on the targets, the cover stories for the job. Natasha squints down at the pages.

“I will be Clint’s adopted daughter and we are living with his brother, my uncle Phil?” Coulson, first name Agent, inclines his head slightly.

“We felt it was best your handler was with you on site,” he says mildly.

Natasha gives him a slanted eyebrow of disbelief and snorts into her folder “yah, because a grown single man living with his brother and a young girl is not weird, at all,” she says in Russian and rolls her eyes at Clint. He tries not to laugh and hopes not too many at the table can understand. Judging by the twitch in Fury’s eye, he should be so lucky.

Just before the elevator closes Hill shows up and smacks a new folder into his chest.

“Your updated covers,” she explains, “ as I understood there were complaints about the last ones.” She gives Nat a nasty look. Clint opens the folder and starts scanning the content. There are papers, degrees even, official adoption papers and also…

“Hang on, we are married now? How is that better??”

They arrived back at the house at five in the morning, Clint practically carrying a half asleep Natasha and Phil felt so tired as if he was moving through molasses. He managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before sitting down on the sofa and completely running out of energy. Mechanically turning on the tv and finding antiques roadshow on and just sitting there with the flickering light over him.

After a while Barton came down and slumped beside him, head leaning back and his eyes closed.

“She’s brushed her teeth and she’s in bed now, I think actually asleep. I hope to hell there will be no nightmares because I don’t know if I have the energy to even get out of this couch.”

“I’ll get it,”Phil says even though he feels like his spine has been boiled to the consistency of a wet noodle and all he wants to do is sleep for a week. Clint makes an exhausted noise beside him and slumps back against the couch, after a little while his head tips over onto Phil’s shoulder. He can feel the soft hair against his jaw and neck. Clint’s breath skates moist and warm over his neck and collarbone. It’s the best thing he has felt in ages and parts of him wishes he really could lean over and cover Clint’s mouth with his own and pull him close. Instead he leans back, promising himself it will only be for a second and then he promptly falls asleep.

Clint wakes up with the most awful crick in the neck. He is still on the sofa, squashed onto his side and his face plastered to Phil’s shoulder. He might even have drooled a bit on his t-shirt. At some point during the night they had managed to wedge themselves into the sofa, Phil mostly on his back and Clint, well, mostly on top of him. He tries to move his legs and find them stuck under something. Something turns out to be Nattie, curled up like a ball at the end of the sofa and her head pillowed on what might be Phil’s hip. Everything hurts like a motherfucker. Its not the discomfort that’s woken him though, it was the soft sound of the front door. Peeling his face slowly from Phil’s shoulder he raises his head to find Steve, Tony and Pepper awkwardly standing in the doorway staring at their slightly inappropriate family re-enactment of the Gordian Knot.

“Sorry Mr C,” Pepper says “the door was open.”

He really, really hopes he had the sense to take off the leather suit before he fell asleep last night.

#writing #morgue files #lets celebrate all the dead ends #the avengers #black widow #clint Barton/ Phil coulson #the dialogue is not good you guys #first installment #cleaning up my google docs

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cupsofsuga · 5 years

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Can I request #19 with jungkook💖💖

EMPTY CANVAS ━ JUNGKOOK*:･。.

WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers. I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

Gif Creds - X

Prompt List - X

Thank you for requesting, darling!

JUNGKOOK

“If you don’t love me, I’ll kill myself!”

━━━ Paint scattered over the wooden floors, vibrant colors caked upon your skin. You put all of your efforts into every swish of your brush. Your perfectionist soul comes out while in the state of doing your passion, which is painting. Ever little detail on the canvas has to be flawless, or else it will be scrapped with utter disappointment.

Jungkook didn’t like this, though, and tried with every muscle inside of him to put effort into diverting your attention away from the canvas, which currently, was so close to becoming finished, he couldn’t stand it! The visual illusions and abstract figures are already absolute perfection through Jungkook’s eyes, but it isn’t to you. The shapes that make up of paint that meld together and the different shades of paint mixed together were used to flow effortlessly to create a harmonious pattern that flows into a gentle frenzy.

The painting was simple, yet beautiful enough to have others stunned into silence, gasps escaping others. Your work was enthralling to some but have been insulted by few who were sulking in their own jealousy. But your pieces always have a way of bringing out the most emotion in some, negative or positive.

You’re adding white detail to the canvas, adding on to a lustrous effect to give the painting more realism. Jungkook from behind you is admiring, peering into every detail of your face, gawking at the way your nose scrunches in concentration, the faint sign of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips when you supposedly reached an inner achievement. He is staring in utter enthrallment, enraptured with your very soul. He is infatuated with your eyes, the way they share a glimmer when you are experiencing the taste of what you love doing.

Over the following years, your painting career has skyrocketed, stealing the attention of others in high power. You’ll truly never get over the feeling of being noticed by idols you’ve adored for centuries and the way their compliments have a way of clutching at your heart.

Days have passed by you, a sharp “ding!” echoes throughout the living room where you spend the following hours by your lonesome. Cherry-tainted clouds have spread across the sky, the sun sinking, sinking, sinking until its final moments turn to complete darkness, to where it is replaced by the moon in all of her glory. The idea is enthralling, you beginning to reminisce of old times where you’re reminded of a painting you made. It’s the idea of loneliness, replacement. You have ranted about how you thought about the sun and the moon being lovers was complete bullshit, and how they were never destined, for they will never meet and are deluded by their own hope. Jungkook thought it was absolutely mesmerizing, even without his presence, he can’t help but ponder and peer at times like this, where you are so beautifully comfortable in your own nature.

Your phone is collected from its state buried in fluffy blankets on the couch. Once it’s been retrieved, you look at the notification, an email sparking your attention. You’ve received spam before, and at this point, you should have become numb to the idea, but your curiosity has gotten the best of you, once again. You read through the email, adrenaline having its way with you, pure joy comforting you in it’s loving embrace. You hold back your squeal, letting yourself choke on your excited shouts.

The email was from a painter, one you have looked up to for what seems like centuries, had reached out to you about your works. His works were absolutely mesmerizing! You feel complete inspiration wash over you like ocean waves the second you look at his works. You’ve become a fan easily and anticipate his next work, but never have you ever even pondered of the idea of him feeling the same way.

His choice of vocabulary left you stunned as he complimented you on your works, blabbering about how your passions and talents have paid off and have gotten him to a state of complete infatuation. In love with your works, of course. God knows what Jungkook would do if he found out about this painter’s enthrallment. Just the thought send shivers down your spine.

The email continued, words causing worry to grumble in your stomach viciously. You’re eyebrows furrow downwards, blood pounding in your ears, heart stuttering, hands shaking, vision disfigured.

The email was an invitation, an invitation to join him in Italy.

The gesture wasn’t reading anything romantic, but he was introducing an opportunity to live out in Rome to study together, crafting a piece together and recommending you to move out there, and “experience the lulling beauty of Rome!”

The opportunity stunned you into silence, but the worry outweighed the joy you wanted so desperately to feel. No way in hell would Jungkook allow you to leave him! Especially for somebody else!? Absolutely not! And you were very aware of the consequences of trying to leave him, even for just a simple supermarket trip by yourself. His trust in others around you was too wary.

His fear of your banishment from his presence managed to keep him awake in the dead of night, silent tears cascading down his cheeks at the simple thought. So, for even the possibility of you traveling across the world without him wasn’t given a second thought. The answer would be no.

And as you predicted, you were correct. He sensed the tension building up inside you, sensing your desire to spit out whatever you needed off of your chest. Sweet Jungkook had figured something was wrong, a puppy-head-tilt causing the confession to grow more difficult. But you fought through, and the outcome was a monstrosity.

Cold bare hands have grasped his heart, gripping it with all of your might, sending an icy chill to cascade through his veins. Salty tears of frustration streamed down his pale cheeks. What had he done wrong? He put every ounce of effort into loving you! Anything you wanted, it was all yours! But you’re fading, vanishing from his grasp before he could ponder of the situation. And this sudden epiphany destroys him.

The only sound that echoes throughout the room is a withered sigh that escaped his airways, causing him to choke on a sob that trembles in his throat. He has been completely dominated by this profound sadness and heartbreak, sorrow only growing as silent seconds pass by the two of you.

As Jungkook stands, his knees are weak, to where he falls to the ground. He has looked up, just for a simple second, and you watched as the ocean of tears flow from his doe eyes full of innocence, now shimmering with eternal torment. Your words cut like an open wound, shards of glass cutting against his skin and into the recesses of his soul, to where he is now damaged by the thought of never seeing you again.

“Y/N, no…!”, his shout echoes, sudden strength overcoming him as Jungkook pushes himself off the ground, then latching onto your legs as if they’re a lifeline.

His nails dig in, you wincing in pain at the sudden contact. Wrecked sobs continue to come from him, hiccups erupting from his throat, absolutely desperate for even the faintest sign of affection.

“Y/N… If-If you don’t love me, I-I-I’ll kill myself! I’ll do it! I’ll kill myself…! J-Just please don’t leave me!”

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