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wjforever · 2 years

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Shatter me again. Chapter 30

I was afraid to fall asleep because I was afraid to wake up with green eyes looking at me again. But I woke up alone. I was waiting for him to call me to breakfast. He said he postponed our business until the next day. Breakfast was brought to me, but no one called me.

This is strange. And I'm nervous. Last night I was determined to see him again and get him to turn off the cameras. This is what I need now. For me. For Adam. For new opportunities for us.

I spent the whole evening thinking about how best to do this. I was thinking about what to wear. What to say. How to behave. Be soft and docile or tough and stubborn? Tear and smudge my clothes and come in such a way to protest, or put on high-heeled shoes so that he sees that I'm cooperating? I still haven't managed to decide. I don't know which Warner I'll meet today. How can I decide something?

He's so weird. Incomprehensible. And at the same time, he's an open book. Warner is just playing with me, that's all. Though I really don't understand what he wants from me. Of course, it's probably great to have something deadly and inexplicable. Everything unknown is scary. And his ability to control someone like me should arouse admiration and respect, fear and reverence. But isn't he spending too much time and energy on this? Isn't this weapon may turn out to be too dangerous? For some reason, he's not afraid of me at all, on the contrary, he breaks all the rules. Taking risks over and over.

I think it's just his caprice, a whim. People conquered mountains not for any practical purpose, but to overcome themselves, to prove something to others, to record another achievement in the list. That's what Warner does. Break, force, humiliate.

Yesterday he was so caring, gentle, affectionate. The day before yesterday he killed a man in cold blood. Yesterday it was so easy for me to talk to him. Yesterday Adam was beaten on his orders. He's a monster. And I must always remember this. Remember Adam's words. He didn't warn me for nothing. Apparently he knows what Warner is capable of.

I flinch involuntarily when my door opens. And my heart stops, and then does a somersault for joy when I see Adam. His face is unreadable.

"Come on, you are expected."

I nod and go out. I've been prepared for a long time. I'm wearing a long bright yellow sundress with lemons on thin straps. On the feet are white sandals with low and stable heels. My hair is in a bun. I feel just awful in all this. But it seemed to me that if I wanted to ask for something, I'd better follow his rules. All I need now is to be able to see Adam. And then… I don't know what then. There's only hope and nothing else.

Adam leads me to some unfamiliar destination. I've never been here. But I hesitate to ask. I'm afraid that Adam will be punished again because of me. If everything works out, we'll have the opportunity to talk.

With every step we take, my heart breaks into smaller pieces. Adam is limping. And quite noticeably. He tries to hide it, but he can't. And I'll have to smile at the person who is guilty of this.

We come to some door and my heart is beating wildly. I'm so worried. I need to try really hard, very, very hard. I need to be good for him today. And I believe I can be nice to him for a while. Everything was fine yesterday, and he must to believe me. Anything for my purpose. I exhale, sharply, quickly, and catch Adam's gaze on me.

I expect Adam to knock on the door or open it. But there is left a couple of steps for us to reach it, when the door opens. Warner is standing in front of us in a dark green shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and dark trousers. No jacket, no military uniform, no gloves. I catch myself thinking crazily that my yellow dress looks good with his outfit. Maybe. I'll ask him about it. This could be a topic of conversation.

"Come in." He says sharply and nods towards the doorway, looking at me. "You're free." He says to Adam.

His voice is so cold that it scares me. It's not a good Warner, that's for sure.

I enter, uncertainly, look back at Adam, but I don't see him.

"He's already gone." The voice cuts through the air like a razor.

I don't feel comfortable. Warner doesn't usually treat me like this and it creates a lot of thoughts in my head. I move forward and turn in his direction.

"Are you not in the mood today?" I ask softly, amazed at the question myself. I was going to be nice. Can this question be considered something nice?

He tilts his head, just a little. Squints. A look that penetrates through and through. I suddenly feel chilly, and I rub my shoulders.

"You cold?"

"No."

"Sit down."

Only now I allow myself to look around. We're in a small room. But this one, unlike the most rooms, it's furnished with a wide variety of furniture. There are cabinets, tables, shelves. Everything is filled with some things, devices. I don't know what it is, what it's for. It seems that some kind of research is being conducted here, developments are being created. There's a sofa and a few chairs here, and I'm confused.

"Wherever you want." He answers an unasked question.

I sit down on the sofa, rub my fingers, look around. He stands at the table, leans against it, presses his hand to his mouth and looks at me as if thinking what to do with me. It's unpleasant.

"Are we waiting for someone?" I ask and make my first attempt to smile.

"No." His answer is dry.

I suddenly don't have enough air, need water. I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry that it's hard to do it. I'm too loud. I think he hears me.

"There is something different about you today."

"Put my hair up."

"Suits you."

His phrases are still as jerky, dry as the branches of trees outside. Scratching. And I realize that I don't like it. I don't like him being like this with me. He goes to the jug, pours water and hands me a glass.

"Do you want us to do this the good way or the bad way?"

I almost choke on his words again, I cough.

"Do… do what?"

"You know what."

"I don't."

"Test your power, of course. You must touch me."

I breathe out. I was ready for everything when I came here. For Adam. But now… I can't. My hands start to shake, and I put the glass on the floor so it wouldn't be so noticeable.

"Can we do this not today?"

He raises his eyebrows.

"Are you following the lunar calendar?"

I shake my head.

"I don't even really know what it is."

He smirks. This is the first semblance of a smile from him today.

"Are you trying to stall for time?"

"I need to gather my courage, and… something else."

"What?"

"There must be someone third."

He snorts. And I can see something contemptuously evil in his face.

"Well, sure, of course. Someone third…" He speaks quietly, rather to himself, slightly bending his head down. And then his eyes turn back to me. "Afraid you won't be able to stop if you touch me once?"

He smirks again, a little wider this time, and I look at him blankly. He knows I can't stop myself. But there is such a sly expression on his face that I begin to understand what game he's playing.

"Yes, I'm afraid I won't get off you, while you alive."

"That's fine with me."

I'm annoyed by this tone and this conversation. I'm trying to be more serious than he is.

"Why do you need it?"

"I already told you. I want to feel it myself."

I bite my lower lip. "You didn't answer my other question."

"You ask too many questions. And in general, you demand increased attention to yourself"

"What!?" I flare up like a match. The determination to behave nicely is forgotten in an instant. "How dare you! I... I... you're holding me captive. You come into my room without warning, force me to eat with you, wear these stupid things, torture people for you and..." My voice resounds through the room.

"Something else?"

He's so calm that it only makes me more enraging. I jump to my feet and take a step towards him, waving my arms.

"Yes! There's a lot more! You're a monster. You killed a man. Adam was beaten on your orders! I hate you so much. You can't even imagine how much I hate you."

Damn. Everything didn't go according to plan, I think. And suddenly I'm doused with icy water, I realize with horror what I have done. I shouldn't have talked about Adam, about the fact that he was beaten up. It's too late to think about it, I decide, and let the anger inside me burn fiercely, humming in my veins.

"Enough."

"Enough?!"

"Stop shouting."

"Don't you dare shut me up!"

"This is ridiculous."

He steps aside, lifts his head, as if trying to massage his own neck. "You know what, I...!"

"Juliette, love. Do you really think that shouting will give your words greater impact?"

"That's not what I want to achieve."

"You consider me your opponent, right?"

"It's obvious." I say angrily, but without yelling anymore.

"Right. Let me teach you one little lesson. Sit down."

"I don't want to."

"Okay, you can stand." He sits down on the table himself, and I suddenly feel awkward. So I go back to the sofa and sit down.

"You know, it's funny. People often scream to appear more intimidating. They think that shouting can make the enemy get scared and run away." A smile on his face. "But do you know when animals scream?"

I look at him, not understanding what he is getting at. But I play along with him because I suddenly become interested. He's always so calm and collected. And that's goddamn it really scary. Much more than a scream.

"No, tell me."

"Animals scream in two occasions. The first is to attract attention to themselves. This is how they tell others something important. For instance, that they found food. Or that they need help. It's a way of saying they need attention."

It sounds logical. "And the second one?"

"When they are afraid. This is how potential prey scare off predators. But have you ever heard a screaming predator? Not in the process of interacting with other predators, but when interacting with a future prey. Predators sneak, quietly, stealthily, to remain unnoticed. And then they attack. You have to decide for yourself who you are, predator or prey. Decide what you want to convey to the interlocutor. You should remember that when you have to face someone really dangerous. If you want to outplay him, at least mentally. So tell me, Juliette, are you trying to attract my attention or are you afraid of me?"

I think deeply about his words. They have so much meaning that it even scares. I'm trying to figure out why I'm yelling at him. I'm not afraid of him. At least, not right now. But get his attention. What's the point? Why try to reach him? He's not my allies, he'll not help me, he is unlikely to hear me. So why am I still trying. However, something else becomes clear to me. Now I understand why he seems so intimidating. He's like a wild cat before a jump, collected, quiet, dangerous.

Warner gives me time to think, but doesn't wait or demand an answer to the question.

"Returning to our topic. A lot of people hate me. Much."

"Not surprising."

"Not like you."

"Yes, I hate you more than anyone does." I say calmly. He's right, there's no point in shouting. I'm just showing my weakness like that. And I don't want to be weak around him.

He jumps off the table, comes up to me, looks at me curiously. And I'm waiting. I expect him to touch me. He's always touches me. Maybe he'll touch my hair. Kiss me on the head. The thought makes me hot. Because somewhere very, very deep inside I'm waiting for it. I want it. Not this Warner, the one who hugged me yesterday. That unreal Warner, from my clouded mind. And I look at his bare hands. His fingers are so long. In no way should he touch me with them.

"Perhaps you don't know how to hate."

"Just looking at you makes me sick."

"You complicate everything yourself."

"I'm not your toy."

"You're not a toy."

"A torture weapon, I remember."

"It's kind of funny how you're trying to protect everyone in this world when the whole world hates you so much."

I'm ready to fall into the ground.

"Not all people are the same."

"And yet, everyone you met didn't seek to find excuses or pity for you. They all turned away from you as if you were nothing, a piece of dirt stuck to their shoes. Or do you believe that yourself? That's a thing, yes? You're ready to please them all because you yourself worth nothing, in your opinion at least."

"Don't try to play on my ego. It won't work."

He laughs.

"You don't have any ego. You yourself don't exist. Who are you? You are nothing, an empty place, a thorn in the eye of this world."

"That's you who are nothing. Do you think you're someone important? All these people will breathe a sigh of relief when you die."

"So make them happy. Touch me."

He takes another step towards me and I'm on my feet. I'm torn between hitting him and running away, hiding in some far corner. I choose the third option, I whisper angrily to him. "Never in my life will I cooperate with you. I'll never be on your side. You want to make me a monster, but I'm not going to become someone like you. I'll never forgive you for what you do. I'll never voluntarily accept anything you offer me."

"You're so pretty when you're angry. If only you could see yourself through my eyes."

I hate him. I don't understand why he keeps telling me this. It's like he's mocking me. It's not about me. The truth is that I'm a pathetic creature, useless, ugly, worthless. And I want to cry, and I want to scream, and I want to look at myself in the mirror.

And of course he does it again. He reaches out to my gathered hair, to one stray strand, and touches it. His skin is so close to me. And I recoil from him.

"I should to lose everything human so that I could see myself through your eyes. I should strive to surround myself with hatred, I should not respect anyone in this world. I want to get as far away from here as possible. Never see your vile smile again. I can't imagine what your parents think of you. I can't imagine how ashamed your mother must be."

It's almost cruel of me. I know exactly where I'm striking. It worked last time. This is his trigger, and I'm trying to hit a nerve, taking advantage of the discovered weakness. It's so familiar to me. Because I know what it means to be hated by your own parents. I know how it feels, how it hurts. Second, second, second. I'm waiting. I expect him to explode again. Instead, he lowers his head. And I can't tell if he's thinking or sad. And I feel ashamed.

"We live in difficult times, Juliette."

"You created it yourself."

He smiles. "I think it was created before you and me. Everything went to this point for a long time, but rapidly. And now we are in a world of people who will not reckon with anyone."

"Like you?"

"Yes, like me. Because you either play by the rules or you will be destroyed."

Adam told me the same thing. Almost with the same words. I wonder if he heard it from Warner. And I can hear some kind of doom in his words, I see it in his posture, his movements. His energy has disappeared somewhere. And I feel that this is partially my fault.

"All right. If you don't want to touch me, I'll bring soldiers for you tomorrow."

He changes the subject too abruptly, and I don't know how to react.

"I..."

"We will control it. Dose. Change them so that you don't spoil them too quickly. Although, I must say, I will envy them. I'm expecting you for dinner. Tonight we'll have dinner just the two of us."

We've never had dinner alone together before, only breakfast. Dinner was in the dining room, or I ate alone. And this innovation doesn't please me at all.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Another mutiny on board…"

"Don't make everyone else starve."

He looks at me uncomprehendingly, but then awareness creeps into those eyes.

"Oh, don't worry about it. Public dinners are not held every day."

"But before that they had been two nights in a row." He's lying to me, I think. So I'm trying to unmask him.

He smiles weakly. "Well, yes. It was out of the plan. We had something to celebrate then."

"And what?"

"Your arrival." We look at each other for a few long moments. "During normal times, there is a strict timetable, so no one will go hungry because of you."

I sigh with noticeable relief.

"Is that okay with you?"

I nod.

"Good."

"Unless you're lying to me."

"I'm not lying to you."

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#shatter me again #aaron warner #juliette ferrars #shatter me #shatter me series #warnette #ella sommers #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction

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petitelepus · 3 years

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25 Days of MTMTE Christmas, Part 10, Angel

You have a guardian angel and her name is Nickel.

Being the infamous Decepticon Justice Division's hostage…? Pet…? Heck, maybe they thought of you as their fleshy mascot… Well, it was interesting, at least. But why keep something that they hated? It was just one of the many mysteries regarding your captors. Especially Nickel. She had made it absolutely clear that she detested you. After you had learned about her home planet's doom, you thought that she had every right to hate organics. It's just a shame that your heart didn't listen to the logic that your brain was trying to hammer into it. She was so beautiful that she left you breathless. You limited your lovesick staring to when she wasn’t looking. You loved how she would use her extraordinary medic's hands to keep everybot functioning at a high level. She even learned human biology so that she could treat you as well. You admired how she could bring the feared leader of the DJD in line with a simple order.

You would laugh secretly when she made foul gestures at Tarn and the others. Sure, she has shown some to you as well, but you were not offended. It just amused you. She would no doubt be pissed if she knew that you enjoyed her nasty gestures, as that would challenge her authority. But oh, how she made your heart beat faster than it ever had before. You thought that you had never felt like this towards anyone back on Earth. On Earth, you had given gifts to your loved ones, so now you wanted to give Nickel a Christmas present. She would no doubt be confused, and would probably think that you had done something wrong and were trying to cover your tracks. She would be right. You were trying to downplay your obvious crush on her. You had the perfect opportunity when the DJD stopped at an alien planet to refill the Peaceful Tyranny's fuel tanks. You told them that you would be back quickly, and that you would only visit the marketplace, but they wouldn't let you go alone. So, Vos came with you. You were browsing through all kinds of shops that had everything from pricey looking gems and jewelry, to odd looking knickknacks, and a wide variety of useful and ingenious items. You wandered deeper and deeper into the marketplace. Vos said something as he glanced around like a vigilant bodyguard. You looked at him, and pointed to a nice-looking potted plant that had energon-pink buds just beginning to bloom. "Would this look good in Nick- Ah, no, in my habsuite?" You quickly corrected yourself, so that you wouldn't reveal your crush on the little medic. Vos glanced at the plant, and said something in that ancient language you couldn't understand. You could tell that he was getting bored. You smiled, and leaned down to take a gentle whiff of the flower buds... when suddenly your body seized up, and you collapsed on the ground. You heard Vos screeching something before he picked you up, and started running straight towards the Peaceful Tyranny. What happened next was all blur to you. Your eyes weren't working, and you were hearing distant incomprehensible voices. You were overtaken by waves of sickening nausea, before being turned on your side to vomit. You were terrified. You were sure that this was the end of your journey. All that you could think about was how Nickel would feel about it... You wished you could see her, and tell her how you felt... Your eyes snapped open, and you sat up in a cold sweat. There was something over your nose and mouth. You yanked it off, and looked at it. An oxygen mask. Where were you, and what had happened? You looked around, highly alert like a rabbit during hunting season. You were in the medbay of the Peaceful Tyranny. You became aware of the sound of beeping. You looked to your side, and saw that you were linked to a vital signs monitor. You were about to jump down from the recharge slab (with a human-sized mattress for your comfort), but then the medbay's door slid open and you saw her. Nickel. You stared at her with your eyes wide open, and for a moment you thought you were hallucinating, because she looked radiant, just like an angel from Earth's mythos. She rushed to you, quickly taking the mask from your hand, and putting it over your face again. "What the Pit is wrong with you!? You need oxygen!" She yelled as she pushed you back to lie down. You were still stunned by her entrance. "W- what happened?" Nickel glared at you. "You smelled a toxic plant, and were severely poisoned!" So that's what happened. You were about to say something, but Nickel beat you to it. "You could have died, NO, you would have died if Kaon hadn’t gotten the antidote from the shopkeeper! What were you thinking, stuffing your face into unknown plants?!" "I- I...! You're right Nickel..." You admitted mournfully, "I wasn't thinking. Well, I wasn't thinking about the dangers. I had no clue it could be dangerous! I was only thinking about you." "W-what?!" Nickel stuttered, and if it was possible, she became even angrier. "Are you trying to push the blame onto me?!" "No!" You cried out, and lowered your head in shame and regret. "I just... I wanted to make you happy. You do so much for the guys and me, and I wanted to get you something that would show how much I... I love you." "You idiot! You don't understand anything!" She yelled, and suddenly grabbed a hold of your arms. You winced at her tight grip, but then she suddenly pulled your mask down and kissed you. Hard. Your eyes widened in shock but before you knew how to react, she pulled back, and you were taken aback by the tears in her optics. "I'm as happy as I can be now that you’re here with us!" She shouted as she wiped her optics dry. "For an organic you're bearable! You're sweet, kind, and pathetically weak! I can't leave you alone for even a minute before you do something stupid again in an attempt to impress me!" "Y- You...!" Your lower lip started to wobble, and your throat tightened dangerously as a sob escaped past your lips. The next thing you knew, you were crying. Ugly crying. Nickel groaned, and despite her distaste, she wrapped her arms around you, and pulled you into a hug. The two of you cried against each other for a good while before she pulled back, and helped you to get your oxygen mask back over your face. You laid back down to rest, and smiled at her. "Were you watching after me while I was sick?" She scoffed, but there was color on her cheeks. "Well someone had to! I didn't want you to die!" You smiled wider, and could feel tears forming again. "You're my guardian angel..." You sighed dreamily. Nickel rolled her optics. "Save me from your tacky Earth superstitions." But she still leaned down and kissed your forehead. "Get better soon." "If you keep kissing me like that while I'm sick, I wonder how you’ll kiss me when I'm healthy." You grinned, and watched with glee how energon flushed her cheeks. "Get better, and you just might find out,” Nickel said with a mischievous smile. “Deal.”

#transformers mtmte #mtmte #transformers #djd #decepticon justice division #nickel #vos #angel #guardian anger #christmas

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bbnibini · 3 years

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PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA – forty-eight🔖

tw: this is really angsty and talks about toxic relationships, as well as very very negative thoughts. If that isn’t your thing, please skip this ending route and just read the epilogue/good ending

You felt relief--as if someone pulled you out of the darkness looming in your thoughts---that perhaps you were not as evil as you thought you were, not as vile or toxic or delusional. That you were simply in love with another person, and it just happened to not be Mammon. That you were not idealising him, but your feelings had been for another all along. Perhaps there was a way to fix this, that you could save him,which was ridiculous because you were the one who pushed him into hating himself because of your misguided feelings in the first place.

You are a horrible person.

At least your thoughts said so. Mammon was asleep in your arms, his face dried with his own tears but you can only think of the person who sent you the letter. It was deplorable, you know. Try as you will, you couldn't deny your heart's pitter patters at the thought that your secret admirer was out there somewhere, hidden to you in plain sight, and you felt for him the same. You looked at Mammon again and tried to will yourself to feel any feelings for him, but your own heart couldn't seem to give you an answer. Maybe you really didn't love him at all. You cared about him, at least enough to confront him about your relationship, but re-evaluating that, and hearing about how he kept such a huge secret from you only earned him your understanding, but not your affection.

Perhaps this was why he kept it from you in the first place.

Encouraging him to speak to you the truth earned you guilt feelings, and it only seemed to cling to you at his every word.

"Little D No.2 told me a classmate found something in their locker that belonged to me. It looked like my handwriting and it was addressed to you." he was stuttering at every word as you tried to stop his tears, but they only continued to fall. "I didn't know how to process it. We were so happy, but…it always felt like I was a fraud, y'know? You tell me I'm all these wonderful things, but I can't seem to see it. Now it's finally making sense."

"Mammon."

"Did you at least love me, even a little bit, as me? Or was it always him ?"

How could you ever answer that? Everything was so new to you, it was all confusing. Your mind continued scrambling over your feelings for both of them but it only seemed to fluctuate, from feelings of pity for the one who had lost you, to hopeless pining for the one you couldn't ever have.

You tried to convince yourself that it's all wrong, that perhaps you're only deluding yourself, for it's impossible to fall in love with a person you don't even know. You thought about Mammon again, and it only stung your eyes.

What the hell do you call our relationship then? he asked you in your vivid imagination, carrying the cursed facade he urged himself to become. You loved Mammon then, with all his undiscovered layers, his multifaceted sides, although not his, was endearing to you. Then, that Mammon changed back to the one everyone knew and loved, with his trademark sunglasses and devilish smirk, handing out to you his own letter. His own feelings you've never had a chance to read for yourself.

You wondered if you'd still fall in love with him if you read his actual letter.

Wait.

Still?

You gently laid Mammon down on your lap as you reached out for the letter on your drawer. It was well-kept, its scent now faint from rereading one too many times. The carnations on its corners were now a light pink, a part wrinkled and deformed from the tears that fell down your eyes when you chose to read it one particularly bad day, as it was your only solace at that time. Swallowing, you bit your lips and opened the envelope, greeted by your mysterious admirer's elegant handwriting. You read its passages again to affirm that silly slip of your mind, a hope that perhaps you're mistaken, that maybe you can still love the demon who didn't want you to leave him, but ah. Your heart was a mess again as you read the letter's passages. His heartfelt words. His love. A weird clumsiness there that spoke of propriety but gave something else away.

You thought you would discover something new, something that would make you feel human again in your rereading, but oh what a joke.

Whoever you are, Mr. Secret Admirer, please come out. You hoped for him to save you from being sunk into your ocean of denials, your growing feelings for him, an unknown that you wanted so much to be another person. To be Mammon. Why couldn't it be Mammon? He would understand, wouldn't he? He didn't seem to want any reciprocation on your part when he wrote it to you, but the thought of never knowing him ached your heart. Aren't you arrogant enough to decide who you should love? Now that Mammon was hurt by you, are you moving to your next target? Are you that much of a self-absorbed bitch?

You felt tears stinging your eyes as more self-deprecating thoughts filled your head. It pointed fingers at you and laughed at you, calling you many names you thought you had already forgotten--a distant memory of your past that still carried its remnants in the scars of your heart.

This is why he killed you.

They only see Lilith in you.

You hurt the only person who loved you. Aren't you spoiled?

No!no!no!No!no!no!No!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!noNo!no!no!

How many apologies have you made your entire life, sorrys spoken despite not knowing what you have done? How true were the cruel words spouted at you when they thought they couldn't be heard? How deep were the wounds that festered and left ugly scars? How trivialising did you turn every sleepless night in daily conversations out of fear that no one will ever care?

How deserving are you of love that you would deny it to someone who truly loved you? For what? Feelings for an unknown you weren't even sure of? Was it even worth the risk? Perhaps it was a prank? Perhaps the author of your beloved letter would come out of hiding one day and take his words back, what would you do then? And for what reason would the hurt you caused Mammon then if your unrealised feelings amounted to nothing?

Why couldn't you just love him?

Your eyes hurt with how much you were rubbing it dry. Washing your face did little to hide its puffiness. You were tired of crying and feeling sorry for yourself, especially when you deserved it.

You wanted to make things better. Even if everything hurt, even if it was presumptuous of you to do so. Even if your heart screamed for you to follow it, to abandon all logic and find him. You wanted to tell him how much his words saved you, how much you think about him every day, how you wondered why you never noticed him and how you felt bad about that, how much you wanted to get to know him. How wonderful he was. How much he made you laugh with his clumsy awkwardness. How prettily he weaved his words. How happy you were to be loved by him, and…perhaps, how much you might love him back.

But you couldn't do that. You don't deserve to be happy. You don't deserve to meet him. You don't deserve a choice, especially if the one you thought you loved was hurting because of you.

You would rather see Mammon happy than follow your heart. You cared for him enough to let “him” go.

You

sorry if i made a new group chat for this but, i don't want mammon to see this. im really sorry for worrying you all. youre right, something IS wrong between us, and i want to stop hurting him.

You

especially you, satan. thanks for the wakeup call. i will take care of things from here.

You

the student council needs someone to stay overnight in the classrooms, right? can i please do it?

You

mammon and i need some space. he's clinging to someone who's hurting him, and that someone is me. i want to re-evaluate my feelings for him. he deserves that at least and i need all of your help.

You

this is probably a really selfish request, but please look after him. ugh this sounds really cheesy but he needs that right now. bcs of me, he wants to be another person he's not which is ridiculous now that im rethinking it. wow i can't believe the shit ive been spouting for the past few weeks. im sorry for being an ass. i don't deserve all of your forgiveness. hecc you don't have to grant that to me.

You

i just want him to be happy again.

You were afraid of checking the replies. It said the six of them already read your message and that most of them were typing a response right now but you didn't want to see it. Not right now. Any affirmation that you're a horrible person is something you couldn't handle just yet.

But that method is for cowards. If you hurt Mammon with the truth, then it's your turn to face it as well. The truth everyone else could see but you couldn't. The lies protecting you and sparing your feelings--it needs to end.

Satan was the first to type out a response. Contrary to your really low expectations, he treated you the same way he always did.

Mammon was still asleep in your room once you came back. He looked peaceful now, snoring softly as he cuddled your blanket and muttered something incomprehensible to himself. You sat at the unoccupied side of your bed and parted the hair that blocked his eyes.

"I'm sorry for everything, Mammon. My feelings are a mess right now and I will only hurt you if we stay like this." you sighed. What's the use of telling this to someone asleep? He couldn't even hear you.

"I think…I love him, whoever he is. I don't know. Maybe I'm deluding myself." you pulled your hand away. "I'll get my shit together and reject you properly. You deserve to be happy, Mammon. And I'm sorry I couldn't give you that.

Thank you for loving me."

💌💌💌

"I'm amazed you went out of your room when there's an event for Faith's Restoration Order right now."

"...you have a talent for teasing, has anyone ever told you that?" Levi blushed brightly beside you as he placed the plastic bag at a nearby armchair. "If you already know why I'm here, can't you at least shut up and leave me alone?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

He rolled his eyes and made a gesture of leaving the room.

"Have fun hanging out with ghosts, normie! I'm leaving."

"I'm joking! I'm joking!" you pulled him back to the empty classroom so you can sit with each other while you had your microwave dinners.

Everyone (sans Mammon and Lucifer) offered to go with you to RAD to carry your stuff while you're setting up "camp" (if you can call class A's classroom as the outdoors, that is). Lucifer wanted to go as well, (something about telling you the school regulations, and placing an anti-ghost barrier since RAD ghosts were notoriously NOISY) but his "just a cold" was apparently a 40 C fever so he was forced to stay bedridden. Satan immediately volunteered to fill in his shoes for obvious reasons, while the others were in their oddly competitive phase again that you couldn't understand. Demons, seemed to be the only logical reason and it made sense so you decided not to question it anymore (especially if they determined their birth order by power level like some generic shounen manga. Pfft. Demons. ).

Class A's classroom was filled with the scent of brimstone in the air (because of Satan's numerous spell castings) making it not a very ideal place to eat dinner, so you ate with Levi in Class B's instead. Beel wanted to stick around too, until he was enticed by Satan's promise of extra portions so Levi was the last one to leave. With how much you've known your dorky best friend however, you figured he had something to say to you and the others read the room and left the both of you alone. Judging by how much he was fidgeting in his seat, your assumptions appeared to be correct.

"Hey, uh…I heard from Satan. Are you…okay?"

Oh .

"...honestly?" you couldn't help but laugh. "This is probably the worst day ever-- err. Second worst day. Nothing can top being killed by Belphie. That was wild."

"Hey--"

"Joking, joking! Jeez. You look really serious. I'm fine, Levi."

Without a word, a paper bag landed on your lap. Levi, who was still looking down, muttered something that you needed to ask him to repeat the third time(his voice was too soft!).

"I'm returning this."

"Ruri-chan!" you looked at the figure box in awe. "But…I already gave this to you."

Levi shook his head. "I can't accept it." Seeing your confusion, he explained. "I was the one who told you it's Mammon who sent the letter even if I didn't even confirm if he really wrote it. After all that weird Gentlenormie shtick Mammon got cursed into, isn't it unfair? You can hate me if you want. Here, have my cheek! Then maybe my other one too! Slap it really hard and--"

He was babbling! Oh bless his heart.

How could you forget how these demons cared for you? Those looming dark thoughts in your mind were slowly disappearing, not in its entirety, but enough for you to forgive yourself a little. Your arms caged the otaku third born, muttering words of gratitude as tears threatened to fall yet again from your eyes. Oh, why are you such a crying mess today?

"You can keep it. It's not your fault, Levi. But thank you for telling me."

It took numerous JoJo references for him to be persuaded, but he finally accepted. "No one is blaming you or angry at you, just so you know. It's Mammon's fault too for not being honest. Satan's right. So…uhh…" he stuttered his next words, sounding muffled as he buried his face on your shoulder. "...it's ironic coming from me but…love yourself a little, okay? We're worried about both of you." From how your shoulder felt warm right now, he must be embarrassed. You felt touched that your usually non-vocal friend was sharing his true feelings for once without any ounce of self-deprecation. You can feel how much he cared for you, and with just that, you already felt that you weren't so bad of a person after all.

Talking with Levi reminded you how there are many forms of love, and it didn't matter what kind you felt for Mammon, what mattered was that you loved him. Was this the truth you've been blind to all along? Was this what Satan had been wanting to tell you?

"I love you, Levi."

"Wha--" he sputtered. "Wh-where did that come from? Hey, this isn't funny, you know?!"

Not hearing his protests, and only overwhelmed by your epiphany, you tightened the hug and spoke again.

"You're the bestest friend anyone could ever ask for. I love you, and I love everyone in Lamentation too!"

You felt him tremble at your words, his arms shyly hugging you back as he muttered. "Even Mammon?"

Yes, you were certain now. This was the answer you're seeking for. With newfound confidence, you answered him back. "Especially Mammon."

Silence. A very long embrace--something he was trying to get used to, especially for a love-starved you. "I'm going to break up with him."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah…"you ruffled his head. "It's for the best, isn't it?"

Levi didn't answer immediately, and once he did, he sounded unsure. "Do you love Mammon?"

"Yeah, but not in the way he wants me to." you replied immediately. Now that you had a clearer picture of your feelings for Mammon, the answer came naturally to you. "I can't be unfair to him. He's…out there, you know? I want to find him."

"Find? The letter sender?"

"I love him," you reasoned. "I feel so horrible for being so happy that he actually exists! That I was not idealising Mammon, that…he's real. I'm not imagining him, and he loves me. His words saved me." you hugged him tighter. "Oh, Levi. It feels like I've known him forever!"

"..."

"Levi?"

When you attempted to pull away from him, he didn't let go. Instead, he stuttered out a clumsy reply. "What if he's not what you think he is? What if you'll be disappointed again? What if you will get hurt? You should really reconsider-"

"I have a feeling I won't." you expected this reaction from him; he was always too cautious to the point of paranoia. Too self-conscious. Pacifying him however, was another matter. "I don't know. It's my gut. Like…we've been waiting for each other and this is my last chance to be with him. It's crazy isn't it? I don't even know him, but I feel like we'd hit it off right away! Now that I think about it, it kind of feels like us, huh? Levi?

Are you sulking?"

His unwillingness to part with your arms was already telling of his answer. You couldn't help feeling smug. "Is someone jealous?"

"Sh-shut up!"

"You do know that you'll always be my Lord of Shadow, right?"

"OMG, you're ruining the moment. Keep your mouth shut and stop pointing it out!"

"I want to see your face~"

"No."

"No one will ever take your place, you know~"

"OH MY GOD YOU'RE SO ANNOYING. CAN'T YOU JUST STICK TO THE SCRIPT?"

"But it's Sherlock's job to be the crazy one, Watson."

"No role-playing."

"Come to think of it, we never finished our D&D session."

"YAMETE KUDASTOP"

You lost it when he started to laugh. Since you were sharing the same brain cell most of the time, you couldn't help but laugh as well. It was cathartic. You missed this. You will miss this.

"I don't want to go back."

"Lucifer will get mad at you if you don't."

You shook your head. You were now facing each other, sharing laughs and smiles like your usual days at RAD. "I meant the human world."

"Oh…"

"Just kidding." but not really. You just didn't want to bring up yet another elephant in the room. Everyone had too much shit to deal with right now.

"If you stay here any longer, the raid will be finished. Isn't Solomon participating for that rare drop or something?"

"That fucking whale."

"Go. Kick his ass!"

And so you've heard his infamous OOOOOHHHHHS on dance battles when he was pumped up. You snorted.

"I'LL KEEP YOU UPDATED ON MY RANKINGS. WATCH ME PULVERISE THAT NORMIE"

"Mhm! I'm gonna retweet every post."

"Distract him with chain messages-"

"Oh, you bet I'm gonna keep texting him at the speed of light!"

"I shall bear thee only good news on the morrow."

"Tally ho! Make this old friend of yours proud!"

Despite your support however, your limited data connection at RAD, as well as Solomon's silence indicated your sabotage had been a failure. And to make matters worse, the said son of a gun mockingly responded to you near the end of the boss raid.

Huh? He wasn't replying anymore. Judging from the raid's usual patterns, he must be messing with Levi right now. You texted Levi a few emojis, hoping it conveyed your full emotional support and he only sent a "T__T" back. Guess it's Solomon roasting hours for the next pajama night, huh. Again. Asmodeus would be thrilled.

Got to say though, annoying Solomon and being toxic online with Levi had distracted you from the gravity of your situation. While simmering in your own thoughts is great, if those thoughts only consisted of negativity and self-hatred, then you'd want to have a temporary escape--needless to say, it was a welcome distraction. You hoped the next few days away from the House of Lamentation would be as well. You decided to put off doing the other rounds for the booths once you wake up, and instead contented yourself with fiddling with the makeup kit that Asmo had prepared for you. It was sweet of him to buy you the lipstick you wanted so much, not helping but wonder how he remembered something you said so long ago.

"I don't know, this colour doesn't look good on me. Oh, it would be better if Asmo were here!"

Honestly? You looked like a clown. 👁️👄👁️

Try as you might to fix your look, it only got worse(must be the puffy eyes not helping too). If you place another layer of eyeshadow on your eyelids, you would be the entire circus.

Actually, you felt like you're the entire circus already. You had the clown look down to a tee, and everyone around you was laughing at your every move. Fuck. You are an actual clown right now--

Shit. You're dreaming.

For some reason, Levi was juggling Ruri-chan figurines at one corner, while Asmo was raving about how he's the "prettiest bearded lady ever". You saw some familiar faces in the crowd, an amused Luke clapping and absorbing everything he saw with vivid cheer, and a flustered Simeon trying to calm him down. A parallel of their dynamic was also observed with the excitable Lord Diavolo, cheering for Lucy the Lion to jump the ring of fire, while Barbatos repeated his pleas for his liege to keep his voice down in futility. The sadistic ring master Solomon, calling you and everyone else as his toys, commanded you to "be more funny", and when you didn't oblige, cold water was splashed at you. Ah! Mammon almost fell from the tightrope! That was a close call! From another corner of the room, you saw Satan turn visibly green after doing multiple aerial tricks at the flying trapeze; Belphie was often woken up by him, as the youngest sibling kept falling asleep when he was about to catch him. Will he wake up or will Satan die? Their acts were easily the most anticipated at the circus. Beel was supposed to be the elephant balancing on a ball, but got distracted by a bag of peanuts from the audience and had to be removed from the main acts.

"Do something funny, clown!" the crowd booed at you as you continued gawking. You felt cold all over thanks to the water, that even when you hugged yourself and tried to rub your hands, you only felt number and number. The boos got louder, and more water was thrown at you until you've had enough of that and you couldn't help but say,

"Can't a clown have their rights?!"

…then you suddenly felt really warm and woke up, seeing a blanket wrapped around you.

A hooded figure backed away and attempted to flee, but you responded quickly and grabbed his arm.

…he's warm. Really warm. Feverish even.

"Who are you?" you glared at him, and he only struggled to get away from you and didn't answer.

"Silence huh? You're one stubborn ghost.

Wait. There can't be a ghost here. What are you?"

The hooded figure seemed hesitant, but with no ways to escape, he finally spoke to you. "You're right. I am a ghost and you're still in a dream."

Oh. That makes sense. If he's a ghost and you can touch him in this empty classroom, then he might just be right. Even so, you didn't let him go. He was too suspicious. "And, what are you doing out here, ghost?"

You couldn't see his face as it was too dark.

"Are you trying to kill me-"

"Never! I would not let anyone do that again!"

Again? This ghost says some weird stuff.

"You looked really cold, so I…"

Come to think of it, besides your exposed fingers that was grasping his arm, you felt really warm and comfy. "Oh, thanks. I didn't know ghosts can touch physical objects. Wow, this dream is weird."

"...I won't leave. Please warm your hands. They're freezing."

True to his word, the feverish ghost sat on the floor and faced you. You couldn't tell his expressions, but he did seem uneasy since he was looking at every corner of the room.

"Mr. Ghost, aren't you cold? You can share the blanket if you want.

Ghost?"

"...you are far too defenseless." He sounded angry. "Why must you ask a ghost that? What if I curse you?"

"Woah okay, no sharing the blankets then, sheesh. You can't even benefit from a blanket so why so mad, bro?"

"It's a dream so it doesn't have to make sense."

Ohh, he has a point.

"I haven't seen a human like you here for centuries. Your aura is strange as well. Ah! I'm not going to possess you, so please put that holy water down. I only meant that it's dangerous for you to be here alone, you know."

"That's why he put a lot of barriers here. To protect me."

"He?"

"My friend. His name is Satan."

For a ghost, he didn't hover much, and he didn't seem to pull any pranks. Instead, he listened to you, and sometimes even felt concerned for you. Rather than a ghost, he felt like a friend you've known for a very long time.

"Oh, I heard that name before. He and his brothers are famous around here--the Seven Rulers of Hell. They're really powerful."

"Yeah, powerful and kinda dumb."

"Is it okay for you to say that?"

"Yeah, it's fine because if they're dumb, I'm a complete moron."

"Probably not as dumb as a ghost that gets colds. You're good."

"Pfft!"

It was easy to talk to him; he didn't judge you for your opinions, and listened to you with undivided attention. At times, your gut told you that you know this ghost man, that this isn't the first time you've ever had a conversation with each other, that his warmth and kindness felt awfully familiar.

"I wonder what you were like when you were alive? You seem really calm for a ghost."

"My life isn't very interesting. I might have even forgotten about that already, perhaps that's why."

Was it a sore topic? Probably not. You couldn't hear any bitterness in his voice, in fact, it felt like he was at peace.

"What about you? There must be a reason why you're here.

I understand if you won't share them with me, I'm sor--"

"I needed to get away," you said, wrapping yourself closer to your warm blanket. "Though I suppose ghosts can't relate. You don't have any more mortal worries to think about."

"That's not true at all," he reassured you. "Being a ghost opens up another load of worries. You're fine the way you are."

"You say that as if you know me."

"...you're right. I'm sorry, I don't know you at all."

Wait. Where did you hear that before?

"Will you visit my dreams again?"

"Probably not. It's for the best."

Oh. You couldn't help but feel disappointed.

"Even if I want to see you again?

A-are you okay?! That was a really loud impact!"

How the hell could this ghost not pass through objects?! Is he really a ghost?! At least act like a normal ghost in your own dreams, sheesh!

"I'm…fine."He reassured you. "I wasn't able to see the armchair--

You're way too close."

"And you're really hot. Your forehead's a furnace!"

The ghost spluttered and put a hand between the two of you. "I have already told you, I am a dumb ghost who can catch colds, so if you value your health, please don't get too close to me."

"Have you ever kissed a clown? In this angle, I can just push you down and--"

"ENOUGH!"

He felt warmer, hiding his face completely under his hood. "Please move away."

"Not until you agree I'll see you again."

"I cannot control your dreams."

"But you haven't even tried yet!"

"You're being ridiculous."

"So what? This is my dream! If I want to see you again then I could, couldn't I?"

"It's not funny!"

"I apologise. I couldn't help it. You're the most amusing human I have ever talked to. You have touched this old soul's heart, enough perhaps to finally depart for the afterlife.

Don't look so disappointed; it was a mere jest. I have some time left to spare. If you would have me, then I would be happy to keep you company."

You only said those words because he seemed like he was about to leave---but with his promise of company, your heart calmed down. You've had several conversations with that weird mellow ghost who couldn't do his job properly; a presence, though surreal was something you badly needed,someone who didn't know you at all but felt the opposite. You talked like age-old friends in that cold and empty classroom, growing familiar with his laughter, the shadow of a smile under his hood he refused to take off. A kind, and sometimes seemingly all-knowing worldliness that was almost ethereal. Then again, he was a ghost, so you supposed it was fitting for his personality.

"...I see. A love for an enigma you've only known through penned words, and a love you wanted to feel for someone who held you dearly. That is a difficult situation. Is that why you have claimed this space as your temporary dwelling?"

You nodded. "It's better to keep my distance from Mammon for now. If I act kindly, won't he misunderstand? I don't want to give him false hope. He deserves better."

"You're not angry that he kept things from you?"

"Eh?"

"Ah?

Did that thought perhaps, never cross your mind?"

"No…should I be angry?"

The ghost sighed to himself and you felt his warm, feverish breaths next to you. "Honestly, what was I expecting? If you could be friendly with a ghostly invader from your dreams, of course such an ill thought would never cross your mind."

The moonlight illuminated through the classroom's windows, casting a pale yellow light that revealed your new friend's warm smiles.

"You're lovable like that, I suppose."

...huh?

Did your heart just skip a beat? And why did he remind you of someone just now?

"Your blanket had come undone. Wait, allow me."

Unusually warm was the ghost of a man standing closely beside you. He wrapped the blanket back around you and you realised you couldn't breathe, intoxicated by the beauty of his smiles. His touches were light, as if trying his all to not make contact with you, proper and gentlemanly, almost to the point of stuffiness.

"There. You're warm again."

!!!

Why didn't you realise sooner?

...why did you feel like crying?

"An argument is one thing, but this is quite a reckless decision. Sigh. What am I going to do with you?

You must take better care of yourself."

A gentle hand that stroked your head, his familiar warmth. His voice. His gestures. Even his scolding. Why did it feel like you know this person?

And if you do, is he important to you?

...was he?

...why? Why ' was' ? Was he not important to you anymore?

"I wish I could take away all of your pain, but I could only do so much. They dragged you here without even asking if you're okay with it, and now one of them is even causing you this heartache. Not that I have the right to get angry for your sake.

It's all right to feel surfeited. Your emotions are valid, no matter what other people will say. You shouldn't force yourself to love someone. It would be cruel to both of you."

"It's you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It is you!"

You couldn't help it. The tears just started to flow on their own.

"Wh--

!!!"

You didn't want to let him go.

"I found you…"

"..."

If this was all a dream and he isn't real, then can't he stay there with you a bit longer? You can hear his clothes rustle as he struggled to take your arms away from his body, pausing (perhaps he's looking at you, you don't know), his breath dangerously close to yours.

You don't even need to know his name. His presence, the way he carries himself, as well as the way he spoke made you certain that he was your beloved letter sender.

So why couldn't you see what he looked like even in your dream?

You could feel him resisting when you pulled him closer to you, cheeks warm on the crook of your neck.

"I think I love you..."

"This is just a dream. Mammon is waiting for you. Everyone is. You cannot stay here."

"Dream? I don't care. Why did you write that and make me fall for you when you can't even fight for me? Why? Are you going to say all that you've written is a joke?"

"It's not..."

"Then why can't you confess to me like a normal person?"

"I'm sorry."

"I love you."

Despite not being able to see him, you could feel that there was a wistful smile on his face.

"You don't even know me."

"But--"

"I do love you too. I still love you. I wish I could-- No, I should not. After all this time...even if..."

"Do we know each other?"

"This is just a dream."

"Do we know each other?!"

"...no."

"You're lying."

"...it's the truth." He looked down, finally free from the grip of your hold. "I must go. You should too. You cannot stay in a dream forever. At some point, you should start facing reality."

"..."

"I'm no good for you. I mean it. A coward who cannot even tell you his name will never be good enough. I'm sorry for hurting you."

Why does he feel so familiar then? What is this ache in your chest? You wanted to wake up and face him, maybe then you'd know why hearing him caused you to feel this way. However, sleep was beckoning you in that ridiculous dream and you can hardly strain your ears to listen to him as you felt drowsier by the second.

"...I'm sorry. Despite everything I did, I feel like that's all I could ever say to you. Forget about what you read. Yes, when you wake up, all of your sadness shall disappear. I'll make sure of it. You will be happy again. So please...

don't remember me at all--"

Why is he so sure? It's almost arrogant of him to assume for you. But the security of his words felt like he was saying things for certain, that he can actually do the impossible.

"Can't you at least tell me your name?"

"I can't …it was a short time we've known each other but I'll treasure it forever. This is just a dream, so I hope it will stay that way for you."

He talked way too much. If he's going to disappear after this dream is over anyway, then you'd rather make the most of it!

!!!

You leaned forward and felt his lips on yours, feeling the jolt on his body, startled by your gestures. However, he said one thing and did another, much like the forced propriety in his letter, he came undone in your embrace and deepened the kiss, feeling every corner of your mouth. You did the same, closing your eyes and relishing every feverish moment, unsure of time passing as you felt his warmth against yours.

It was such a shame you couldn't see his face. He must have looked lovely right now with his flushed face and his adorably confused, glazed look. Pulling away from him only initiated another kiss, and another. And another, as if making up for lost time. The ones he initiated drowned you, feverish yourself; feeling the intensity of his passions as you melted into each other.

Why did he tell you you could never work out? Your bodies said otherwise. You wanted more. To be closer to him, to get to know him, to call him by his name, to share those three words with him, to hear him say them back.

"I love you…."

You muttered out of breath as your lips parted from the numerous kisses you shared. You could hear him breathing softly beside you, yet he only answered you in silence.

The warm hand stroking your head was gone, the familiar warmth and kindness...

familiar?

Who?

When you woke up, a warm blanket was wrapped around you--one that you didn't remember having when you slept. And any remnant of someone ever giving it to you, even in a distant dream was gone...

"Hm? What's this?"

[ Obtained KEY 4: ~Receipt~ ]

>View it here

>continue to next scenario

...or so you thought.

💌💌💌

[ You have unlocked a new chatroom in MEMORIA 7. ]

💌Read it here

💌Continue to next scenario

💌masterlist

#psisly #hamartia series #interactive fiction #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me x reader #obey me fic #obey me fanfic #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x reader #obey me satan #obey me satan x reader #obey me barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x reader #love letter #secret admirer

10 notes · View notes

komjibear · 3 years

Text

Candle

Jungkook X Reader

Imagine that it’s raining outside, and you and Jungkook decide to open the door to the deck to listen. The electricity is fine, but you both decide to turn off all the lights, put away your electronics, and have a heart-to-heart by candlelight. The air felt cool against your skin, giving you chills that traveled the length of your spine and have goosebumps run across your exposed body. You rub your arms to smooth them out and clear your throat.

“Here, you can wear my jacket.” Jungkook states slipping his arms out and handing it to you.

“Oh! No that’s okay! I can get a blanket.” You protest while waving your hands in front of you in emphasis.

“Don’t worry about it.” He offers it to you again in a gentle smile. You take his jacket and slip it on, and couldn’t help but think this was so cliché. It was like a terrible teen rom-com or an ongoing theme in most K-Drama’s. But you still couldn’t help the soft blush creeping up on your cheeks as you caught a whiff of his cologne on the jacket. Then looking up to see him smiling cheekily at you, once you realized he caught you burrowing into his jacket.

“Uh…tell me a story.” You say all of sudden as you try to direct attention away from you.

“What kind of story?” Jungkook asks as he somewhat straightens himself up with pride.

“Anything, seriously anything.” You state somewhat desperately, but honestly because you can’t handle the sudden uncomfortable weight burdened on your shoulders. Jungkook goes on to tell you a funny story then, of once when Jimin ripped his pants open during practice because he was trying to show off too much. It actually made you laugh because he went into great detail about the kind of underwear he chose to wear that day, and how he was able to catch it all on video to keep it for blackmail. After that you both exchanged more light hearted stories, making you both laugh and hold your sides in stitches.

“Can I ask you one last serious question?” Jungkook asks as he looks at you, unknown to you, he was admiring even the smallest of features on your face when you smiled.

“Okay.” You replied enthusiastically, not even really thinking twice about it.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” You smile drops a little due to shock. Jungkook opens his mouth to try and say something when he sees your reaction, but you speak up before he could.

“I thought you were cute.” You replied in haste, almost blending the words together to sound almost incomprehensible. He seems to have heard you though, and he chuckles.

“Really? That’s all?” He teases as he raises his eyebrow at you suggestively. You laugh once more, and explain what you meant.

“I liked the way you smiled, it was small and shy, and it slowly grows when someone makes you laugh. Ever since I saw that, I knew I wanted to be able to make you smile like that one day.” This time, you didn’t look away from his face, you said it with confidence and seemed to sit up straighter. Because as you explained this to him, Jungkook did just that, and reacted the same way you always wanted to, and somehow always did. “What about me? What did you think of me when you first saw me? Be honest.” You state as you narrow your eyes at him, to let him know you meant ‘serious business.’ Jungkook licks his lips in thought but smiles after that, as he reminisces the moment he saw you.

“I almost forgot what it was like to breathe,” he pauses and watches your eyes widen in shock and humor. “I, of course, was too nervous and just tried to keep my distance from you. But I liked the way you smiled at me. I liked listening to you talk and how your expressions went from 0 to 100.” That comment made you pull a hand over your mouth hide your smile as you knew exactly what he meant. “I just kept thinking, ‘you’re getting more and more beautiful.’” You blinked a few times in response, and pressed your lips tightly together.

“Huh?” You say with a pop of your lips, “That is, awfully cheesy of you to say.” You joke as you lean forward to laugh. But immediately stop as you see his reaction, which is a bit down trodden. You felt bad, because he was so sincere and understanding in your statement about your deepest fear. So you reciprocate his actions. “But, thank you, I really appreciate that.” You genuinely smile at him in a soft manner, “no one really uses beautiful when they describe me.” He smiles at you, but looks down once more as he tries to mask his disappointment.

In a quick decision, you bring your hand up to his cheek and lean in to kiss him on his forehead. You pull back and bring your fingers to your lips. He then reaches up and touches the spot where your lips touched his skin. He looks at you with eyes the size of platters, you’re ready to start apologizing, until he reaches out and grabs your face and kisses you a bit aggressively.

After the adrenaline subsided, your calmed nerves helped your body begin to react and move to kiss him back. Your hands grabbed at his hips to keep him from falling over and gently brushing your thumbs on his hipbones. Lips were overlapping and tongues twisted together in an erotic dance. You could feel your head was swimming, but you wouldn’t mind, if this was what drowning was like, you welcomed the sensation with open arms. He bit your lips and tugged at them which made you pull him closer and kiss him harder. But the moment ended, once you accidentally knocked over the candle, spilling hot wax all over the floor.

“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry!” As you quickly pick up the candle and realize you had to wait for the wax to cool and dry before you could clean it. Jungkook just laughs and stands up, offering his hand out to you.

“Don’t worry about it, we can clean it later.” Slowly you take his hand to stand up as he starts to walk away from the deck and leading you by the hand.

“Where are we going?” You ask curiously realizing your heading towards the bedrooms.

“Let’s go continue in my bedroom.” He says as he turns to look at you over his shoulder with that small shy smile on his lips. And you couldn’t wait to get your lips back on his again, so you began racing him to his bedroom.

#jungkook #jeonjungkook #bts #kpop #bangtan #fanfiction #readerinsert #imagine #fandom #army #fluff #cute #kookie

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mamourland · 4 years

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Kissing Prompt #44 - Magnum/Higgins

There was a request for a fic about PTSD!Magnum and I decided to take a shot at it, even if angst is not really my forte. Let’s just say it’s really light angst ^^.

I know nothing about PTSD so I’m sorry if it’s no accurate.

Prompt #44 - Tentative kisses given in the dark.

Context: Post 2x03

Rating: General Audience

Higgins grumbled as she felt something wet and cold in contact with her hand. She slowly opened her eyes, willing to push away what was disturbing her sleep, when she was met with the sight of Zeus and Appolo. The two dogs sat next to her bed and Appolo was nudging her hand with his snout.

She turned her head towards the nightstand and saw the time on her alarm clock: 2:34AM.

Seeing as she wasn’t getting up right away, Zeus barked at her.

“What’s wrong, lads?’, she asked in a low, sleepy voice.

Appolo pushed his snout to her shoulder this time. Higgins was confused because if there had been any danger, they would have barked and growled directly at the source instead of coming to get her.

Something was definitely off though. All the remnants of sleep left her immediately as her spy reflexes kicked in.

She opened her nightstand drawer to retrieve her gun and flashlight before swiftly getting up. She switched off the security of her weapon and followed the lads out of her room. She was only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts but she didn’t think she’d have time to change if something was wrong. She stayed barefoot to lower the volume of her steps to a minimum to keep the surprise effect to her advantage and went down the stairs with her gun and flashlight drawn in front of her. She did a full sweep of the ground floor but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.

She went into the study to check all the security cameras on her computer when Zeus snagged the fabric of her shorts between his teeth to try and pull her in the direction of the French doors left ajar to let the lads come and go as they wished.

She followed the two dogs outside until they lead her to the guesthouse. She turned around, surveilling the area near the front door but everything was dark and silent and nothing seemed out of place.

“What is it?”, she asked the dogs and they both whined.

She was puzzled by their behavior, but she was still on the lookout, gun drawn, ready to face any threat that would cross her path. Suddenly she heard something but didn’t really know what it was and where it was coming from.

The dogs whined again and one of them lift his muzzle to bark in the direction of the second floor open windows.

Magnum’s bedroom.

Higgins didn’t waste any more time and entered the guesthouse house with her gun still in front of her face in case there was an intruder. She tried not to think about her partner possibly in danger when she checked the first floor of the guesthouse. Clear.

She went straight for the stairs starting to climb them when she heard the sound again. Groaning. This time, she recognized Magnum’s voice. She rushed to his bedroom, ready to encounter some kind of bad guy her partner was currently fighting with.

The lads were right by her sides which made her feel slightly more equipped to deal with this unknown situation. When she barged in the room and swept the flashlight around though, she saw no one. No stranger, no fight, nothing but silence and darkness.

She directed the beam of light to the bed and saw her partner, seemingly asleep. He was on his back in only his boxers but something about him was off. There was some kind of tension emanating from him that shouldn’t be while he was in slumber and the sheet was tangled around his feet like he had tossed and turned.

Higgins decided to stick around for a few minutes because if the lads went to get her and lead her to Magnum, surely there was a reason. The dogs both lied on the floor at the foot of the bed, like they were guarding the PI and Higgins had to smirk; apparently Zeus and Appolo were more attached to Magnum than they appeared to be.

She approached the bed silently and put her gun in his own nightstand, not comfortable leaving the weapon in plain sight. She directed the flashlight towards the ceiling so she could see him clearly without the light disturbing him.

She was startled by a sudden move from the bed as Magnum thrashed on the mattress and moaned a desperate plea.

« No, don’t hurt them, take me instead. »

The young woman’s stomach dropped at the realization: he was having a nightmare. And from what she could gather, it was about his time in the POW.

They had never discussed this before but Juliet knew Magnum and his friends had to be suffering from a form of PTSD after their captivity. Nightmares were a common symptom of PTSD and could be quite vivid, however, she was also aware you didn’t just wake a person up if he was in the midst of reliving his captivity.

He could still think he was in that camp when he awoke and mistook her for one of his assailants before attacking her. No, she needed to find a way to reassure him, make him understand he was safe and sound in his bed without rousing him.

She looked around and saw the armchair near the foot of the bed. She curled in it as she tucked her legs under her, knowing she was staying close but he couldn’t reach her if he threw an arm or a leg around.

She looked at him as he moved around, clearly in distress and it pained her to see him in this much agony.

She did the only thing she could think of: she talked to him, hoping he would recognize her voice, tone and accent even in his sleep.

“Hey Thomas, it’s Juliet.”

She noticed he stilled in his tossing and his face turned towards her, like he could identify the source of her voice. She took it as progress so she continued her monologue.

“It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re in your bed, in Hawaii and I’m here.”

He was still trapped inside his mind as he kept whining and muttering incomprehensible words. Suddenly, she jumped out of her skin when he screamed before curling in a fetal position, shaking like a leaf.

‘Screw it.’, she thought as she got up and climbed onto the mattress next to him, still out of his reach and sat Indian style.

It took everything in her not to reach out and touch him, the need to comfort him and herself almost overwhelming.

She resumed talking to him, hoping it would soothe him.

“I have something to confess to you and since you’re most likely not understanding what I’m saying, I’ll just do it.”

She took a deep breath.

“When MI6 offered me my job back, they gave me an amazing opportunity to join a task force with a lot of financing and travelling around the world. Really, it was my dream job when I started my career. And yet I refused it.”

She trailed her fingers on the sheet next to her, picking up a lint, anything to avoid looking at him even though he couldn’t see her. His body had relaxed slightly since she started talking to him.

“When I accepted your offer to be your partner I told you it was because I had found something in Hawaii I didn’t want to leave behind. And that was absolutely true but I didn’t tell you what it was.”

She paused, trying to find the courage to divulge the information.

“It’s you, Magnum. You’re the one I want to stay on this island for.”, she whispered because as much as she was willing to come clean, she was still afraid he would actually hear her.

It was like something incredibly heavy had been lifted off her chest when she revealed her secret as if admitting it out loud suddenly made it true. Like she finally stopped pretending he wasn’t the best thing that had ever happened to her.

She saw tears running down his cheeks and her throat tightened. She tried to swallow down the emotions as she wondered what memory made him cry. She didn’t need to speculate for too long though.

He whispered ‘Hannah’ and her heart broke a little more for him after everything he went through. Like being captured and tortured for 18 months wasn’t enough, he had to deal with the betrayal of the love of his life.

She lied down next to him, her head on her bent arm and turned towards him. She still didn’t touch him and kept talking to him. About how she had never met a man like him, so honest and selfless.

“After everything you went through, you’re still this optimistic man-child and I admire you for it. I wished I was more like you but after Richard died I let bitterness swallow me whole and I didn’t know how to drag myself out of it. Until I met you.”

This time, when fresh tears appeared on his cheek she didn’t hold back and brushed them away with the pad of her thumb.

His reaction took her by surprise as he dragged her to him, as easily as if she had been a rag doll, her body flushed against his and buried his face into her neck.

She gasped at the strength of his hold, his arms around her back, his right leg thrown over her hips as if he was a koala bear hugging a tree.

She froze when he inhaled her deeply and brushed his lips against the sensitive skin of her neck. He had been dreaming about Hannah and now he was kissing her.

‘That’s not good.’, she thought as she tried not to dwell on the fact that it actually felt delightful.

She tried to squirm out of his embrace but he was squeezing her tightly against him and she couldn’t free herself from him. She felt him stiffen and another sensation of dread settled in her bones. He was waking up.

She was still trapped within his embrace and he was waking up. No matter how embarrassing being mistaken for his lost love was, she’d rather face that situation than being mistaken for a Taliban. She had no way to retaliate if he happened to be disorientated and violent.

Juliet attempted to even her breaths and not give way to panic because it would be worse if he felt her fear.

As if she didn’t have enough on her plate, the batteries of the flashlight died out and the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. She tried to brush reassuring strokes across his lower back – the only body part of his she could reach with her arms pinned to her sides – and whispered that she was here, hoping her voice would help him identify her.

“Higgy?”, he croaked and Juliet let out a breath of relief.

“Yes, I’m here. You’re safe, Thomas.”

She felt his heartbeat hammering against her chest but his hold didn’t weaken.

“Are you okay?”, she asked knowing he was definitely not okay.

“I think so. Just, could you please stay with me?”

His broken tone made her heart ache.

“Of course. Can I have my arms back, though?”

“You won’t leave, right?”

“I won’t.”, she reassured him gently.

He loosened his hold around her upper body so she could free her limbs but just like she promised, she didn’t move away from him. Not knowing what to actually do with her arms, she wrapped them around his neck to position them in an actual hug, hoping it would comfort him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”, she asked gently.

“Not really.”, he answered as he grazed his lips from her neck to her shoulder.

She shivered at the contact, not knowing how to interpret his action. Sure, he was seeking solace in her arms and she was more than okay to give it to him. However, he had been dreaming about his ex-girlfriend and now he was laying kisses on her. The same kisses she wished he would give her while actually thinking about her.

“Higgy?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For talking to me and dragging me out of my own mind.”

She stiffened slightly.

“You’re welcome. You heard me talk?”

“Yeah, I heard everything.”

She felt his lips turn up in a smile against her shoulder as his mouth traveled again.

‘Great.”, she thought sarcastically.

“Thomas?”

He hummed against her pulse point and now he most definitely could feel how her heart raced under his lips.

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Because I want to.”

Right. That seemed like a logical explanation. Maybe she should just stop finding excuses to do what she wanted also.

She turned her face slowly and pressed her lips to his cheek. She felt him brush a kiss against her neck. Both emboldened by the other’s reaction, they grazed their lips across skin until they met in a chaste kiss.

Juliet couldn’t stop the tingles from spreading in her stomach. She cupped his cheek and dared diving for another kiss, with her mouth slightly open. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth and she moaned softly. He didn’t deepen the kiss though but pressed his forehead to hers.

They stayed entwined for a moment as he slipped his leg between hers and she trailed her fingers in his hair, at the back of his head. She felt safe with his arms securely holding her to him like he was afraid she would leave him.

“Where are you?”, she asked wondering if his mind, even awake, was still in that POW camp.

“Right where I want to be.”, he whispered against her cheekbone.

She smiled.

“And where is that?”

“In your arms.”

Juliet’s heart burst in her chest and she had never felt so light in her life. Magnum wanted to be with her and she wanted to be with him. Forever.

#magnum PI #Thomas Magnum #magnum fic #magnum x higgins #juliet higgins #magnum x juliet #kissing prompt #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #My fic #miggy #miggy fic

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viohra · 4 years

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Zin Śeva Serinov

[z̪in̪ ˈɕe.və ˈs̪e.rɪ.n̪ov]

Also known as “Zin”, “The Fist Zin”, “The Seveth Zin”, “The Last Serinov”, “Serinov”, and a host of other variations of his name with military ranks, Śeva was born in 1893 ADK (after the death of Koiđu) out of wedlock into the Serinov family, one of the richest and most influential clans in Elensia. His mother was the youngest member of the family’s main branch and his father was the son of a poor Kentic baker and lived near the Serinov estate. His maternal grandfather had both the baker and son killed for the disgrace. Śeva was then named Śeva (which means nothing but sounds like Ševa meaning potato) and sent to a home where all the bastards and other ill-begottens of the family were sent and was trained to become an officer in the military, as was custom of Serinov bastards: to bring glory or die, either way is good for the family.

Śeva was sent to the Elensian war college at 16 and graduated 8 years later with the equivalent to a doctorate in military strategy and sent to the navy with the rank of commander.

At this time in history, Viishy technology was around the same level as the 1950s on Earth and the Elensian Empire and the Naru Federation (a large Shumer country on Taiva) were quickly sliding toward war with each other and a few other powerful nations. The greatest issue, however, was the vast ocean between the continents made aircraft unable to strike without refuelling and ships were too slow to conduct tactical strikes. Magic was being severely hindered by each nation’s antimagic fields. The only answer was to capture the northern continent of Sevkra which had never previously been settled (the Sevkra Ser were largely unknown at this time) due to it's inhospitable environment and the fact that attempting to settle it was considered an act of war to the other nations. The reasoning was that Sevkra was in a perfect strategic position to launch attacks across the entire northern hemisphere.

So as a young commander in charge of a corvette, Śeva was apart of a fleet tasked with protecting cargo vessels. In winter 1920 ADK, the Naru Federation invaded Rjånbjä, then simply called “Urjon”. Urjon was an ally of Elensia, causing Elensia to go to war with the NF. Śeva’s fleet was the closest to NF shores, so they were dispatched to assault the NF industry city Kashem. Śeva’s fleet was poorly manned, poorly equipped, and even worse poorly commanded and was absolutely devastated, but able to deal a blow to the NF’s most valuable navy yard. Upon returning home, Śeva was made admiral for his actions (and name) at the age of 34. As admiral he was charged in securing Sevkra as Elensian territory.

The moment his fleet breached the No Man’s Land parallel, the already unstable political situation of the world exploded in a full world war with four complete independent sides. After many battles Śeva was made Grand Admiral of the Northern Fleet (GANF) and secured Sevkra and sank the last of the NF’s Northern Fleet in the same week. The war then shifted to a war of most of the world versus Elensia which ended after one year, close to a billion deaths, and much of Taiva destroyed as Elensia signed an armistice with the country of Vasta from south Taiva, a world superpower at the time.

It's also important to note that Śeva was very adept at magic, to the point that it was not possible to classify his abilities, making him the 17th Unclassified Viishy to ever live. Koiđu was the first, and in a way, the 17th as well because Śeva was the reincarnation of Koiđu. Śeva inherited the same reality manipulation magic as his old soul too, but he simply didn't have the thousands of years of experience as his predecessor. He could, however, hear and see his predecessor who — for the lack of a better term — haunted him. Koiđu was angry for not being able to completely die and now “living” as a shadow to a war-hungry child pissed him off even more, so at times he would torture Śeva for kicks, making Śeva manic, depressed, sleep-deprived, and addicted to pain medication which at first was used to treat headaches.

Once Śeva came home he was made Marshal of Sevkra, marshal being a social position in Viishy society that is both civilian and military — it's a position you're either made as or elected to and gives to immense political power and extrajudicial privileges that varry country to country, they are basically a caste of untouchable social elite that does as they will without consequence. The English translation “marshal” comes from the misunderstanding that it was a military rank and not social caste that simply outranked military ranks. In Elensia there's a tradition that when you become a marshal, you are allowed one action without repercussions that doesn't affect the royal family. So Śeva chose to have the entire Serinov family publically executed including all branches up to 3 generations. This was a suggestion by Koiđu who never expected Śeva to do it, so Koiđu was surprised by this as well. The last two of the family to die were his mother and grandfather, who he had burned while making them perceive time as such that for them, they burned for millions of years. It was then he became feared as The Last Serinov.

Upon exploring Sevkra, Śeva discovered the Sevkra Ser living in elaborate caves beneath the snow and ice. He was surprised to find they spoke a language similar the Ser in Taiva, had similar cultures, and called themselves Ser. Koiđu then told him he placed a community of Ser on the continent to see what would happen years prior to his death, and it seems they did well to survive. Śeva then started working with them to establish the underground capital megacity of Voden and Kavo, both located in Ser population centres as a gesture of good faith. After a few decades, the Emperor told him to either kill the Ser or sent them to Taiva. Śeva was infuriated because unlike his family which lived off the backs of the poor and were a key aspect of Elensian corruption, the Ser were a peaceful innocent people. So instead he teleported to the emperor’s palace and killed him with the very sword the emperor gave him upon becoming marshal. Śeva declared independence of Sevkra from Elensia and went back to Voden to prepare for war.

At the time most of Sevkra was military and their families, most of whom supported Śeva and already saw him as a better leader than the emperor, so the assassination and declaration of independence was celebrated by the majority of the new nation. The war between Sevkra and Elensia lasted 5 days with Elensia losing hundreds of thousands and Sevkra suffering only from 323 deaths and 108 injured due to Śeva fighting with all his powers and saving much of his force from experiencing the battle.

After the war, Śeva established a system of government where there was a democratically elected president, a prime minister, and a parliament, a democratically elected judicial system, a mostly democratically elected marshaldom, and a oligarchy of 7 marshal-chosen members with equal political power that can for any reason make absolute political changes and who rule of the marshaldom body. These 7 are all Grand Marshals with six of them assuming the name of the Titan they “politically represent” and the seventh member being the Grand Admiral or Supreme General who is leading the military at the time (this person is temporarily made Grand Marshal). Śeva made 431 people marshals and they elected him among the 7 oligarchs of the nation. This is where he adopted the name “Zin”, just as his predecessor Koiđu had.

Much of the next 1000 years or so he spent in relative peace. Koiđu eventually “fell asleep” and would only be awake for brief moments every hundred years and Śeva moulded Sevkra into a nation so powerful, no nation ever attempted to attack it. Sevkra technology became extremely advanced and after the advent of space travel, they became known as creators of the most powerful and advanced starships. Śeva wanted to explore the cosmos as Koiđu had, so he stepped down from being Zin and gathered a team and set out to explore. He found many planets terraformed by Koiđu which he settled in the name of Sevkra and also established bases on moons and asteroids. He then set out alone and found a moon above a gas giant that was large enough for the plans he had. Inside this moon he created the largest ship to exist (or ever exist). Upon returning home 1500 years later, he was elected again as Zin, this time the seventh Zin.

He wrote a book titled “On Magic” under the pen name “Varik”, but it wasn't well received— critics called it “completely and utterly incomprehensible” and “most painful to read than be murdered by the hardcopy version” and it fell into obscurity until it found its way into a certain person’s hands. The book also contained a code on where to find his ship.

After another 500 years Śeva felt done with life and tried to succeed where Koiđu had failed, leaving a note that read “Y’know what? I rate it 3,5/6 stars at best.” He succeeded a little better than Koiđu.

3,5 became the name of a political party that voiced policies that Śeva would've supported.

#viishy #long post

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 5 years

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Communization: The senile decay of anarchy

Communization: The senile decay of anarchy (or re-inventing anarchy) – fragment of the unpublished pamphlet “FAI Reloaded” by the Conspiracy of Cells of Fire.

i) Frozen Marxism

Today’s era smells like engine oil, cheap labor sweat and naphthalene of the morality of voluntary obedience… We do not want to be defined by the culture of techno-industrial fascism, the white uniforms of scientists, the neckties of technocrats, the eager silences of ordinary people, the stupid smiles of consumers… We do not match with the aesthetics of the glass world of flat television screens, the digital imitation of the life of social media, the display windows of lifestyle, the lens of security cameras. We do not fit in the society of captivity, the police checks of our identification papers, the supervision of security guards, the laws of the judges, the locked doors of prisons. We do not settle for the average normality dictated by morality, we don’t amuse our boredom with psychotropic drugs, we aren’t covered by the coldness of empty relations, we don’t read… Marx.

Today we live to the rhythm of a generalized crisis. Our daily life is throttled from the tyranny of numbers. Our life resembles an accounting book, whose calculations always find it deficient and indebted. They overwhelm us with financial terms and definitions, one half of which are unknown and the other half of no interest to us. The wandering charlatans of all ideologies, roam from one financial conference to the other and bombard us with ramblings and often incomprehensible interviews-speeches, each of them presenting his own social antidote to the economic crisis. On the shelves of the ideological supermarket every faithful consumer will find the antidote that suits him, in all shades. There are “revolutionary” antidotes, even “anarchist” ones. In Greece, the neo-communists, ex-anarchists, mix in the cauldron of ideologies anarchist labels, with plenty of frozen Marxism, anti-imperialism and a pinch of disguised national liberation. The new tension of “serious” anarchy dresses itself in a formal way and launches the trend of anti-capitalist struggle on a red background. The rhetoric of the neo-communists – “anarchists” talks about everything. In an effort to build a social marketing of propaganda for the masses, it promotes generalizations sanctifying the “oppressed people” and “workers” who, obviously, for them are “not accountable” for their responsibilities and silences, uses covertly socially palatable national references, such as “the Greek people”, “our country” and promises “social salvation” with the coming of post-revolutionary society, preaching in the assemblies of the need for centralized-structures… It seems that some neo-communists already rehearse their future offices. Perhaps, this what they train themselves for now, selling hegemony, experience coming from age and the wisdom of a leader within the anarchist milieu.

There, then, where some see an opportunity, because of the economic crisis, we see a trap. A trap of sinking in the swamp of confusion, of fantasies about the social “good” deriving from Marxist analysis, of certainties about revolutionary subjects, of economism.

First of all, the global crisis we are experiencing today is not just a crisis of numbers, financial figures and mathematics, but part of the overall crisis of values and conscience in the world of authority. It is the cannibalistic crisis of western lifestyle which after it grew big consuming blood and oil from the “underdeveloped”, it now feeds from the flesh. Today, the “developed world” not only lives in the grip of economic tyranny, but also in the desert of spiritual and emotional bankruptcy.

Unlike the Marxists and their “anarchist” great-grandchildren, who want to interpret life with the rationality of mathematics, we seek our liberation inside the blasts of a permanent existential revolt of relations, situations, values, morals, and everyday life.

Even the economy, which is the center of the tedious analysis of the communists, for us it is not a series of ordered numbers leading to the equation of the class struggle. Instead, the economy is, first and foremost, a hierarchical social relationship that speaks the language of money. Money is a symbol of accumulated power. It is a property title that owns objects, land, time, admiration, relationships, people. The anarchist challenge, then, cannot be trapped in the demand for “better wages”, “lower taxes”, “economic equality”… One cannot destroy the morality of property by making it equal and uniform to all.

The experiment of communist totalitarian regimes spawned monsters, dictatorships of the proletariat and obedient subjects. One cannot exorcise ugliness with a new ugliness, simply by changing the name to something more “social” and imagining that through the “anti-imperialist struggle”, the country won’t become a “modern colony “.

Even if one removes money, authority will find new beads and mirrors to swap for the obedience of the natives. Besides, authority is older than capitalism and money. So we laugh, but also get bored from the analysis and the texts of the anarcho-marxist theoretical moles. They write and rewrite super-analysis, but their figures don’t add up, as they cannot understand that life does not fit in the labels they stick to it … “proletariat,” “class struggle,” “anti-imperialist struggle”… First of all, anti-imperialist struggle does not require an overall anti-state perception of the anarchist struggle. Anti-imperialist struggle is also being conducted by the bureaucratic fossil of KKE (Greek Communist Party). At the same time, reading behind the lines both in the texts of the ex-anarchist now communists, we see a deliberate crypto-patriotism. National references (our country, the Greek people, etc.), focusing on the “foreign capital” (as if capital has a nationality), combined with the complete absence of anti-state edges is at least suspicious. The neo-communists – ex-anarchists do not speak for a moment about the destruction of the state. Instead, they speak in a denunciatory, political way aiming for its wide consumption and present themselves as the far left of the left government, which they denounce, but without openly declaring war against it. The extra-parliamentary opposition to the leftist government of SY.RI.Z.A. has nothing to do with anarchy and freedom. We do not seek neither a reform of the system, nor its leftist grooming; all we want is its total destruction. However, we live in strange days and we have to rearm even the most fundamental parts of anarchy…

Authority, then, is not just ugly, sullen faces attached to miserable bodies decorated with suits and ties, in the same way anarchy is not “honest worker’s sweat” and “The reading of the complete works of Marx and Bakunin“… Surely the first ones must become ideal shooting targets for Kalashnikov bursts, but this is not enough…

Authority is a social relationship.

Authority is born even in our friendships, in our meetings, in our love, in our daily lives.

Again, we have to cast it out of our relations. Of course, this is done only through a belligerent/armed confrontation with the existent, as our searches are not a hippie inner meditation but practical wishes best expressed when our fingers fill magazines with bullets and our hands arm our weapons to “talk”…

ii) Overcoming revolutionary myths

The class of the poor, the oppressed, the “ones at the bottom”, the workers, is a faded label, which for us does not represent anything in itself . They are words that are lost in the void and their echo is immersed in a past that has been overcome. The working class is a massive forced social identity, which crushes the uniqueness and particularity of the individual, of every different man under its weight. The people is the fairytale that connects a variety of persons with completely different perceptions, habits, anxieties, thoughts, personalities, characteristics most of them regressing into confusion, homogenized in the mouths of politics experts with the name “the people”. The people, the society is the realm of contradictions. It is the common place of origin, and we who deny the ethics and values of society also come from it, but it leads to different options of destinations. Within the society reside slaves who want to look like their bosses, subjects who worship order, conservatives who defend normality, the petty bourgeois who worship property, the fascists who fear everything different, the good citizens who fall in love with the privacy of their home and the cleanliness of their furniture, the underclass that envy the ensconced, the ensconced who are indifferent, the poor who grumble but are afraid to act, immigrants, delinquents who admire the privileged… At the same time, within the same society, there are progressives, sensitive philanthropists, leftists, pacifists, communists, libertarians, anarchists, revolutionaries even the nihilists-negators of society.

What is called “the people”, “society” is all the above mosaic of relations between a fog of persons, some of them connected with an affinity of perceptions and experiences, others at a fierce war with each other.

The people is always seen in a positive way. The people are claimed by all, from the fascists and conservatives to leftists and anarchists. The people are “poor”, “honest”, “depressed”, “wronged” and of course “wise” when voting… The people and the working class, according to political experts, is eternally deluded, thus always in need of guidance. Marxists and their anarchist great-grandchildren are always willing to guide (in the name of “the people” of course) and offer the promised land, the post-revolutionary society. In their texts, posters and events, they always speak in plural, using the collective “we” of the people, the workers, the proletariat, considering that, presenting themselves as part of the proletariat, they will become more likeable and the take the people on their side. The funny thing is that, usually, the political representatives of the proletariat have no connection with it, as, to put it in a “class” way, they come from petty bourgeois or middle-class layers (eternal students, regulars and owners of coffeehouses, economically dependent from their parents etc. .).

As new messiahs–liberators , they address the motley mass of the working class, considering it as the ultimate revolutionary subject. But from within the working class comes the indifference of many, the misery of the petty bourgeoisie, the patriotic cannibalism, the 500,000 voters of the fascist Golden Dawn, law-abiding citizens, informants, the conservatives, the pious of the churches, the faithful TV-viewers, the zombies of the digital world and social media, the happy consumers…

What connects us as anarchists with all these people?… From the absolute nothing, until irreconcilable hostility. Anarchy and the labor movement followed two parallel lines and it is geometrically proven that parallel lines do not intersect. Why, then, should we acknowledge the oppressed in a general and vague way as “brothers” and talk about class war, along people with whom we do not have anything in common? Better to put forward the overall anarchist attack that eliminates all these illusions of the common front of the oppressed. Because right now, all that connects us with the oppressed is the economic condition we are required to live in. But the common coercive economic condition we experience as marginalized, along with the poor, the unemployed, workers, migrants is a forced condition and not a conscious choice. Except from all of us who consciously chose the social margin and refused material privileges, what most oppressed people desire is not to destroy the world of exploitation, but to move to their bosses’ mansions, wear their clothes, imitate their manners and, in turn, oppress all those under their authority. The slave who seeks rights without having a liberating conscience will soon seek to wear his master’s suit. One only needs to notice the accumulated micro-authority that oppressed ones bear inside them when they express it against all those they believe to be “weaker” than them; the native against the immigrant, the immigrant against his family, the “most experienced” workers against their new colleagues… This is the class of modern proletarians. A mix of mercenaries of misery and cannibalism, ready to offer their services to the highest bidder. Oppressed people with oppressed complexes, wanting to be like their bosses.

We don’t want, therefore, to seek comrades and allies inside coercive common conditions we did not choose, but through common choices.

We are neither tricked nor pleased by ephemeral alliances with those who fight for a better salary or rights and reforms of the existent’s misery. We may find ourselves next to them behind barricades or in conflicts with the cops, but we’ll never meet with them substantially unless they demolish their internal moral identity of the worker, the student, the unemployed, the demonstrator and unless they refuse the world of order and laws all together.

We don’t care about those who, having nothing to lose, go out in the streets, but about those willing to lose everything to regain their lives from the beginning…

Besides, among the first ones, you’ll find the biggest traitors, who, in the first hitch or in front of the lure of an economical promise, will desert you, squeal you or even turn against you…

In contrast, in the latter case, you’ll find some of your closest and most authentic comrades and accomplices… How many times have we not found ourselves in the middle of a stormy sea of confusion and contradictions? The same people with whom we were side by side, throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails at the cops and sharing times and moments behind flaming barricades, in the context of a corporatist claim of a “wild strike” for better salaries, returned fast to their daily routine and shielded themselves again with the uniform of the lawful citizen, voter, family man, TV-viewer right after their claim was either satisfied or rejected. From the “wild strike” of Chalybourgia, we ended up with the mobilization’s total control by the union adjacent to the Communist Party and the warm welcome of Golden Dawn’s MPs, who rushed to show their solidarity to the “Greek worker’s” struggle. From the barricades and the flaming nights in Keratea and the sabotage of the landfill facility installation in the area, we ended up with high election rates for the Golden Dawn in the same area.

But even the “wild youth” reciprocates in its contradictions. From student squats and attacks against cops it jumps without a second thought to pogroms against immigrants and panegyric fiestas of national pride (“athletic” successes of the national football team).

It is not enough, therefore, only to occasionally overcome the law by throwing a rock or a Molotov cocktail. This is surely a necessary step. However, along with the bank or the police vehicle which we’ll torch, we ought to torch all the authoritarian residues inside us, the moral preconceptions and the conservative stereotypes we inherited from this world.

Of course, as we hate criticism for the sake of criticism and the degradation of digital pseudo-nihilist dirge, that criticizes everything except from the deformed “super-ego”, our position is clear. As much as we want to want to crush the petty politics of the newly minted anarcho-marxists, we evenly want to demolish the ivory tower of the “ideologists’” theory of pure anarchy.

We analyze and decode the complex of society’s explosive contradictions, not to remain spectators and admire our “authority”, but to organize strategically our anarchist attack. There are the so-called intermediate social struggles, some of which (i.e. students’ squats) are interesting due to their composition and their diversion, which may trigger chaotic situations that are the ideal field of expression of our hatred for the system. Obviously, we’ll not be absent from these struggles, without forgetting, of course, that the “ideal” is blotted by reality and what’s left from the rose is the thorn.

However, as we don’t cage ourselves into demands and reformist notions, we maintain our characteristics and don’t lose ourselves in petty political discounts to become socially “liked”. Therefore, we invade as anarchists and don’t hide behind other social masks (unemployed, worker, demonstrator); in contrast, we wear the hood and attack, without fearing the pit of contradictions of the intermediate struggles.

So, if we want to destroy this world of organized exploitation and boredom, we must talk about the overcoming of classes and not wiggle the shroud of “class struggle” as a flag. Red anarchists that talk about class struggle have a corpse in their mouths which has begun to rot. In continuous anarchist insurrection, all classes are abolished. The individual, discovering in a liberating manner its conscious self, is in total rupture with the class of which it comes from, whether this is the proletarian one or the petty bourgeois. We refuse every class because it’s a result of fissions triggered by the system. Every class bears inside it the characteristics and ethics of the existent. The beloved child of red “anarchists”, the proletariat, carries inside it the ethics of labor, the pseudo-pride of patriotism, the worship of petty ownership, the remains of religious conservatism… This is the sad representation of the confusion which triumphs inside the intermediate reformist labor struggles that never overcome their myopic self to acquire an overall liberating perspective.

iii) About Black Anarchy

We renounce, therefore, any notion of “class struggle” which, in its most radical form, the Marxist variation, aims to the conquest of power through the dictatorship of the proletariat. We spit on the “experts” of revolution, the communist leadership, the veterans and the “anarchist” personas of public relations that compete with each other for the position of the greatest helmsman of revolution.

Besides, liberation will come when we smash the heads of our self-appointed “liberators”.

We refuse to wait for the objective conditions of mass uprising. The preparation of big masses as a precondition for the “revolution” against authority only triggers postponement.

We know we live in times of “crisis”. Some ex-anarchists chose to follow the Marxist rhetoric of pragmatism, economism, thinking that they speak the language of political realism. They could not stand as anarchists; they’ll prove to be incompetent as Marxists…

Their arguments already transform and lead to obsolete alliances with individuals and political milieus that define themselves in terms of political opposition. Anarchy no longer has anything to do with them…

We insist on anarchy’s blackness.

In chaos, disorder, living dangerously, nihilism of action, in the armed confrontation with the existent, in the fire of the continuous anarchist insurrection.

We reject all the idealized principles that revolutionary theories talking about the future liberation and social harmony promise. Life offers no guarantees. The time is now and the place is here…

Let’s be honest; we don’t know how a liberated tomorrow will be “functional”. That’s exactly why it’s liberated.

Because it’ll be full of possibilities, questions and doubts. Whoever seeks for certain answers and Marxist certainties will soon seek the guarantee of authority and priesthoods of red power.

We maintain our questions and black flag…

This is black anarchy.

Anarchy, however, demands the organization of the new anarchist urban guerrilla, if we don’t want it to degenerate into a meaningless poetic chatter, doomed to be followed by the alternative integration in the system. Concepts that are not armed, like anarchist individualism, nihilism end up being harmless words in the mouths of even more harmless individuals who confuse anarcho-nihilism with the subculture of “antisocial lifestyle”.

Anarcho-nihilism combines the propaganda of words with the propaganda of shootings, fire, dynamite. Its dynamics is forged on the anvil of actions where consciousness and experience meet in a never ending dance and not in the keyboards of the digital world of noting.

Therefore, the anarchist urban guerrilla has the possibility to carry anarchy from abstract theory to practice where our desires are armed and trigger our own reality.

The Conspiracy of Cells of Fire and FAI are the reflection of our desires. We promote the creation of an informal network of cells and groups of anarchist affinity with the aim to diffuse the practical theory and attacks. We weave our own spider web… We organize our attacks against the outposts of the world of organized exploitation and boredom. We hit the banks, the police stations, the courthouses, the prisons, the ministries, the party offices, the corporate empires and whatever guards and reproduces the values of this world. Of course, we don’t forget that new anarchist urban guerrilla’s target is not just the blowing up of things and execution of authority’s officers, but, simultaneously, the destruction of social relations that bear inside them the poison of power. Therefore, in parallel with the organization and diffusion of FAI and CCF via bullets and bombs, we desire to smash with our texts all these daily social conventions and slap the mentality of willing obedience that are half of the authority’s power…

We hate the hand that holds the whip as much as we hate the back of those who uncomplainingly accept its hits…

Don’t follow me… I’m not leading you…

Don’t walk ahead of me… I’ll not follow you…

Carve your own path… Become yourself…

WE ORGANIZE 10, 100, 1000 cells of Informal Anarchist Federation and Conspiracy of Cells of Fire

ATTACK FIRST AND ALWAYS FOR ANARCHY

Conspiracy of Cells of Fire – FAI/IRF

Imprisoned Members Cell

#Conspiracy of Cells of Fire #ccf #anarchy #communism #nihilism #post left anarchy #the invisible committee #tiqqun #anti tiqqun #fai #irf #attack #direct action

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9g99 · 6 years

Text

Quiet Intimacy - C.H.

summary - Friends can sleep in each other’s beds, but friends don’t treat each other like you and Calum do.

word count - 3.9k+

author’s note - slow burn best friends to lovers AU again?? u betcha babey. you know that one cocktail chat where calum’s like ‘oh wassup baby’?? yeah i got inspiration from that. enjoy :-)

warnings - swearing, depressive episode/anxiety attack (it’s mainly just breakdown from stress u kno??), mentions of alcohol and drinking, mentions of water and (feeling like one is) drowning, fluff + angst

Calum thinks it’s pathetic - the situation he’s in. He’s not one for cliches and yet he’s living one each moment he continues to breathe. I mean truthfully, there’s nothing wrong with it, but he knows how this will complicate things more. Or maybe it won’t but he doubts that because friends shouldn’t think of friends like they are heaven, like they embody light and joy. Friends shouldn’t long to hold the other’s hand and imagine kissing their lips when their smile is so bright that its elegance transcends to you so you’re smiling back at them. Most importantly, friends shouldn’t like each other as more than friends and more as lovers.

“You were in my dream last night,” you admit to Calum. You take a sip from your water.

Calum chokes on his spoonful of cereal. He didn’t expect those words to come from your mouth. The beating in his chest quickens. He just assumed what he had was unrequited, but with those words, Calum thinks maybe it’s not. Maybe the feelings are mutual. Maybe your heart heard the song his played for you, the sweet melody of a tender affection for the beautiful angel who makes his heart race but also calms it with its kind nature. Once he recovers from his coughing fit, he replies, “Oh yeah, what about?”

You can’t help but admire how natural it is having Calum here. Your heart flutters at the domesticity. This is what people aspire for. They want something simple, something compassionate, something warm, and something enduring. You swallow another mouthful. “It’s not like anything weird, so chill.”

“Last time you told me about your dream that you said wasn’t weird was early 1900s themed and you had a pet dragon,” he retorts.

You glare at him and explain, “Well it’s not like that, so shut up and let me talk.” Calum rolls his eyes. “Um, well it was us at Ikea, that furniture store, you know the one --”

“I know what Ikea is (Y/N),” Calum intrudes. You throw a crumpled napkin at him. Calum quickly dodges it and watches the annoyance slowly build in your eyes. You scold, “Hey, I said don’t talk, but anyways we went to Ikea and you know that movie 500 Days of Summer?” Calum nods. “Yeah it was like that. We were exploring Ikea like Summer and Tom did. I thought it was nice and fun and- hey why are you looking at me like that?”

A smirk graces Calum’s lips, but Calum wouldn’t say it’s one. It’s not a smirk, but rather a bashful grin where only one corner of his mouth tilted up, while his eyes gleamed at you with hope and curiosity. The look on his face was a consequence of your earlier confession about him - you had a dream about him, a dream with him where you two went on a date. His innocent questions left you to incomprehensible sentences. “Does someone have a crush on me? Does (Y/N) specifically have a crush me, Calum Hood?”

“What? No. Me liking you? Please, that’s like, um, that’s like-,” you stutter.

“Yeah, okay, sure you don’t,” he chides. “A dream is a wish your heart makes, just saying.”

And his heart wants you. His heart dreams for you.

Calum wonders if you’ve ever considered him as something more than a friend. You probably don’t because this quiet intimacy you two have can be just as platonic as it can be romantic.

It was grocery day, meaning you and him would go to the supermarket to buy whatever foods you thought you were low on stock in your apartment. It was a joke at first for Calum to tag along when you went to the store, but now it feels unnatural if he’s not there. You accustomed to Calum’s commentary on which apple looked better than another, why it’s better to cut your own melons than buy the pre-cut fruit, his hesitance, but he quickly got over that uncomfortable feeling, of waiting in line at the register when you forgot one item and scurried back to the aisles to find it, and most of all, his insistence to always buy at least one box of his favorite cereal. You never do, of course, but he notices that you somehow always have it stocked in your pantry despite all his pleads.

This time around, it felt different. You didn’t want Calum to be there with you. You wanted to grocery shop alone for once. Maybe it was because you had a crap day at work and wanted to indulge in your stash of ice cream, but then you remembered you ate all of it last time Calum came over, so you felt even worse on your way back home. Maybe it was because the elevator broke down and you had to walk up four flights of stairs just to get to your apartment that you felt even snappier and annoyed that day. Maybe it was because you didn’t get a call or email back about your application for another job to quit your current one. Maybe it was a culmination of things that made your body feel like it was slowly walking down the shore of a beach. With each step, the tide pulled you further. The pull of the water was driving you into deep depths to the sea. The further you walked, the harder it was to move your body back to its origin. Your movements stalled as you noticed as a wave begins to form. Your breath quickened in and out of your lungs, because you’ve never been this far out before by yourself; with other people, yes, but alone, no. The wave gained more momentum as it swam to you. Just as it struck down on you, you heard a voice call out your name. Once it hit, the water ran and so did your tears.

You thought you were drowning, that you were done for, that this was the end. You couldn’t breathe and you couldn’t move, but you smelled a hint of musk in the water. Wait, that doesn’t make sense.

It was then you realized you weren’t in the ocean trapped in a current. You opened your eyes to find your body trapped in strong arms. The unknown arms keeper whispered soft reassurances to you in a long hug. Your senses slowly regained when you turned your head up and saw a familiar face.

The dark colored hair, the slight stubble on their chin, the soft cotton shirt, the trace of smoke hidden in the aroma of their cologne, and the beautiful plump pink lips.

Calum whispered again to your hair, “you’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. I got you.”

You sighed into his neck. His arms pulled away as he led you back to your front door. He set you down on the sofa as he prepared you a glass of water. He handed you the cup and wouldn’t take it back until you finished all of its contents.

You hated this part, the part where Calum pressed on and on about what’s wrong and what happened to you. You prepared for his splurge of questions, but it never came. Instead he cleared his throat and breathed, “I, um, I saw the list.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. Calum grabbed for something in his pocket. “The grocery list. I got your stuff already. Thought I forgot somethin’ here Tuesday and was gonna ask you to look but remembered you gave the spare, so I kinda just came over and saw it,” he admitted. “I know we usually go together, but I had to get some stuff too, so thought mind as well do yours too. Sorry if that’s like a no-no. I won’t do it again.”

A gentle smile drew on your face at Calum’s shy rambles. You stood from the couch and pulled him up. Your arms wrapped around his torso as you mumbled, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Calum knew he shouldn’t leave you in such a fragile state, but he really needed to get back home and tend to Duke. He mustered the confidence. “I know you just got home, but do you wanna head over to my place? We could just do take out and you can take the guest room if you’re still tired.”

During the drive to his, you couldn’t keep your hands still. The crying session was over, yes, but the stress was still there and you had no release of that. At a red light, Calum reached for one hand and interlaced his fingers with yours, a reassurance that he was there for you and you aren’t alone. He pressed his lips to the back of your hand and rested your entwined hands on your thigh once the traffic light switched to green. As the tires ran to their next destination, Calum’s thumb ran soft and slow laps on your skin.

When you finally reached his house, you didn’t want to let go. If you left the vehicle, then the intimacy that transpired in Calum’s car would also disappear. Those twenty minutes of peace, quiet, and simply being together, like what you had was something more, something more than what you and Calum simply were - friends - would soon fade into a distant memory of a romance that set ablaze for fleeting moments but quickly put out.

Calum turned to you, still holding your hand. He spoke, “Hey, I think we should at least get in before the sun sets, no?”

You exhale loudly. You mumbled, “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

You pulled the tab to open the car door, but Calum was already there outside your door. He was breathless. He chuckled before squatting in front of you, still gasping for air. “Can’t let my best girl walk again after those four flights of stairs. Come on, hop on.”

Everything after the piggy back became hazy if someone asked you to describe what happened that day. There was one thing you didn’t expect to find a picture of you asleep on Calum’s chest with his arm around you on his sofa on your phone. You most certainly didn’t expect for Ashton’s text in the group chat to say, “and you two say you aren’t together.”

Calum understands how having feelings for his best friend can either make or break the two of you. That’s why he’s concealed it from you for so long. He only told the boys and he fears they might be the ones that will tell you in a drunken stupor or out of pure accident, but he knows they wouldn’t. They’re his boys and their friendship was always greater than putting one of their love interests at stake over friendship.

Take right now for instance. You’re with the boys, but you’re leaning against Calum as you watch Ashton instruct them how to make some concoction of an alcoholic drink. Michael quickly pours in the alcohol, while Luke steadily pours in some type of chaser - fruit punch, you think it is but you’re not too sure - to mask the putrid taste of vodka.

You whisper into Calum’s ear, “Do they want to die tonight or?”

Calum laughs at your remark. He isn’t even sure why they’re throwing a party. Maybe it’s to celebrate how well received the released singles for their upcoming album have been, but still they usually don’t go all out like this. Calum is about to respond, but before he could speak, Luke shouts, “Grab your cups, lads and non-initiated lad, (Y/N)! Time to drink! Cocktail chats, let’s do this!”

Calum sees Ashton add a paper umbrella and slice of pineapple to two vibrant colored drinks that you’re holding. He sighs before taking the glass from you. “You know you don’t have to drink? Like we, I mean the boys and I, are just doing this for the fans yknow? I’m sure there’s water somewhere.”

You smile at his concern. “It’s okay. I’m not going to drink much after seeing all that vodka Michael poured in and then Ashton snuck in, so I’m good.”

He chuckles at your distaste. You never really were a big drinker like them. They say the gasoline taste goes away, but it’s not true. Well it’s partial true; however, it takes a whole lot of time, and whole lot of other alcohol and maybe something non-alcoholic before the gross liquid becomes semi-palatable.

You don’t know what song on the album they’re at after your fifth drink, so much for not drinking huh. You just know makeshift cocktail in your hand tastes good. You were weary at the start, but once you tasted it, you didn’t seem to mind. Michael even admit that it was actually two parts fruit punch and one part vodka, because they knew they shouldn’t get too hammered while filming. Still, the amount you’ve consumed is far less compared to the boys drank so far.

Noticing a bright glow on your face, Calum approaches you with languid, yet flimsy steps. He nudges your shoulder and you quickly hide your phone in your butt pocket. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little tired, yknow?” you reveal. Your eyes search around the room and you quickly ask, “Do you know where the bathroom is?”

Calum pauses, “I think it’s down that hall and first door on your left. It’s one of the two doors over there if I’m wrong.”

As you venture to the hallway, you hear Calum scold himself. Fuckin’ idiot why didn’t you walk her there?

One of the consequences of alcohol: you have to pee so fucking much. It’s worse than water, because you have to pee like every twenty minutes. You get bloated when you drink too much and god, you hate drinking. You swear you’re done drinking after you wash your hands, but are soon mistaken when Ashton forces two drinks in your hands once you exit. Luke spews nonsense into your ear when you reach the back wall as Calum gets ready to film his part for the song. Luke starts, “You know this was supposed to be band mates exclusive only.” You raise your eyebrows with slight interest at Luke as he rambles. “But we have a soft spot for you.” You give Luke a soft smile to show you’re listening and place the two drinks Ashton gave to you on the side table. You’re an earshot away when Luke mutters “especially Calum,” but you only hear a mumble about Calum and nothing else until Luke’s little spur is interrupted by Ashton yelling at him to grab another drink before he films the next shot. Luke mutters a quick apology before throwing his and another phone into your hands. It’s Calum’s because you see the rocket sticker you put on his case after you bought a batch of 100 stickers off the internet for cheap. His phone goes off from a text and you see that his background is the picture Ashton sent two months ago, the one where you and Calum are snuggled together on his sofa. Your heart flutters at the sight. He’s so loving, so gentle, so kind.

Calum’s voice echoes in the living room and you look up from your spot. He’s trying to explain something, but he’s so giggly that he can’t finish his story properly. It comes in short takes. You slowly sip on your drink as you watch him talk to joyfully about the new music he’s about to release.

“Let me tell you how it went down,” he starts, “they come into our room and we’re like --” He notices you watching and absentmindedly voices his thoughts, “Oh wassup baby?” He shakes his head with a smile. “Don’t put that in,” he laughs. “They come into our room and --”

Everything Calum said after came as white noise. You saw him directly look at you when he said that line. ‘Oh wassup baby?’ And the picture on his lockscreen? You feel as time has slowed and your main focus on Calum transforms into the ikea date again. You’re imagining what it’s like to hold his hand, what it’s like to kiss his cheeks without it being a problem, without Calum’s teasing, what it’s like to fall asleep in his arms and not worry whether you did something disgraceful. Your heart soars at the thought of being in a relationship with him. It’d be wonderful, such a beautiful, wonderful thing.

It’s been an hour and a half since the filming stopped and you’re just lazing on the patio chair admiring the view from Ashton’s house. You hear the screen door open, but don’t bother to check who it is. You assume it’s Calum. “Hey (Y/N), we’re all heading out, but I don’t trust myself with driving so is it cool if we crash here?” You nod at his words, not really listening to what he’s saying. “There’s only two spare rooms and Luke and Michael took the one with two beds so, um, do you wanna share? Or do you want to sleep by yourself? Or-” You continue nodding but not really paying attention. “(Y/N). Hey (Y/N).” His fingers snaps. “Do you want to share a room and sleep?” You stopped nodding when your brain registered ‘room’ and ‘sleep.’

You respond weakly, “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

You blink and you’re being lifted in the air. You squeal in Calum’s arms. He chuckles loudly at your antics. “Can’t have my best girl walking in a place she’s never been to. Come on, let me carry you.”

You just plugged in your phone by the time Calum exits the bathroom after showering. You hear his breath hitch when he enters the room. You scrunch your eyebrows. “What do I have something on my face? Oh my god, is there a spider?” Calum quickly shakes his head. “Then why’re you looking at my like that?”

“Like what?” he asks.

“I don’t know. You’re just - ugh,” you groan. “Like that!” You point to his face.

“(Y/N), I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Calum quickly answers.

“Like, like all soft and puppy like. Do you wanna kiss me or somethin’?”

Calum chews on his cheek trying to muffle a laugh, but in his head, it’s going a mile a minute with all his thoughts processing. Do you know about his crush? Did someone tell you? Was it Ashton? No, was it Luke? Calum saw you with him after you used the restroom. Fuck. “Me? Want to kiss you? That’s gross. We’re friends for gods sake. Me wanting to kiss you that’s like, that’s like --”

You unleash a frustrated sigh when you heard ‘gross’ and ‘friends.’ You mutter to yourself, “Wish I could see you as the friend you see me as.”

Calum’s eyebrows furrow. He’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that and he’s too nervous to say anything about it.

You get up from your spot and search for extra pillows and blankets. You announce, “I think I’m gonna sleep on the couch.”

Calum is confused. You two have done this before. Maybe not on a bed, but you’ve fallen asleep next to each other. You’ve woken in each other’s arms before and every time you do, it’s pure bliss, to wake up in the confines of someone’s warm embrace, to feel their heartbeat, to watch them gain clarity from a drowsy gaze, to see their sleepy smile. It’s a lovely thing to sleep beside someone.

Calum scurries when he sees you’ve finally found the blankets. He rushes, “Wait, don’t leave. I need to tell you something.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Really? Can’t it wait til tomorrow?”

He can tell you’re drawing a veil over yourself again. Whenever you get uncomfortable, you always pull a disappearing act. You get scared. You panic. Then you flee. That’s how it always goes, but he can’t have you vanish even the slightest when he’s this close, when he has hope that the feelings he has are being reciprocated. He knew that eventually he would answer to his feelings, but he didn’t expect it to come now. The call came too soon and it wasn’t him waiting. It was you on the line.

He rushes, “Yeah. It’s about that one person I told you about a couple months ago. I have updates.”

Calum pats the side of the bed, offering you a seat. Instead of sitting, you lean against the closed bedroom door in front of him. You’re too nervous that if you sit, you might not be able to stand after and free yourself from him. You need to put a distance. You need to put up your guard. You shrug your shoulders as a sign for him to continue with his story.

He licks his lips. His mind is working overdrive trying to say the right words. He can’t articulate things like this on the spot. He stares at the ground trying to formulate coherent sentences. “Um so yeah, they’re a good friend of mine.” You roll your eyes at him. You knew that already. “And they’re just so good to me, yknow? They always have my foods stocked up in their cupboard, which is really sweet. Um I held their hand a few weeks ago and they have really soft hands. Also, they gave me a spare to their place, so I stay over a lot. And god, they always fall asleep on me when I come over to theirs and it’s really refreshing waking up with someone just there, yknow? Like you know how we tend to fall asleep on the couch during movie nights? It’s like that. And god, it feels so great to like your best friend and know they like you back.”

That last line was a bit cheeky, but he can’t help himself when you’ve given him hope.

You, on the other hand, feel your body shut down. The happiness and joy exuded out of Calum and you couldn’t stand it. All hopes of kindling a romance with him is gone. It’s wrong of you to be jealous of Calum’s love life going well, while yours is clearly sinking. You fear that you could be getting replaced and left for nothing. You felt like you were in the ocean again, but this time you could look back. When your body pivoted in the water, you saw no one on the shore calling for you and that’s when you knew you were done for. It was a mistake, but you were already too deep. Your emotions and feelings were smothering you. The water became too chaotic for you to withstand and you’ve never been a good swimmer to begin with. Your chest is starting to hurt because you can’t breathe with all the water surging at you. You feel a tear leak from the corner of your eye but you pretend it didn’t fall in hopes that Calum didn’t see. You somehow muster enough air and fake a smile. “That’s great Calum! When do I get to meet the lucky person?”

Calum parades an awkward smile now. “That’s the funny part.” He scratches the back of his neck, still looking at the ground. “You kind of know them.”

Now you’re confused. You don’t remember meeting any new friends of Calum’s.

Calum gets up from his spot and grabs his phone. “Hear I’ll show you a picture of me and them together.”

Calum hands you his phone and you stare at his lockscreen.

Tears build in your eyes, but they aren’t strong enough withstand the storm in you so they begin to crumble and fall. You don’t know what to say. When you look up to Calum, he sends you a gentle smile. He wipes the loose tears, while his doe eyes shine brightly with the adoration he has for you.

“It’s you. It’s always been you.”

a/n - thank u for reading :-) feedback is always appreciated !!

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eldunea · 5 years

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THE ATAXTE MAARI AND GALRAS’ FIRST ENCOUNTER: TWO PERSPECTIVES

What actually happened

the galra first came to the moon elves as refugees fleeing political corruption and environmental degradation in their homeland. they wanted to find an uninhabited territory to call their own. when they arrived in the great altean desert, the massive scar-shaped sandscape that cut across the planet in a jagged band, they were utterly blown away. unlike the environment of daibazaal, so polluted that even clean water was a luxury only the elite could afford, the uninhabited parts of the land had been so well-kept by the people who lived on it that it looked as though no one had ever lived there at all. they thought they had reached an incomprehensible paradise--finally, a new and perfect home waiting for them with open arms. little did they know that the land was already taken.

the leader of the galra had hijacked warships for their escape, and outfitted them to be suitable for habitation. unbeknownst to them, every spacefaring people in this sector had signed a treaty never to bring armed ships into each others’ airspace and outerspace, and so the moon elvish warriors who saw these ships immediately believed them to be a hostile foreign threat from another galactic sector looking to conquer. sensing that the fleet could easily be destroyed, they warned the galra to turn back or else be annihilated. the galra refused, and so 90% of their ships were wiped out. the other 10% were able to land, after which they were surrounded. the warriors sent to scout for survivors had donned their space armor, which served to protect against foreign agents of disease.

the moon elves were shocked to discover that their new prisoners of war were not legions of fit soldiers, but rather sick and dying families with children. the people commanding the warships had given no indication that they had been in fact harboring refugees, instead posturing as though they meant to destroy every single moon elf that stood in their way. the 10,500 or so remaining galra were immediately taken into quarantine, where they were inspected and treated. almost every single one of them carried some sort of contagion--whether it be parasites such as fleas and worms, bacteria, viruses, even prions. many would have died if not for moon elvish intervention. luckily for them, the moon elves were able to instantaneously sequence the DNA of the pathogens and parasites, and invent cures for all unknown ailments within a matter of days. development and distribution took a fair bit longer than that, and so some still died waiting for the cure. but it was fast enough to save several thousand lives, something for which the galra have never thanked their hosts.

this did not come easily, however. the elites of the galra kingdom were so corrupt and greedy that the common people either did not have access to medicine and hygiene or believed them to be unhealthy, or both. (honestly, it was a miracle that they even managed to get into space, let alone come so far from their homeworld and homestar. while the elites wasted the peoples’ money on extravagant space trips and on building warships that might one day conquer distant galaxies, many of the more isolated communities had grown up thinking outer space was just a myth.) when the moon elves attempted to bathe the galra in steamy hot water, they fought tooth and nail, thinking they were to be boiled alive. when the moon elves attempted to give treatments such as healing balms, vaccinations, pills and serums, their patients balked. some galra were particularly scared of the concept of vaccination, fearing that if pathogens were put into their bodies they would catch the disease; they were also terrified of pills, because pills resembled the bioweapons that power-hungry elites would slip in each others’ food--they contained bioengineered parasites that could eat someone from the inside out. thousands of galra had to be sedated even to receive simple basic checkups because they would otherwise attempt to attack and kill their healers.

when the galra leader was finally declared free of all infections and safe to interact with general society, he was not thankful, he was furious. he came before the ataxte maari clan council and demanded compensation for the killing of 90% of his fleet, and also demanded to know where the rest of his people were being kept. he was informed that the council would attempt to present compensation in due time--also that some of the quarantined galra had been released; others were still in quarantine, and still others had died. he told the elders that he “knew” his people were being tortured in quarantine, and that he would accept only one form of compensation for the deaths of his compatriots. he said one galra life was worth at least ten of the “savages,” so he demanded the arbitrary killing of at least ten times as many moon elves as the number of galra who had died.

he and the council then got into an argument about restorative vs retributive justice and about the nature of the treatment that the galra received, in which it was apparent that he understood neither basic science nor basic decency. he insisted loudly and vulgarly that his people would have been “fine” on their own and that they didn’t need the help of those who were lower than them. the council leader retorted that many other spacefaring species would have killed him for his insults and turned his people out to die, but it was only altean values of compassion and hospitality that stayed her hand. at the very end, he tired of using his brain, and instead rushed the clan council intending to kill the five matriarchs seated before him. suddenly, he found himself dead on the floor with six poison arrows sticking out of his body, each one embedded in a vital organ.

the council never told the galra that their leader had been killed. instead, the council leader’s son shapeshifted into his form and took his place among the purple. this was part of the matriarchs’ overarching plan. they decided to let the galra stay on their land temporarily before sending them off to an uninhabited desert planet several hundred lightyears away that they thought was suitable for the galras’ new home. during this time, they would teach the galra proper values for interacting among themselves and other species--such as the concepts that every sapient being deserves to live happily, that it’s not okay to just slit peoples’ throats when they’re too old, weak or disabled to take care of themselves, and that it is also not okay to kill someone over a scrap of food found in a garbage dump. they would also teach about scientific concepts such as sustainable land management, space travel (including maintenance of spaceships) and medicinal and hygiene practices. the false galra leader would pose as the exemplar of these positive behaviors and willingness to learn the new knowledge, in the hopes that the refugees would look to him as a model.

and it worked………with some of them. some of the galra did their darnedest to keep up with the alteans’ teachings, and even though they didn’t understand things like showing compassion to the weak, they rolled with it anyway. they admired the elaborate city planning and horticulture that they had never had on daibazaal; when they stepped into moon elvish cities for the first time, they thought they were dreaming. back home where everything had to be fought for or else it was not “deserved,” they could never have conceived of a society with free food, free water, free healthcare and free housing--and they were definitely starting to see the perks of the altean way of life.

but then there were the greedy fucking bastards who were just there for the benefits and none of the teachings. they ate all the food while never offering to help hunt, squandered their water quotas then demanded gallons more, and constantly mocked their teachers’ language and dress. they also disparaged the galra who seemed to be assimilating with the alteans, accusing them of being in league with the “transgendered degenerates” (the galra hated altean acceptance of LGBTQ identities). when these galra started becoming a violent threat to the alteans, the moon elves had them deported to the uninhabited desert planet. they sent along some of the “good” galra volunteers to continue the training, but these volunteers were soon killed as "traitors” to their culture. having murdered the only people who could have taught them about sustainable land and resource management, the galra deportees eventually ruined the entire planet they were planted in due to unchecked warfare and environmental irresponsibility, thus killing themselves off within a matter of centuries.

the tale, however, does not end here.

[TW for the consumption of sapient beings.]

even the “good” colonizers had a bad side. as i have discussed in previous headcanons, galra are instinctively drawn to eating alteans due to the extremely high amount of quintessence in their bodies. even the ones that promised to play nice and learn moon elvish values had a barely-quenched thirst for altean blood. some of them started having this extreme hunger around the council leader’s son; shapeshifted though he was, something about him made them feel half-starved and ready for a meal. finally, one galra couldn’t resist any longer, attacked him and killed him for food. when his corpse automatically shapeshifted back into altean form, the deception was discovered.

the galra, understandably, were furious. but instead of acting in the regular galra way and immediately attempting to kill the moon elvish leaders in revenge, they had learned a thing or two from their hosts. alteans can be very deceptive, and if there’s one thing they learned from the moon elves, fighting smart can outlast fighting hard. so they played along. they said that he had died in an accident and appointed a new leader to carry out their task.

following the appointment of the new leader, for some reason hundreds of moon elves started to go missing from their communities--several children disappeared, but most of them were of childbearing age. the ataxte maari nation wound up missing enough people in so short a time that a national emergency was declared, but for a while, they had no idea the source of this tragedy. the truth was, their people were being rounded up and slaughtered or bred for their meat in underground factory farms. it was the galras’ intention to get revenge for the killing of their people by taking over the paradise they had landed in and enslaving as meat the people who had taught them everything they knew.

in the end they were caught, and their surviving victims were rescued. the ringleaders were killed and they, too, were deported--this time not to a warm desert but to a cold one, an icy wasteland devoid of nearly all life. unlike their brethren who were sent to the desert, they were able to survive. the new leader’s line were in power on and off for hundreds of thousands of years, lasting all the way down to the days of the galra empire. eventually, a commander was born from that line who would once again wreak havoc upon alteans--a commander with an almighty grudge against the supposed wrong that the moon elves had committed. that commander’s name was sendak.

Modern-day Galra perspective

[TW racism]

once there was a band of noble warriors seeking to colonize other worlds for the glorious name of the galra empire. since they came from a desert, they naturally sought out other deserts to colonize first, and found one on the planet altea. this desert was inhabited by near-naked brown-skinned savages in face paint and loincloths who had, instead of a language, strings of incomprehensible garble. the warriors drew their swords and cut down massive swathes of these savages, who had nothing more than simplistic bows and arrows with which to defend themselves. the galra had the option to conquer them and make them their slaves, but they were so pathetic that the warriors did not even find them worth subjugating. so they moved on to conquer newer, better worlds, leaving the savages to squat forever in their anarchistic squalor. the end.

(wow, that was really fucking painful to write.)

#daibathuzai; language of my fathers. || GALRA #mea altea; the meaning of home. || ALTEANS #va alvae ano tea; the world that shapes us. || WORLDBUILDING

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yvkkao-blog · 5 years

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Reflection on Gaiman and Neverwhere

Quotes:

1) The night before he went to London, Richard Mayhew was not enjoying himself.

I can relate. The night before traveling anywhere is never fun. You are sick with anticipation and anxiety. What if you forget something? What if you oversleep? Etc., ad nauseam. Richard is not enjoying himself because all of his insecurities and uncertainties are rearing their heads, and that is perfectly understandable. When you’re about to go haring off into the unknown, you want a solid foundation somewhere behind you (figuratively) and beneath your feet (figuratively and literally).

2) When he had first arrived, he had found London huge, odd, fundamentally incomprehensible, with only the Tube map, that elegant multicolored topographical display of underground railway lines and stations that, giving it any semblance of order. Gradually he realized that the Tube map was a handy fiction that made life easier, but bore no resemblance to the reality of the shape of the city above: like belonging to a political party, he thought once, proudly, and then, having tried to explain the resemblance between the Tube map and politics, at a party, to a cluster of bewildered strangers, he had decided in the future to leave political comment to others.

3) Until that moment, she had never thought she could do it. Never thought she would be brave enough, or scared enough, or desperate enough to dare.

4) “It was very sudden,” said Jessica, wistfully, under her breath.

5) “We’re not going to get very far if you keep repeating I say, now, are we?” said the Marquis, who was now standing in front of Richard.

6) Even when the Marquis was at rest, his eyes never ceased moving. Up, down, around, as if he were looking for something, thinking about something. Adding, subtracting, evaluating. Richard wondered whether the man was quite sane.

7) As a child, Richard had had nightmares in which he simply wasn’t there, in which, no matter how much noise he made, no matter what he did, nobody ever noticed him at all. He began to feel like that now, as people pushed in front of him; he was buffeted by the crowd, pushed this way and that by commuters getting off, by others getting on.

8) Mr. Croup turned out the lights. “Oh, Mister Vandemar,” he said, enjoying the sound of the words, as he enjoyed the sound of all words, “if you cut us, do we not bleed?”

Mr. Vandemar pondered this for a moment, in the dark. Then he said, perfectly accurately, “No.”

9) “Thanks,” Richard looked at the woman in leather. “Is there anything, really, to be scared of?”

“Only the night on the bridge,” she said.

“The kind in armor?”

“The kind that comes when day is over.”

10) “Darkness is happening,” said the leather woman, very quietly. “Night is happening. All the nightmares that have come out when the sun goes down, since the cave times, when we huddled together in fear for safety and for warmth, are happening. Now,” she told them, “now is the time to be afraid of the dark.”

11) Its face was pale and wise, and gentle; and perhaps, a little lonely.

12) The train was coming toward him, its headlights shining out from the tunnel like the eyes of a monstrous dragon in a childhood nightmare. And he understood then just how little effort it would take to make the pain stop—to take all the pain he ever had had, all the pain he ever would have, and make it all go away forever and ever.

13) I am so far out of my depth that … Metaphors failed him, then. He had gone beyond the world of metaphor and simile, into the place of things that are, and it was changing him.

14) The Marquis sighed. “Get back over here, and we’ll figure out something.”

Richard said, quietly, “Too late.”

15) She had forgotten them all; forgotten Richard down in the mud, and the Marquis and his foolish crossbow, and the world. She was delighted and transported, in a perfect place, the world she lived for.

16) “We don’t lie,” said Mr. Croup, affronted.

“Do,” said Mr. Vandemar.

Mr. Croup ran a grimy hand through his filthy orange hair, in exasperation. “Indeed we do. But not this time.”

17) The Marquis de Carabas watched the sleeping children. The idea of sleep—of returning, even for a short time, to a state so horribly close to death—scared him more than he would have ever believed. But, eventually, even he put his head down on his arm, and closed his eyes.

And then there were none.

18) The Marquis raised an eyebrow. “What do you think she is—the Wizard of Oz? We can’t send you home. This is your home.”

19) The growling was the roar of traffic, and he was coming out an underpass in Trafalgar Square. The sky was the perfect untroubled blue of a television screen, tuned to a dead channel.

20) The Marquis de Carabas raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he said, irritably. “Are you coming?”

Richard stared at him for a heartbeat.

Then Richard nodded, without trusting himself to speak, and stood up. And they walked away together through the hole in the wall, back into the darkness, leaving nothing behind them; not even the doorway.

Reflection:

I have never really been a fan of Neil Gaiman—although I acknowledge that he is a pillar of the writing community as an author in the field and just a supreme writer. I admire him and what he’s done for fantasy writing, even if some of his writing reminds me of Grimm’s fairy tales, the originals. I do like his writing style; he has a way with words and the detail is incredible. Plus, he’s as creative and edgy a writer as can be. Maybe there was a time when he seemed incomprehensible to me, but I find myself enjoying dark fantasy—his specialty—more and more. I really liked his book Coraline, and I have been meaning to read American Gods. I feel like I did not give him a fair chance in years past, and there were parts of Neverwhere that I really enjoyed.

I have been re-reading Neverwhere since we arrived in London. Knowing some of the places that Gaiman frequently references puts the novel in a new perspective. The first time around, I did not know the difference between Harrod’s and Islington. I had to look them up, but even that does not compare to reading a London setting in the city of London. I didn’t get sucked into the book the way I usually prefer to; however, Gaiman’s writing style as ever keeps you curious and engaged. I found Richard a difficult character to like at first—until he started seeming more alive. That part was ironic: he seemed more alive when he was “dead” to the Upworld than he had when among the “living.” His reactions seem more genuine after he’s been pushed out of his mind-numbing comfort zone. My favorite character for at least the first half of the book was the Marquis de Carabas. He’s diabolical and reprehensible, but he cunning, sarcastic, and gets things done. To me, the characters are just as important as the plot. Unlikeable characters does not give me any enjoyment. In this case, some of the characters grew on me, like Richard and Door. I never liked Jessica. The plot was a series of shifting viewpoints, and I liked getting both the villain’s perspective and the protagonist’s perspective.

I might write another reflection entry later comparing Neverwhere with The Graveyard Book. For this reflection, I wanted to dwell on some of the characteristics of Gaiman’s Neverwhere that I most enjoyed.

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thatcrappypuppy · 7 years

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RxR One-Shot: Game Support

R&R request: Rocket being a sore loser while playing 8bit video games.

Requested by @nzbeans. Thanks for the prompt and I hope you enjoy the product! Words: 1990

Neither you nor Rocket were impressed when Peter and Drax lugged the heavy arcade machine into the already cramped common area of the Milano, but for different reasons.

It had been many years since you left Earth, but still, this technology would have been outdated, then. By the time Quill finished troubleshooting power adapters and figured out how to turn the damn thing on, you had already lost interest and had gone back to pretending not to watch Rocket work, an idle pen and blank writing pad in your hands.

“Just like the arcades on Earth, right Y/N?” Quill called, presenting the machine with enthused arm gestures. You tried not to grimace at the flickering screen and scraped off paint. Static-filled, elongated beeps that you recognized as “retro” music echoed through the room as the start screen loaded. You noted that the machine couldn’t even manage drum sounds and was limited to using varying pitches of static bursts to carry a beat.

“Sure thing,” you said, barely managing to curl your lips into a smile for him. Your mild reaction did little to lessen your fellow Terran’s spirits, though, as he fumbled about the machine, trying to start a game.

“How is this supposed to be a game?” Drax asked, reviewing the buttons and joysticks. “It has more controls than your flight console.“

“It’s not that complicated, Drax,” Peter said, trying each button, “it’s just a two-player game.”

“Quill,” you pointed to the screen. He looked at you and then to what you were pointing at. “It needs coins.”

Sure enough, the words ‘insert 2 coins’ flashed on both halves of the screen. Peter slammed his hands on the side (not too roughly, not to damage the game) and hung his head.

“What, like, money?” Rocket asked. When you looked at him, he was looking at you with his ears perked up inquisitively, making your throat tighten with the restraint to point out how cute he looked. Fortunately for you, his attention turned to Peter. “Didn’t you already have to pay to own the d’ast thing?”

“Do you have to pay a fee every time you wish to play it?” Drax asked.

Peter ran a hand over his eyes and down his face.

“Yep,” he muttered, letting the ‘p’ sound pop. Beside you, Rocket ‘tch’d and got back to work.

You found yourself pitying Peter at the sound of his disappointed tone. Aside from his mom, his movies, and his music, Peter didn’t seem to have many happy memories of Earth. Here was one more artifact from his childhood that he actually appreciated, and he wouldn’t even be able to interact with it. Not to mention, the others were bound to give him crap for paying for a machine that he couldn’t even use.

“I thought games were supposed to be enjoyable?” Drax mused - at least, you assumed he was musing. “I would not want to play a game that makes me work this hard.”

“It’s not supposed to be work,” Quill hunched over the machine, “It’s supposed to be fun…”

“You Earth-ers have strange ideas about fun,” Drax commented and shook his head.

“Wait,” you said, standing from your seat and leaving empty page and diversion pen behind. “Maybe there are coins in it?”

The look of anticipation that full-grown man gave you made you hope you weren’t getting his hopes up only to make him pout and cry if the machine turned out to be empty.

You wandered closer as Peter darted around the machine, searching for an opening. You didn’t expect to be of any help, but, you hoped to be supportive, nonetheless. After a minute of fumbling, Peter’s increasing desperation made you anxious.

An idea occurred to you. It was a terrible idea, one that you dreaded and feared. If anyone could take apart the machinery and get to any Terran money, inside, you-know-who could. But, you didn’t want to tear this person away from their work for such a silly task.

Tentatively, you tested your eyes in his direction and tensed to see him already looking back at you. You didn’t even get to open your mouth when he flattened his ears and rolled his head back with what you hoped was an exaggerated groan.

“Fine, ya bunch of babies. Let me at it.” He stood and almost seemed to strut across the floor to the machine. “If there’s money in there, I’ll get it out.” He winked at you with a cocky grin as he passed, making you wish to either see that a million more times or to have never seen it at all because you were sure your face was changing colour with how hot it had become. Why did he have to be so cool all the time, especially when he didn’t seem to take well to your admiration or affection?

You and Quill watched Rocket anxiously as he inspected the machine, but for different reasons. Peter awaited Rocket’s appraisal, hoping to indulge in some feeling of nostalgia, while you were just on edge, hoping that Rocket wouldn’t get frustrated by this machine.

Your fears proved unwarranted within a couple minutes as Rocket had a panel removed, grumbling things like “guarded like a toy,” and “babies’ stuff.” A few coins spilled on to the floor, and Peter rushed to scoop a handful of coins still in the box.

“Hey, how much is this worth, in units?” Rocket asked, looking interested now that currency was involved.

“Not much - probably nothing, in fact,” you said, picking up a coin of your own.

“What?!”

“They’re tokens,” you explained. “They’re only used for games like this one.”

“Unbelievable,” Rocket shook his head and crossed his arms, twitching an ear. “Well, you Terrans have fun.”

“What do you say, Y/N? Care to verse me in a fighting match?” Quill smirked at you and inserted tokens into both sides without waiting for an answer. Apparently, he assumed you’d be just as excited as he was. You weren’t. The game was an old, two-dimensional fighting game. You knew the franchise, but wouldn’t say you were inclined to play such an old version of the game.

However, Rocket was watching and, after he had been kind enough to help, you wanted to show your appreciation. Besides, no one else seemed interested in playing Quill’s new game (save for Drax, who shifted slightly at the words “fighting match.”)

“Ah,” you stammered, “a few rounds couldn’t hurt.”

You picked a character that you hoped would accommodate your gaming style, though you doubted you even still had a gaming style after all these years. Peter surprised you by picking a female character, until you realized how hot she was.

Quill picked the arena and round one began. The controls were tricky, at first. On Earth, you played games at home, mostly, using your own controller. Having to stand close to your opponent to compete, along with the stubborn stiffness of the analog stick and strange flatness of the buttons were all foreign to you. Quill won without much competition.

“Oh, boy, Y/N,” Rocket’s dispirited voice sounded from close, beside you, nearly making you jump. Sucky as you were, you were too engaged with the game to notice him move.

You met round two with some improvement after adjusting to the controls. You lost, again, but you were pleased to find the game fun. The combination of moves were not as simple as you expected them to be and the animations were satisfying every time you landed a hit.

Above all, it was comforting to read text that was actually from Earth, again. By now, you had become accustomed to translators and managed to pick up a little of the Xandarian language, but a strange sense of familiarity overcame you at the sight of English words, unsullied by translator or incomprehension.

“Oof,” Rocket sounded from beside you, again, as he peeked through his fingers at the screen. Your face burned, both from the flattery that Rocket was trying to cheer you on and the embarrassment of losing in front of him.

When you lost for a third time, Peter laughed and taunted you.

“What’s the matter, Y/N? I thought you said you used to play all kinds of video games!”

You weren’t at all provoked at the man’s bravado, just happy the game was over with, but your hot-headed, sole spectator was.

“These are all close-quarters battles. Y/N’s not a punch-punch kind of person!” Rocket snapped at Quill before you could excuse yourself. “I bet I could beat ya.”

“You?” Peter guffawed.

“What’re you laughing at?” Rocket barked and stepped on top of the machine so he could reach the buttons. “It’s a fighting game, so, I bet I could beat ya. You want me to punch you in the actual throat or just in the game?”

“Maybe you would like to practice, first?” you offered, but Peter was quick to insert some tokens and start a new game. How quickly situations tended to spiral beyond your control while you were with these guardians.

Since Rocket was standing on the console, you didn’t need to move out of the way for him and simply stood behind him. His tail dangled in front of you. His ears perked at the game’s sounds just in front of your nose. You worried that he’d feel it if you breathed too hard, and wondered at how he was comfortable being so close.

While Rocket was quick to catch on to the controls, he clearly didn’t have any video game sense. The concepts of hit boxes, impossible movements, and recovery times were unknown to him. You wanted to support and encourage him, but he often interrupted any attempt you had at speech with a string of curses.

“You could do a practice round, if you wanted?” you were quick to suggest after the first round.

“Nah, he’s just gettin’ lucky,” Rocket glanced over his shoulder at you and you tried to clear your features of concern as you knew he didn’t like that. “Besides, I gotta make up for your losses.”

Okay, you didn’t know what he meant by that.

Round two was no better than round one. If anything, Rocket’s gaming got worse as he got frustrated.

“Damnit!” he hollered. “This wouldn’t happen in a real fight - I’d never forget how to jump out of the way, I’d just do it!”

“You’re doing well for your first time,” you remarked, regretting having done so, immediately. Your ring-tailed friend growled at you.

“I don’t need your patronizing shit right now!”

“Hey, man! She’s just trying to support you!” Peter defended you. “Better than what you were doing,” he added in a mutter.

“What?!” Rocket barked, “You didn’t hear me talkin’ down to ‘er!”

That was when you realized that Rocket’s commentary on your losing streak was his way of showing support. In front of you, Peter and Rocket’s argument, fueled by their naturally competitive relationship, was reaching threatening heights. You smiled, regardless, tapping Rocket on the shoulder and rejoicing when he only twitched at your touch, unlike the usual flinch or snap.

“Why don’t I teach you how to play this kind of game,” you asked, inappropriately chipper, “and, maybe, you can teach me how you knew how to open this thing up?”

Rocket gaped at you, a moment, his hands and body suggesting that he was still raring for a fight, but his eyes displayed confliction.

At the sight of your cheerful expression, he shrugged and relaxed. Peter backed away, seizing the opportunity to run from a potentially bad argument.

“Fine,” he said, “but it’s gonna take a lot longer for you to teach me this,” he warned and, at first, you thought he was having a rare fit of modesty. But, then, he added, “Because I’m the best at breakin’ stuff out, whereas you’re not much better’n me at this game.”

#rocket raccoon #rocket x reader #one-shot #guardians of the galaxy #request

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hencethebravery · 7 years

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Title: “The Spooky Truth with Dr. Jones,” (1/2)

Summary: Emma Swan is a podcaster looking for a semi-interesting story. Dr. Killian Jones is a paranormal investigator who doesn’t believe in the paranormal. Emma Swan absolutely does not want to write this story—but it seems to be writing itself. A CS Black Tapes AU.

Notes: This delightful little AU was 100% inspired by The Black Tapes, a seriously awesome fictional horror podcast that you can listen to for free. Which you should. Right now. I’d like to thank and/or notify a # of awesome people who helped with this: @seastarved @zengoalie @ofshipsandswans @abbadons-little-witch @the-reason-to-sail-home @businesscasualprincess @swanandapirate (who also wrote a podcast AU, so if you like this, you should probably check it out). Also on Ao3.

+ Honestly, the worst thing about this job is the constant threat of, “You have a face too pretty for radio,” every time she has to conduct an interview with some bland fuck-boy that the country has suddenly decided is worth her time. If not for the occasionally tedious subject matter and overeager interviewees, it would be damn near perfect.

It’s certainly odd, considering how long she’d spent trying to make herself invisible; avoiding friends and relationships in exchange for the blissful quiet of self-imposed isolation, all while maintaining her carefully constructed state of emotional constipation.

“They’re not my friends,” trying to explain to her producer, David, “they’re my subjects.”

Snorting, with an affectionate rolling of his eyes, “That’s awfully sentimental of you, Emma.”

“Except you,” her words starting to run sloppily together, resting a warm, heavy arm around his neck, “you’re a regular ‘prince charming.’”

“Yeah, yeah,” brushing off the compliment but she can see it in his eyes, how much he cares, and while it still makes her vaguely uncomfortable, it’s nice knowing there’s somebody in her corner. “Let’s get you to bed, ‘princess.’”

It was supposed to be a one-off episode, part of a larger story about people and professions and why we do what we do to get by—defining ourselves through our work, that kind of thing. She had done a few episodes already; one on geo-caching, another one focusing on a lady who actually got paid to paint the claws of people’s cats. And that was when David had gently knocked on her office door and told her about a conference about the paranormal going on at the local college, and would she, maybe, like to attend?

She had been in the midst of sorting through a rather demoralizing gallery of neon-colored cat toenails when he’d made the suggestion, so it wasn’t hard to imagine the gusto with which she flew out of her chair; oversized bag of gum, phone chargers, and pencils swung over one shoulder, her knee-length boots half-zipped up her calves, “Yeah,” she answered excitedly, “I’m on it!”

“Dr. Killian Jones is handsome,” she speaks into her dictaphone later that night, an unfamiliar vibrato of excitement painting her words, “there’s no point in denying it. I won’t have my young, impressionable female listeners hanging on his every lovely, accented word thinking this guy isn’t as good looking as he sounds.”

She considers the, frankly, unreal color of his stupidly blue eyes and continues, “But I don’t want there to be any kind of confusion. Dr. Killian Jones is a real dick.”

The lecture hall is louder, busier, and fuller than she’s ever seen it before. She’s taken a few classes here, attended a few events, and she can say with absolute confidence that this campus has never seen such a to-do in all its many, stuffy years.

The hall is a diverse mix, but there's an unusually large amount of tittering freshmen, and she can't help but feel as if she might be missing something.

She puts that exact question to a rather excitable group of young women (and men), all of them clutching copies of the same book. It's large, hardcover, she can barely make out the thick, dramatic eyebrows of the author on the back.

“So, uh, what's with the crowd?”

A young man wearing bold, square frames and a bowtie covered in tiny ghosts answers incredulously, “How can you not know?”

“Don't be rude, Jefferson,” interrupts a small, dark-haired brunette, her lipstick a bright, fire engine red. “Dr. Killian Jones,” she answers happily, handing Emma a copy of her book, “expert in all things fucked up and certifiably creepy.”

Emma skims the almost revelatory reviews on the back as the girl continues, “The accent and the eyes don't hurt either.”

“Not a damn bit,” the kid with the bowtie, Jefferson, mumbles under his breath.

Emma releases a sigh. There's no point in being coy, she'd actually been excited about this. Turns out it's nothing more than an academic peep show.

“You should stick around,” the girl comments carefully, her grin shrewd, “I don't think you'll regret it.

“Here’s the thing about me,” she reflects carefully, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from her fingertips, “I’m skeptical, but I don’t begrudge people their beliefs.”

It probably has something to do with the absolutely devastating, trope-tastic childhood that she carries around with her like a brand. All those years yearning for some kind of “happily ever after,” when really it was just one bleak foster home after another, disappointment upon disappointment upon disappointment. But for a while? It was all that had kept her going.

“I would have given up otherwise,” a dry sniff, a cough that attempts to hide an unwelcome truth, “no matter how idealistic—stories… even the crazy ones, were everything.”

She pauses the recording, takes another swig of the warm beer in her hand, and pictures Killian Jones’ smug face, stiff blazer, and distinctly non-professorial jewelry. Recording.

“Asshole.”

“But what’s wrong with letting people believe what they believe…? If it brings them comfort?”

Emma’s sure this kid couldn’t look anymore nervous if she tried, the flushed cheeks and shaky hands an obvious betrayal of her adoration and fear of this guy. Sure, the deep, dulcet tones of his voice were what radio jockeys dreamed of, and yes, maybe the black stud in his ear managed to convey so authentic a quality that it had to be seen to be believed, but still—the all-knowing grin and perfect teeth were undoubtedly punch-worthy.

“I would never want to deny someone their comfort,” he begins gently, a charming twinkle in his eye, “but there’s quite a bit more at stake, love—”

Impossibly, the girl blushes even deeper as he continues, “Your intentions, while quite admirable, they undermine the integrity of scientific fact, and in this day and age, well…”

He laughs and the entire room joins in, even the girl who had asked the question, and Emma can’t help but feel that if she were to pull her aside at the end of the night, she would have insisted that he had done her some kind of favor.

Unsurprisingly, the rest of the night seems as if it will continue in much the same way. The guy has an answer to absolutely everything, and nothing has gotten under her skin more. He’s unshakeable in his rightness, in the certainty of his argument and his devotion to the truth with a capital “T.”

It would be almost admirable if it wasn’t so obviously a lie.

She decides to conduct street interviews the next day, nothing too formal, just the usual method of stopping folks on the street, inquiring after their views about the supernatural; make sure they feel comfortable and get honest, usable content.

“And you don’t think this tone of yours will influence their ‘honesty?’” David asks slyly, his smile familiar and deliberate and she’s had just about enough of how well he knows her sometimes.

“What tone? I just wanna prove to the guy that maybe he’s a little bit wrong about things.”

“No,” he laughs, shuffling around a pile of folders on top of his desk, “you want to humiliate him.”

“That would be unprofessional.”

“And no one would ever accuse you of that.”

She very professionally admits that she manages to speak with a handful of people who would agree with Dr. Killian Jones. They find belief in the supernatural, the magical, the unbelievable, to be a failing of the human mind, not a strength. A few of them even mentioned him by name, “That doctor, you know,” and she had to physically stop herself from recoiling, “the one with the accent. He’s got the right idea.”

But there’s also the vast majority of people who harbor some kind of belief in the unknown, even if it’s the teeniest, vaguest inkling—they want to believe, “And it warms the cockles of my cold, dead heart.”

It’s his answer to the last question that really seals the deal—acting as confirmation of the steadily growing theory that there’s a lot more to Jones’ “mission” than he’d like his enamored audiences to believe. It’s when the story that Emma Swan has started to write in her head goes from “so-so” to “award-winning.” It’s also when she gets the small blotch of ink on her face.

She’s just about ready to throw in the towel, hasn’t been able to stop anxiously chewing on the cap of the pen she had shoved into her mouth to keep from groaning at all of his well-crafted answers, when a stern-faced, well-dressed woman stands to speak.

Her voice seems to ring unusually loud in the suddenly hushed auditorium, and Emma’s eyes immediately swivel to the doctor’s face, which has, almost indiscernibly, shifted from charming to mildly concerned. Interesting.

“Yes, I have a question, Dr. Jones.”

He adjusts slightly in his seat, straightening the lapel of his blazer and clearing his throat, “Of course, darling, have at it.”

“You seem to have so many answers, and you’re so knowledgeable about all of these incomprehensible matters, I just have to know—”

“At this point, I’m so freaking enraptured by this ladies’ pantsuit, it’s all I can do to keep my butt in the seat,” there’s now a few empties strewn about the floor as she paces excitedly back and forth, her finger manically tapping against the side of the recorder, “In fact, I was so interested in this question that I happened to get pen ink all over my face,” she pauses, “but that’s neither here nor there. Point is, this lady stands up and says—”

“What happened to Milah Gold?”

A new, almost threatening kind of silence falls over the room. It had been “hushed” when Miss Pantsuit had stood up initially, but truthfully, there was still a smattering of noise you might usually attribute to normal human movement; the rustling of a candy wrapper, a small cough or shared whisper between friends, but the silence in the wake of this particular question, is, well, it’s almost spooky, isn’t it?

It’s like a vacuum has sucked all the air from the room, especially when you consider the fact that Jones’ face is so red it’s almost purple. His lips tighten and move together as if he’s about speak… and that’s when the goddamn lights go out.

“No shit?” David asks, distracted over the phone, his voice tinny and distant. She can hear Mary Margaret and the baby in the distance, the sound of a live studio audience clapping in time with his wife’s sickeningly sweet singing voice.

Emma’s own voice is high and fast as she walks quickly back to her car, a near-frigid October breeze whipping her hair into a frenzy against flushed cheeks, her boots still charmingly unzipped around her legs. “David, it was fucking wild. The lights went out.”

“So you said,” he laughs and says something to the baby in a squeaky, high-pitched voice she can’t help but roll her eyes at, “So, uh, you think there’s a story here?”

“Fucking hell, David, yes, yes, I think there’s a story here.”

“Well, you know I trust you,” Emma holds her breath as she stares at the strange, excited expression on the face of the woman reflected in the semi-frosted glass of her car window, “Go for it.”

It takes her a moment to realize that in the time spent walking from the lecture hall to her car, she’s somehow depleted all of her oxygen, and she has to quickly inhale before responding. Not to mention the fact of that damnable spot of ink still barely noticeable on the high apple of her stupid cheeks and she knows David’s waiting for an answer but it’s the freaking principle of the thing. She’s already about to lose a few cool points, with her back now resting heavily against the door of the VW, summoning the courage to be emotive for once in her pathetic life.

“Thank you, David. Seriously, I mean it.”

“No need to thank me,” he answers gently, “Emma Swan always gets her man.”

It will pain her to admit it, but there’s little room to exaggerate when she later tries to describe the undeniable smoothness of Dr. Killian Jones after the absurdly dramatic disruption of his, so far, grossly successful night of win, after win, after win. There’s some light shrieking and girlish giggling in the darkness of the auditorium, and Emma’s almost positive there’s a hand lost up a skirt somewhere, but as soon as the lights come up a few minutes later, it’s as if the whole thing never happened.

Pantsuit hasn’t plopped her proper butt back into her seat, but there’s a grin on Jones’ face that almost makes her believe he had planned the whole thing to catch her out. He makes some crack about the auditorium being haunted, “But don’t quote me on that,” winks, and turns those insane eyes back on the witch (Because she’s gotta be, right?) in the third row.

“The matter of Milah Gold’s disappearance is still up for a debate,” he answers firmly, succinctly, “and in all fairness I’m not quite certain why you would bring it up here.”

The witch in business attire takes a seat after that perfunctory response, and then, finally, after an almost masturbatory few hours in which Dr. Killian Jones manages to elevate himself to a pedestal so high she’s certain his body would explode on impact were he to do the whole world a favor and fling himself off, Emma Swan remains carefully still in her seat, waiting for the adoring fans to file out. Her recorder waits impatiently in the pocket of David’s denim jacket, at least three sizes too big, and she’s secretly yearning for the red leather number lost under her bed somewhere.

The pencil she’d tugged out of the rat’s nest on top of her head is tapping restlessly against her knee and goddamn, does she just want to get this guy alone. And she’s preparing herself because she just knows at this point, that when she gets within a hair’s breadth of his stupid face, he’s going to smell amazing—like warm, decadent cologne and expensive coffee. And she’s going to stare at his lips and her knees will undoubtedly quiver at the way he says… words.

“Come on, Emma,” she whispers furiously, wiping the unattractive, crusty remnants of old, useless sleep gathering at the corners of her eyes, “let’s give this guy something he’ll actually be afraid of.”

Whichever marketing firm designed August Booth’s website is a freaking genius.

“Well,” he laughs, blushing slightly, “thank you, Miss Swan.”

She meets him at his office in a town called Storybrooke, about an hour south of Portland, and calling it quaint would be an understatement. The people in this town would appear to be so close they’ve got a running schedule for everyone else’s daily fiber intake, and she wants to leave almost as soon as she arrives.

“So, it’s gotta be the pie or something, right?”

The guy’s charming, she’ll give him that, if not a bit… empty. Which is vague, she knows, and she’ll have to revise the language at a later date, but when she considers his laughter in her room later that night it’s the first word that’ll come to mind. Empty ideas, empty gestures, just… he’s there, but no one’s really home. Dr. Jones is a dramatic, performative jackass, there’s absolutely no doubt—but what’s not up for debate is his passion. The man obviously cares. Now, exactly what he cares about and why? That’s up for discussion.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” smiling, but again, it’s all a bit off.

“Small towns like this,” she explains, “a lot of the time the reason people give for sticking around. It’s a signature dish or an old, anthropomorphic tree or something.”

“Ah,” he answers, turning around to face a large, imposing bookcase, “it does have... something.”

When she says “large,” she means floor to freaking ceiling. Emma’s got bookcases that David has called “large,” and she snaps a picture on her phone because this? This is large. Not only does it extend from the persian rug-covered floor to the water-stained ceiling, the thing is the width of the entire wall, one end to the other. Every shelf, every inch of available space is occupied, either with books, VHS cases, manuscripts, or various occult objects you couldn’t pay her to actually touch (she’s not so much with the tempting of fate).

“Jesus, does it spin around, too?”

She might pretend he doesn’t flinch at the Jesus-bomb, but regardless, he smiles again, of course, and makes some kind of Scooby-Doo reference she chooses to ignore.

He’s kinder up close and she wants to die. Basically. The anger is harder to use when she can see how fucking sweet he’s being to the gaggle of students hanging around, how he’s actually listening to their questions and comments instead of continuing the performance she had watched him perfectly execute on stage.

“I understand where you’re coming from, truly,” his hand pressed firmly, earnestly against his own chest, “but I’ve seen the damage it can do, and I have to take my own comfort in what I can actually see.”

He offers yet another winning, gentle grin, signs a few more books, confirms or denies a few more rumors, and she watches, entranced, as he collapses into his seat with a sigh. She almost feels bad for the guy. Almost.

“I know you’re there,” he starts kindly, his arm flung tiredly over his eyes, “no worries, love, I won’t bite.”

“What’s with the pet names?” she asks sweetly, dropping heavily into the seat across from him, “Does the tenure let you get away with that?”

He seems to lose his balance even though he’s seated, surprised at the vaguely mean, pointed quality of an older voice, “You’re not a student.”

“And you are very smart,” she responds kindly, her own smile adopting the least genuine feeling of kindness she can hope to convey, dragging her press pass out from beneath her flannel, “Emma Swan, ACRS.”

“Radio?”

The inviting, gentle nature she had witnessed earlier seems to have evaporated and there’s a part of her, a small, small part, that kind of hates what she’s about to do. As if it would kill her to make another friend.

“It’s a podcast.”

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“It’s radio. Look, don’t you think it’s just a little bit strange that—”

“Let me stop you right there, Miss Swan—”

Thus beginning the era of “interview interruptus,” as she would so gleefully begin later, trying and failing to conceal her pride at using a term she had coined a few months earlier. There was lots of fake politeness and huffs of frustrated breath and eye-rolling and honestly she barely got to ask a question let alone receive any answers, and he must have been getting just as irate as she was because the guy actually had the nerve to—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Realizing that she was standing dangerously close to this man, stepping out of his wickedly tempting sphere of handsome, academic influence (and she was right about the expensive coffee thing).

“You had some ink on your cheek,” he answered quietly, as if he were surprised at his own movement, his hand slowly returning to his side. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” she said sharply, swiping her hand over her face, “don’t worry about it.”

“Miss Swan,” he paused, “Emma.”

His brief silence was heavy, and while in reality it was probably only a few seconds, it felt as if hours of contemplation went by. It seemed like he was devoting so much energy, so much careful attention to his next words to her, and honestly, it was kind of refreshing.

“I understand you’re skeptical, alright? I’ve been known to doubt on occasion as well.”

She rolls her eyes and he smiles, his pronounced cheeks adorably flushed, “But I’m bloody exhausted, I could use some rest. Here’s my card.”

It’s just a normal business card, which is pretty disappointing. Could’ve at least used some holo-graphics or something.

“E-mail me, give me a call. We can talk then.”

Emma Swan is well-versed in the complex, many-layered looks of suspicion and distaste. She’s not quite sure which one she’s decided to unleash on the good doctor here, but from the look on his face it’s not too far off from the one she’d given Neal when he had tried to “bury the hatchet,” as it were. His face softens and he releases a quiet breath, a new, patient smile on his face.

“Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

And that’s when she runs for her car.

You can tell that August Booth wants to be able to pull off that genuine, trustworthy thing that Dr. Jones is able to convey so well, which is what makes it that much more distasteful to observe.

“I didn’t even think they made VHS tapes anymore.”

August glances back at her over his shoulder with a mischievous look on his face, or at the very least, trying to be. It’s a little bit like a teenager who thinks they’ve managed to pull one over on the teacher, when really they’re about to be sent to summer school.

“They do, actually,” he starts, pulling a black tape off the shelf, “something about the way it records. Catches it better.”

“Never thought I would hear that,” she answers, following his path across the room to an old television with a large player stacked beneath it. “Catches what better?”

A few hours later she’s calling, e-mailing, and texting Dr. Killian Jones, trying to temper the excitable tone of her voice, “Hey, Dr. Handsome? Yeah, I hope you’re well-rested. I’ve got something you need to see.”

Dropping her phone almost directly into the good doctor’s hot coffee probably isn’t the best idea she’s ever had, but it’s certainly one of the more dramatic.

“I hope you know that I won’t be paying for that,” he starts calmly, his eyebrow predictably, adorably quirked.

“Don’t quirk that thing at me,” she answers hotly, pulling the phone away at the corner, wiping the liquid off on her jeans, “she’s endured a whole lot worse than your shitty coffee.”

He takes an actual, delicate sip of his hot, expensive, garbage coffee and she thinks, gleefully, of all the articles she’s read about problematic coffee bean importation and the fact that this self-righteous jerkface actually thinks he’s taking the moral high ground right now before she tries to hand the phone over yet again. Slower this time.

“Watch it,” insistently pushing the phone into his hand, “I think you’ll find it... enlightening.”

“I can assure you, Swan,” slowly returning his mug to the table, his eyes never leaving hers as he tugs it from her fingers, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”

She probably should’ve warned him, the screaming is pretty loud.

Exorcism footage is undeniably fucked, and she’s starting to regret the re-watch rabbit hole she tumbled down the night before. She hadn’t slept much, and between the violent, erratic spasming and otherworldly shrieking she’s not sure she’ll be sleeping ever again, thank you very much. It is worth it, however, for the shocked, offended look on his face when Alex Reagan, aged 10 or 11, lets out an ungodly shriek so loud that the barista behind the counter drops a bucket full of dirty mugs and dishes. (And, okay, she does feel slightly bad about that.)

“Good God, Swan,” he hisses angrily, desperately trying to mute her phone before it gives the older lady in the corner booth a heart attack, “you could see fit to warn a man.”

“Oops.”

His sigh of frustration is almost erotically gratifying, and she unleashes a smug, self-satisfied grin of her own before he resumes the video, at a much lower volume this time, and a serene sense of concentration seems to envelop him as he watches the entire 10 minute clip.

It had seemed pretty legitimate, in her admittedly amateur opinion. Maybe she hadn’t spent her whole life debunking the paranormal, but she liked to think she had a pretty good instinct for these things. August Booth was a shady character, there was no doubt in her mind of that, but this tape—and the others? They had to be real.

Her voice is clear, steady, and entirely unimpeded by snacks as she records. Her foot fails to nervously fidget beneath her desk as it normally would. Her motives are pure and ethically sound.

Take that, David Nolan.

Let me describe it for you, so you can really get a clear sense of what we’re seeing.

There’s a young girl tied to a chair. She’s unusually small for her age, Booth says she can’t be any older than 10, but it takes at least 3 large, beefy guys to keep her in that chair. There’s a sound coming from the video, and, ya know, her mouth is open, so it has to be the girl, but… it sounds more like the cries of a wounded animal. A cat, maybe. And it echoes, loudly, throughout the room—you can tell that it’s distracting the priest, which… I dunno, maybe that’s the point.

He’s chanting something in Latin, and it’s having some kind of effect on the girl, Alex, her jaw seems to be clenched so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t break. This goes on for a while, I won’t bore you with the rest, but it’s the end that’s really… it’s really something else. The priest seems to finish his chant or sermon, whatever it is, and Alex goes real still, like maybe she’s heard something in another room?

And then…

“Bloody hell.”

“Told ya.”

...Her mouth just… drops open, but it’s more than that, it’s not like she’s surprised or excited or shouting, it just drops, like the physical reality of her bones aren’t even a thing, because this poor girl’s jaw, it’s down to her sternum, at least, and it’s only a second, it’s a literal fraction of a second but when you see it. Man, do you see it.

“Debunk that, Mr. Bean.”

Dr. Jones looks thoroughly unimpressed for a whopping 30 seconds before he speaks.

“Where did you find this, Emma?”

“I may have taken a trip to Storybrooke after our chat the other day.”

The man couldn’t look less amused by that confession even if he tried. His manner seems to shift from inquisitive scientist to scolding parent, and she tries not to feel disappointed.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Swan.”

“Oh, it’s ‘Swan,’ now, is it?”

He slips the phone back into her hand and returns to his seat, his sad, neglected coffee having significantly cooled since she walked in the door. She had been hoping for another explosive debate, if she were being truthful. Not that they’d made much progress the other night at the college, but she enjoyed riling him up—he blushed a lot.

“What is it you want from me?”

She sighs and considers her position. The least she could do is be truthful with her subject. The chair slides harshly across the floor as she moves to take a seat, and the coffee shop seems to fall almost eerily quiet in the absence of the video, the sound of their voices filtering in between the generic noises of a public space.

“I just want the truth, Jones. Like you.”

“Somehow, Miss Swan, I’m not quite sure that’s true.”

There’s something unsettling about the way he studies her, like he knows all of her deepest, darkest secrets, can read her insecurities as if they were second-rate horoscopes in some local paper and she wants to take it all back—she’ll write about the cat toenails. After a few long, uncomfortable minutes in which she feels strangely psychoanalyzed, he manages to expose at least one of her secrets.

“I know you got that tape from August Booth,” taking a sip of his cold coffee and wrinkling his nose, “and I can’t say I approve.”

“Good thing I don’t live or die at the whims of your approval, Dr. Jones.”

“Yes, I would have to agree. Quite a good thing.”

He seems to disappear into himself for another moment, not dissimilar to his reaction when the almost comically serious, dark-haired woman had asked him about Milah Gold that night at the lecture.

“I have a proposition,” he starts again, straightening his jacket, “if you’re going to be as… shall we say, ‘committed,’ to hounding me about this as you appear to be—”

A bearded waiter wearing suspenders (because this coffee shop isn’t trendy enough) stops by their table to retrieve empty mugs and take any other orders, and she would very much like to get some herbal tea (David “pop-pop” Nolan seems to think that caffeine “makes her worse”), except this dude won’t stop flirting with her paranormal professor. Her time is precious, after all.

“Excuse me, yes, hello?”

Killian Jones stops flashing his obnoxious eyeballs at their stunned waiter long enough for her to order her tea and then he’s gone, both of them making eyes at the other until he’s back behind the counter.

“You are a mystery unto yourself, Dr. Jones.”

He clears his throat and tries to hold back another one of those smug grins she still can’t stand, and he gestures towards her phone sitting innocuously on the table, like a bomb waiting to go off.

“I know this all seems like just another story to you, but there’s a lot more to this world than you know.”

“I do know, that’s why—”

He chuckles and gently interrupts, “Just, hold on one moment and let me finish. I’ve listened to a few of your ‘podcasts,’ as you call them. You are clearly very smart, intuitive, I have no doubt you could tell a compelling story.”

Flirty, in-over-his-head waiter returns with her tea, and luckily, doesn’t stick around for another game of mental footsie.

“If you’re going to tell this story, as I have no doubt you will, I want to make sure that it’s the truth.”

She raises an eyebrow, as if listening to a few of her episodes means he knows her. Nothing is more important than the integrity of her work. Nothing. Cat toenails or no, she’s not a liar.

“I’m not great at a whole lot, Dr. Jones. But I’m a brilliant reporter. I’m thorough and careful and creative and I do my job. I don’t need you or anybody else reminding me of what the truth is.”

Stand up, she thinks to herself, leave. You don’t know need him to tell this story, it’s practically writing itself at this point. In her recollections of this moment, lost in the digital confines of her recorder, looking out over the bay in her VW, the sun setting magnificently in the distance, she will lie. Just a little bit.

“So he tells me he thinks we’d make a good team, basically, only the language was a bit more formal.”

As if she were some kinda middle-class British lady in a Jane Austen novel and he’s gonna be her Mr. Darcy or a Knightley or whomever the hell decides to play the gentleman in the story of her life. Makes her realize that he wasn’t who she thought he was or some bullshit, and “No,” aloud, recording, “he’s exactly who I think he is.”

“Anyway,” taking a breath, re-focusing, onto the next step, “he’s taking me out of state tomorrow.” Some kind of haunting in Canada and dammit, she’s gonna need to dig her passport out of her closet.

“This is Emma Swan, ACRS, signing off.”

#ouat ff #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs mc #cs au #captain swan #cs: shit is breathtaking bro #@hencethewriter #jonespod #i know i'm terrible about multi-chapter fic #but i promise #this one is already #almost done #the second chapter just needs finishing

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elrufiian · 5 years

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Infinity

The stars, they paint a story. It’s an old one, it’s ancient actually. Timeless and ever-changing. Bursting in colours and in song. One we can’t hear, but can admire from afar. Poets & scientist have fallen in love with the view. Many have died trying to reach her. Her void is cold and perilous But God, her colours are radiant. Beauty incomprehensible. Meaning, elusive. One can’t help but stare to the endless. How you just exist around us. No reason for your rhyme. You could be design or happenstance. A voice or an explosion of the past I Can’t tell. I don’t think I want to. Though we try. Many have tried to find the properties That makes up your DNA. Trying to find the origin of your start. What father time and mother nature do to create you? To understand your chaos and control. And yet, you turn the science on our heads. Our studied blueprints become nothing. A monument to feeble understanding. Collection of ever-changing theories. We could have come from nothing. So It’s natural to want to understand our birth. Our home on earth. Our view of the moon. The feeling of gravity on our bodies. It’s our instinct, even as infants. To reach for the infinite. To reach the limit. To wonder what it all is. We connect dots to give shape to your stars. Devote love songs so we don’t fall apart. Blame you for our love loss & jilted hearts. Curse your void that surrounds us Yet, use it to guide us to our shores. Make promise we won’t uphold. Trying to find new homes, Instead of helping our own. Striving to define you only to be left,

Mystified.

And mystified, is what am. When I sit and stare, at endless night. On blades of grass that reach for you. I sit and write the words that constantly fail to grasp your gravity. They fail at defining your purpose. To describe your beauty in your chaos The horror in your destruction The source of your origin. The hold you have on our collective souls. All I can ever do, Is say what you do to me. How you breathe poetry out of me. How I devote my love’s heart to your moons. Write sad songs under your lights Wake to the brightest sol. Ponder your effects on our coves Admire your anomalies and colliding skies, Fear the unknown. The planets I would discover to just be bigger than what I am. Are endless. Even if I discovered millions. I would only be scratching the surface. Of infinity, and beyond.

#poets on tumblr #space #thoughts #poetry

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komjibear · 3 years

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CandleX

Imagine that it’s raining outside, and you and Jungkook decide to crack open the door to the deck to listen. The electricity is fine, but you both decide to turn off all the lights, put away your electronics, and have a heart-to-heart by candlelight. The air felt cool against your skin, giving you chills that traveled the length of your spine and have goosebumps run across your exposed body. You rub your arms to smooth them out and clear your throat.

“Here, you can wear my jacket.” Jungkook states slipping his arms out and handing it to you.

“Oh! No that’s okay! I can get a blanket.” You protest while waving your hands in front of you in emphasis.

“Uh…tell me a story.” You say all of sudden as you try to direct attention away from you.

“What kind of story?” Jungkook asks as he somewhat straightens himself up with pride.

“Can I ask you one last serious question?” Jungkook asks as he looks at you, unknown to you, he was admiring even the smallest of features on your face when you smiled.

“Okay.” You replied enthusiastically, not even really thinking twice about it.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” Your smile drops a little due to shock. Jungkook opens his mouth to try and say something when he sees your reaction, but you speak up before he could.

“I thought you were cute.” You replied in haste, almost blending the words together to sound almost incomprehensible. He seems to have heard you though, and he chuckles.

“Really? That’s all?” He teases as he raises his eyebrow at you suggestively. You laugh once more, and explain what you meant.

You pull back and bring your fingers to your lips. He then reaches up and touches the spot where your lips touched his skin. He looks at you with eyes the size of platters, you’re ready to start apologizing, until he reaches out and grabs your face and kisses you a bit aggressively.

After the adrenaline subsided, your calmed nerves helped your body begin to react and move to kiss him back. Your hands grabbed at his hips to keep him from falling over and gently brushing your thumbs on his hipbones. Lips were overlapping and tongues twisted together in an erotic dance. You could feel your head was swimming, but you wouldn’t mind, if this was what drowning was like, you welcomed the sensation with open arms. He bit your lips and tugged at them which made you pull him closer and kiss him harder. But suddenly he pulls away to grab at your wrists and pull you up.

“Jungkook, I’m sorry,” you started to protest thinking maybe you took things too far, but realized he started pulling you towards his bedroom. Jungkook didn’t answer you he only pulls you into his room, locks the door, and throws you onto his bed. It was like he was possessed, but it didn’t scare you, it was exciting to you. He pins your wrists down and crawls on top of you only to glue his lips once more to yours. His erection was very evident as it presses into you while he’s grinding on top of you. Your moans mixing together as your tongues wrapped around each other’s.

“As much as I love you in my clothes, you need to take this off.” He demands airily as he pulls away and slides his jacket off you. As you lean up to start taking off your shirt, Jungkook sits up and pulls his off much quicker. You lean back on your elbows to stare, loving every smooth curve, dip, and edge of his muscles contracting with each movement. A giggle makes you divert your gaze up at him as he smirks at you. “Like what you see?” Instead of answering him you bite your lip and flip him over to have him be underneath you. You pull off your shirt in response and smile down at him, catching him in the same position you were just in moments ago.

“Loving it.” You whisper out as you lean back down to connect your lips, and feeling Jungkook’s fingers dance along your bra to start unhooking it. Once off he pulls it down your arms, you’re just about to pull your hands out, but Jungkook grabs both your hands and slams them together above his head so now you’re chest to chest. He pulls away from the kiss and makes quick work of looping the straps together around your wrist then doing the same of overlapping the bra on itself around the bar and your wrists to hook it together. You stare at his handy work once it’s finished. Blank-faced, you think, did he just create makeshift cuffs out of my bra? But you don’t have enough time to question him as he flips you over and he’s just smiling above you.

He makes quick work to bring his eager mouth to your chest, peppering it with kisses and licks. Then moving to your nipples to begin his assault of sucking, nibbling, and pulling on them. You moan out and try to pull your hands down, but feel the tug of your bra and realize, you’re stuck like this, completely at his mercy. His hands move down to remove your jeans but purposefully leaves on your underwear. He moves to look down at your body, in nothing but a lacey little number that just makes him bite his lip as he watches your heaving chest and helpless form.

Jungkook leans down to take the edge of your panties in between his teeth to pull down while keeping his eyes on you. His lips and chin softly grazing the skin of your legs. It made you squirm and you desperately wanted to get your hands on him. Once you’re finally bare to him he pulls off his own pants and boxers and then climbs on top of you and brings his dick to your lips. He doesn’t even ask, your tongue is already out and licking the tip of his dick. He takes in a sharp breath and pushes his dick a little further into your mouth so you can start sucking. You try to move your head to the best of your abilities but were a bit stuck. Jungkook moves his hand to the back of your head and humps your face a little. You look up to see his head thrown back and love watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Suddenly he pulls himself away from your lips and a string of saliva is attached to your mouth to his cock.

But the string breaks when he slides his dick between your breasts, then moves his tip to rub your nipples. It’s a strange sensation, but you didn’t hate it. You moaned out and watched it all unfold, not realizing how hot it would be for him to take over you and be at his complete mercy. His eyes never left your face, he loved watching you slowly come undone and have you break apart for him slowly. He then drags his dick down your stomach, past your clit, and presses it gently against your tight opening. Teasingly rubbing little circles around it.

“Jungkook!” you gasp out as your back arches in pleasure. “Please, untie me, I want to touch you so bad.” But Jungkook only smiles and shakes his head at you while maintaining eye contact. His lips part ever so slightly as he pushes the tip in, only to quickly pull out. You whine at the loss of contact and throw your head back slamming your head into the pillows. Jungkook looks away briefly to look over at his nightstand and sees Taehyung left one of his headbands there. He reaches over and slides it over your head while your eyes are still closed in frustration.

You realize what he’s doing and try to protest but Jungkook places his hand over your mouth shushing you. “Shh, you don’t want me to get a gag for you next do you?” His fingers drag across your lips and you stay silent, not wanting to be deprived more. You feel Jungkook slide down your body once more, and you thought he might have left you here but then you feel his dick poking at your entrance again, and then slide inside of you. You cry out and both your hands wrap around the metal bar to find purchase.

He pulls in and out of you a bit quickly, but then he bottoms out and begins to move his dick in circles to grind his dick inside of you and rub against your g-spot. You can’t hold in your moans and his name keeps slipping past your mouth. He loves hearing you cry for him and watching your body writhe at his touch. He could already feel that he was about to cum, but wanted to last a little longer.

He stops moving to bring his mouth back to your chest and suck on your nipples, swirling his tongue around them repeatedly and sucking them hard until they bruise. You felt yourself clenching around him close to your end.

“Jungkook! I’m going to cum.” You scream out and suddenly you feel Jungkook pull away from your chest, his hands firm on your hips as he lifts them up and begins to fuck you quickly. You feel the knot inside of you snap and you cum with a cry. He follows shortly after and grunts as he pulls out of you quickly, rips off Taehyung’s headband from your eyes and jerks himself off on your face. You close your eyes and keep your mouth open to catch a little of him on your tongue.

Once done he looks down and smiles again seeing you peek up at him with one eye open, as the other half of your face is caked with his release. He undoes your restraint and brings your wrists to his lips to kiss tenderly, noticing the angry red marks your bra straps left. He then takes you to the bathroom to wash off your face and take a quick shower.

The fresh smell of watermelon engulfs the bathroom as you wash each other up with lingering touches and prolonged eye contact. Once done you both crawl into his bed and turn to each other sides and just stare at each other a bit longer.

“So…do you have a lot of practice in BDSM or what?” You ask half-heartedly.

“Not really,” Jungkook admits sheepishly, “but I won’t lie when I say I’ve imagined this before with you.” A little surprised you open your mouth to say something, but close it quickly, thinking better to not question further. Instead to you opt to nod your head and smile at him. You kiss him on his nose and he scrunches his face as he smiles and wraps his arms around you to pull you in closer and doze off together.

#jeonjungkook #jungkook #kookie #imagine #readerinsert #smut #kpop #bts #bangtan #blindfold #handcuff #chest #lightbdsm

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