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xxxavo · 3 years

Note

Sin getting upset bc he see’s Kouen flirting with his s/o (I mean they both already don’t like each other).So sins getting all alpha dog and is trying to get him to bck off

Requested by: anonymous

Warnings: A hint of verbal NSFW towards the end? (better known as...LIMEy) Not swear words but a few rude words? Idk

Suddenly getting back into Magi so might be a few imagines being thrown around here and there, depends on how long this lasts!! Feeling a NSFW scenario manifesting itself into my drafts after writing this, I won't lie, but no actual NSFW content today my little imuchakk's! Hope you enjoy!

Sinbad had always liked banquets, weather they be ones held in the kingdom of Sindria, or at his biggest rivals, the Kou empire. There was something exciting about the prospect of consuming alcohol in foreign lands after an important political meeting that made Sinbad feel on top of the world. It was rare for things in Sinbad’s life not to go his way, or to not end up leading towards something better then what he had lost. For this reason, King Sinbad was to an extent, a go-with-the-flow kind of man. Especially with loyal followers such as his generals and his beloved wife!

His beloved was of course very loyal, incredibly so...but, there were people who did not care for that loyalty of hers. This included a certain Kou empire red head who went by the name of Kouen.

“No need to look so sour, Sin.” Ja’far commented beside him, though he was enjoying the fact his King was abandoning his poor drinking habits to instead stay sober and focused, even if he was focusing on his wife and Kouen Ren flirting. “You told her to be pleasant and friendly towards Kouen to gain his favour. I don’t understand why you’re so jealous.” That was enough to make Sinbads eyes flicker from the generous laughter of his wife to the smug face of his right hand man.

“Me!? Jealous!?”

“Hmm.” Masrur agreed from the other side of Sinbad. The King’s neck practically snapped to the fanalis.

“Why would I, of all people, be jealous?”

“Because you’re wife is a smart, sophisticated lady who could do a lot better than a man who drinks sake and shamelessly prances around woman as if he was a young teen in his glory years.” Golden eyes met red ones in a baffled expression of offense.

“That’s a low blow, Ja’far.”

“Hmm.” Again, Masrur voiced his opinion rather humbly. Unlike the other two, Masrur had not taken his eyes away from the Queen, curious to see how her little game would play out; He loved how cunning she was.

The Queen, unlike Sinbad, was sensible. When he was busy hiding from Ja’far she was busy doing the work for him and cleaning up all his messes. Masrur liked how through thick and thin she stayed by Sinbad’s side whilst being the role model his country needed. She may as well have been a general. However, that didn’t mean she didn’t find herself sick of him sometimes.

Unfortunately old habits died hard. Sinbad was an infamous lady killer, flirting and charming any woman he deemed beautiful. No longer did he take it any further but Masrur could always see it in the Queen’s eyes whenever she got upset or jealous with his ministrations. As much as she tried to hide it, Masrur was a man who saw much, yet said very little.

The fanalis saw the way the cogs in her head turned the moment Sinbad had told her to “Gain Kouen’s favour in any way you can! I’m sure he’ll be much more linient with me if he enjoys the company of my other half” and the way she made sure her corset was on tighter and her breasts were pushed up higher only confirmed his supicions. Sinbad was about to get a very bitter taste of his own flirtatious medicine.

The Queen was, despite being middle aged, very beautiful. If she wasn’t married to King Sinbad, Masrur was certain many men would be throwing themselves at her feet. Kouen would possibly be one of those.

The next thing Masrur knew a grumpy Sinbad was pulling on his cheek, his gaze in the same direction as his. “What is it Masrur? What are they saying!? Surely you will stick by your King! Unlike this traitor—“

“Tsk.”

“Please Masrur. My wife could be in danger.” Sinbad dramatized. Masrur practically had to stop himself from commenting on how pathetic the King looked. “I need those fanalis ears of yours...”

“Fine.”

“Did you know, you’re my favourite?”

“I swear to Solomon Sinbad if you—“

Drowning out the advisor and the King, Masrur honed his attention on the Queen and Kouen who sat sharing a bottle of red wine.

“Oh no. No more for me please.” Just as Kouen was about to tip some more of the red liquor in her glass, the Queen politely bowed her head, fluttering her lashes. “My tolerance for alcohol isn’t the greatest thing in the world.”

“Oh?.” Kouen hummed, nodding in response before filling up his own. “I expected you to perhaps be a little more like you’re husband.”

“An old drunkard?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But is it not what you meant?”

“I—“ Kouen seemed at a loss for words for a second, perhaps embarrassed, but saved himself rather quickly without a hint of emotion on his face. “What I meant was, a lover of a banquet. Sinbad has attended many, I assumed you would have been more on par with him when it came to drinking and party games.”

The Queen watched Kouen take a sip of his wine, her lips pulling up into a soft smirk. “Something tells me Kouen if I was anything like my husband you wouldn’t want to be sat here with me.” Kouen was slow to place down his drink, his sharp eyes meeting Sinbad’s wife’s.

“Would you rather me sit elsewhere?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But is it not what you meant?” Now, it was his turn to smirk.

“I—“ With a soft laugh, the regal woman before Kouen grew flustered, picking up her glass and swirling the remaining wine contents around to allow her to look elsewhere. “You really are as they say Kouen. Quite an interesting man. I enjoy getting to know you.” Lifting up her head, the Queen rose an eyebrow, a smile now residing on her face. “Every word I say sinks in doesn’t it?”

“Your highness. If any man does not listen to you, does he really deserve to be in your presence? If my sisters were simply cast aside, I wouldn’t be so forgiving to the suitor who was to do that.” It was a lie, the Queen had heard of Kouen and his family sending off the young princess to he married to a King who wanted nothing more then a pretty face. Was there more to the story? Most likely. But was that the gist of it? Yes. However, to indulge both Kouen and continue to gain the nervous attention of her husband shuffling in his seat, the Queen sighed out gently.

“You’re close to your family...?” It was hard to hear the rest, Sinbad practically chewing off his own hand right beside Masrurs ear.

“What are they saying!?” Simply, Masrur shrugged. “Something about family.” It was no fun telling Sinbad everything. Groaning, Sinbad flopped back into his seat, picking up his wine with a pout.

“It doesn’t taste the same knowing at the end of the night she’s not going to be dragging me back to our room...”

“Who? Her highness?” The three men all turned abruptly to face Kogyoku, who smiled sheepishly. “I’m awfully sorry...” she stuttered out. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just came to say hello and over heard you talking."

Knowing that any ill intentions towards Kougyoku’s older brother would harm his reputation with the Kou empire, Sinbad put on his best charming smile, acting as though he wasn’t emotionally conflicted on the inside. “Ah Princess. What a pleasure to be seeing you again. Are you enjoying the banquet?” With a smile, the pinkette nodded her head.

“I am very much your highness. I hope you’re also enjoying yourself.” With that, her eyes flickered upwards to the Queen of Sindrian and the most influential man in the whole of the Kou empire. “It seems her highness is enjoying herself to. I’ve never seen Kouen so invested in somebody. It’s a real testimony to your wife.” Kougyoku was of course NOT JEALOUS. Not once had she imagined herself sat on Sinbad's lap as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear! Nether the less, she continued her façade, knowing that after all it was her duty.

”They’re so deep in conversation, I wonder what they’re talking about.” Her words aren’t helping the purple male.

“As do I...”

“Kouen seems so relaxed around her highness. They really do get along don’t they?” Was she trying to give him a heart attack?

With a delightful laugh Sinbad nodded before finally rising to his feet. "They do indeed. In fact I feel a little bit left out. Perhaps I should pau the two a visit. Excuse me Princess, I do hope of seeing you again soon." Lifting her hand to his lips, Sinbad placed a soft kiss to the back of her hand before walking towards his wife and that thing trying to take her away. The King of Sindria looked at peace with all around him as he strode over, all intentions of causing havoc and disrupting the calm atmosphere completely gone for his being. At least it looked that way. If it didn't, he wouldn't have been a good King.

The two at the table saw him coming before he arrived and where as Kouen greeted him with a cut nod, seemingly displeased he was interrupting his time with his wife, who simply sent him a passive smile.

"Ah Your highness." Not Sin, not Sinbad, not my King, not my love. Just your highness. "Me and Kouen here--" Yet they were on first name basis? "Were just discussing-- Hmmph!"

As done many times before by the womanizer, Sinbad encased the back of his wife's head, bringing her face towards his own and then slamming their lips together in a rather mighty display right in front of the red princes eyes. He made sure it lasted. And his Queen? Who was she to deny Sinbads advances? As usual she practically melted into his affectionate assault, fragile hands moving to clasp at Sinbad's robes in an attempt to lull him closer...but two could play at that game. Pulling back from his beloved, Sinbad made sure to smirk, staring into her eyes for a brief moment. It was his way of saying "I'll get you back for this".

The sexual tension was undeniable and Sinbad had hoped Kouen could sense her thighs rubbing together like he could, because that was the closest Kouen would get.

"Hm? Talking about what? I didn't quite catch that my Queen."

Meanwhile, back at Sinbad's table, Ja'far sighed in aggravation as he watched the scene Sinbad caused in absolute horror. "Honestly, this man really does test my patience! Can he not just let his wife butter up Kouen! If anything it benefits us!"

"Hmm."

"Just for one second, can he think about anything else other then his-"

"Dick?"

"I was going to say pride but that works too."

505 notes · View notes

bbangsoonie · 3 years

Text

good for nothing

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

kingdom masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you teasing me?” you frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you regret training me?” you smirked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It will soon,” you eluded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not come any closer,” you warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another promise,” you chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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stubbedbakutoes · 4 years

Text

Promise Ring

Bakugou accidentally slips up amidst an argument with (y/n). The question now is, does he feel guilty? at all?

pairing: asshole!bakugou x fem reader

word count: 2.1k

genre: angst (i advise grabbing some tissues before proceeding with caution mwahaha)

part 2

masterlist

Whilst his hands held up the ring in the glistening light of the gradually rising sun, her movements halted, thankful she was mere seconds away from having the hot liquid in her mouth because she would more than likely be spluttering and coughing at the shock of what he had just said. Bakugou darted his eyes away from hers, because he’s embarrassed.

But then he’s just looking back at her again. Because he couldn’t not look at her. He licked his suddenly dry as hell lips, shrugging a shoulder.

“Fell for you hard and I don’t want this to just be some fling that we’ll get over in a few weeks.” The blush was rising on his cheeks and she found this self-conscious side of him adorable.

“Kacchan!” She kicked his shin under the table. “You’re asking me to marry you?” She asked slowly.

“No!” He scoffed playfully, which soon turned into a laugh when she squealed out something along the lines of ‘Don’t look so disgusted! how was I supposed to react to that, huh?’ “I mean, you’ve had my dick in your mouth, I'd say we’re pretty committed at this poi-.”

“But you’re really not proposing?” She cut him off, not wanting to hear anything from his vulgar mouth anymore.

“Shut up.” He chuckled, mindlessly playing footsie with her under the table. “I’m serious about it though.”

“Marrying me?”

Bakugou sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as a smile played on his lips, “About how we’re past the honeymoon stage.”

“What’s that?” Lifting her mug of tea for the second time, she finally took her first sip of what was always a good cup of morning coffee when made by someone else, specifically Bakugou.

“You know... That period at the beginning of the relationship when everything goes well and is free of problems.”

“Aside from arguing whether the toilet seat cover should stay up or not?”

Bakugou smiled fondly at her. “Sure.”

Their grins were far too wide and cheesy for this early in the morning but the feeling of giddiness they felt inside was too much to conceal and, without any further word on the subject, the rest of breakfast was served so the two could quiet down their grumbling stomach like a proper non-fling-type couple.

(y/n)’s trying the ring on her fingers, and when it only fits on her fourth finger (like he’d hoped), Y/N’s looking back at him. “I care about you too.” She smiled reassuringly. “And to prove it,” She began, stabbing a portion of Bakugou’s food with a fork. “I’ll have this piece of your pancake, thank you very much.”

“Where’s the correlation?”

“I just wanted to steal some food from you, sorry.”

“You’re not very good at being sly, aren’t you?” Bakugou giggled, playing with the matching ring on his pinky finger. “ I just. I love you, you know? And, like. I know we’re still young, so it’s obviously not an engagement ring. I like to consider it a promise. Something to keep your finger warm till I get you a proper ring.”

“—so now what? You just wait for me to leave so you can— what? Cheat on me?!” Bakugou slammed his open palm down on the wooden table, eyes alit with a fury so strong that even (y/n)'s terrified because she's never, ever, seen him this angry before. She's had fights with him before, of course she has, they've been together for over three years, but she's never seen him this determined to win an argument– to the extent that if they were in a cartoon show, he'd probably have smoke puffing out of either side of his ears.

But this is no time for her imagination to be running wild because she's pissed, too. So much anger flooded her veins that tears accumulating in the corner of her eyes are almost spilling out — that's the worst kind of anger.

(y/n) gaped at him. “Are you fucking serious right now? I had one single conversation with that guy and and you— you think I’m cheating on you?!”

And what's filling her with rage is that what they're fighting over is stupid, good Lord, it's so fucking stupid.

It started with (y/n) telling Bakugou about how she's finally found a dream, something to chase, because she's spent most of her life without having decided what to do for herself or wanting anything in her life. That dream involved her going to a school, outside the country, and that turned into a tiny misunderstanding, which blossomed into something else, followed something else after that, and then both Bakugou and Y/N were yelling at each other and calling each other names and it was all a horrible sight to see. Both of them have no idea what brought it on to this extent. All they're certain of is that they're pissed at each other and have, apparently, been pissed at each other for a long ass time.

Bakugou grinned. A grin that she loathed, because Bakugou’s grins are usually with mischief, with playfulness. Not this malice. He outstretched his arm on either sides of him, like he’s showing something off. “Well, I don’t see anyone proving me otherwise.”

She huffed, glaring right back at him. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?! What the hell is your problem?!” Bakugou yelled back at her, not even bothering to try to keep from shouting. He pointed out the door, “You were fucking flirting with that two-faced asshole right in front of me! You're the problem!”

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?! That was months ago, you've had that stupid excuse of a grudge on me ever since, huh?!" (y/n)'s eyes narrowed and crinkled – not in a way that Bakugou's used to seeing. "I haven't done anything wrong! All I've done is fucking been there for your stupid ambition to be the number one hero-

"Stupid? Stupid?!" Bakugou repeated incredulously, eyes widening as he quivered with anger. "I'd watch my words if I were you. This is my fucking life goal and something I want for myself that you're calling stupid."

(y/n) was nearly suffocating on her fury, her laugh void of any happiness leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "I am aware of what I'm spewing out. Your fucking dream was delusional and far fetched but I supported it, didn't I?! I watched every single match, patched up your hands when they bled from all that training, made you delicious bentos to fuel you up for the day – "

"– And now you say it was all stupid," Bakugou laughed mirthlessly, glaring at her so hard that (y/n)'s knees start to tremble. "How romantic can this get?" He raised his voice, arms stretching out before clapping obnoxiously loud, "I hope shitting on your boyfriend's dream has given you some sort of satisfaction."

"And you've got some nerve to pull all of this shit with me about suddenly wanting something for myself because I've met someone else and that I'm cheating on you," (y/n)'s lips tremble, her voice practically shaking with anger as she spoke, a finger going to point accusingly at him, "You're not my boyfriend. You're just one big hypocrite!"

"You fucking are, though!" His voice was laced with venom as he practically spat the words in the woman's face. "You're definitely planning to elope with some hunk city boy! I'm not fucking good enough for you, huh?!"

And that’s— that’s the final straw.

Relationships are about trust, and Bakugou obviously didn't fucking trust her. If he wasn't so much of a prick in how he reacted to her telling him her future plans then they'd probably be cuddled against each other, asleep, and Bakugou would be the first to start apartment hunting for her — for them, because he'd even move with her, since he knows he couldn't properly function without her.

But before she even opened her mouth to inform him that she's done with this toxic relationship, he beat her to it, “Good thing I never fell in love with you, then.”

(y/n)’s face changed from cocky to puzzled then to heartbroken. As his words made her world crumble, Bakugou took pride in the sight of the bewildered woman before him, not planning to take his words back anytime soon since he saw this argument as a game of who can devastate the other first. And the prize was looking back on this fight one day and thinking, wow, I won that. It didn't matter what had been said and done in his book.

But (y/n) and Bakugou are two sides of the same coin; she simply wanted to have her point reach his end, so that they can both agree to put this aside and go back to their normal, non-fling-type couple selves.

“So all of this,” She motioned between them, interrupting his train of thought “meant nothing to you? You never even loved me?” She asked with what seemed to be a mixture of hurt and sadness but mainly anger. Before he could even blink, she was over hitting him on the chest with her tightly clenched fists, trying to let out her pain, “I hate you, you're the worst! You told me numerous times you loved me- that you’d never even make me feel like shit! What’s changed, Bakugou? Why can’t you love me anymore?” Her voice cracked, nonetheless she was smoldered with rage.

"Are you deaf? I said I never did. I was lying the whole time, whenever I told you that— that I did."

Bakugou took every hit she was giving him because he stood firmly on his feet, unnecessarily adding fuel to the fire, as if (y/n)'s miserable state wasn't enough to satisfy him — to drop his guard and tell her he wanted to take it back. That he wanted to say I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry, I love you, I didn’t mean to say that— but then (y/n)’s letting out a laugh that sounds so bitter, it made Bakugou flinch.

“Fine,” she breathed out, then she’s scoffing out another harsh laugh. “Then— we’re done. Wouldn’t want you to waste your time and effort in a relationship that you never thought was worth it. I don’t want to waste my time and energy being with someone who clearly doesn’t feel the same kind of love towards me.”

And she turned on her heel, ready to head straight out the door, purposefully ignoring the faint, “Wait, (y/n)—” from behind. Her opposite hand subconsciously grazed the promise ring she shared with Bakugou, and she realises something.

At one swift movement, she pulled at the said ring and threw it at him with more force than necessary.

“What a fucking nonsense 'promise' that was,” She said out loud, and it rang through Bakugou’s ears, because he made a pathetic whining sound that's never been heard before, because this moment couldn't have a bigger emotional toll on him than anything else.

"Y/N, hear me out," he sniffled. "I'm so so sorry, I didn't mean an ounce of what I said. I know you're not cheating on me, baby, I'm sure of that. I was being a dickhead for that and I'm so fucking sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I love you, Y/N. God. I need you so much, and I was lying when I said I never did. When you're not with me, I'm not... me. And I just," he sighed, pulling the ends of his hair aggressively. "I'm sorry, I really am."

Y/N’s got a hand on the door handle, but there were fingers slowly wrapping around her other wrist. She yanked her wrist out of his hold like his touch burned, causing Bakugou's lips to shake. It's hitting him now, the fact that he's losing the girl he courted and spent so much time with. The girl who kept him wide awake at night because of how much she clouded his mind. Not to mention, the ring which symbolizes their commitment to each other, is being thrown away like it's nothing.

(y/n) peeked at him through her eyelashes, "Give me a break. I obviously don't have a place in your heart, you've made that painfully clear to me. So do me a favor and fuck off."

He very nearly heaved with his next breath. He held a hand up, ring between his pointer finger and thumb. “I meant it when I said I wanted to get serious with this relationship. I still do, and that'll never change. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, that you should be with someone— someone better in every fucking way possible, I want to be the one to marry you. That wasn’t a false promise. That was— that is the promise that I swear to God I’ll be keeping until my last breath.”

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eqt-95 · 3 years

Text

One Night in Gotham

Summary | On the eve of taking over as the CEO of L-Corp, Lena Luthor makes a trip across the bay to Gotham to see an old friend.

-----

"Now what is a delicate flower like you doing all alone at the bar?"

Lena stifled a sigh of annoyance at the brazenness of strangers. This kind of thing wouldn't happen in Metropolis.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Lena silently lifted her glass, indicating none was required.

Her eyes flitted up toward the bartender distracted by another patron, and she wondered for a moment how this man had been allowed into the private hotel bar. This was interrupted by the sound of the high-back chair next to her scraping against the marble flooring followed by the creak of the stranger posting up next to her. He reeked of booze and sounded winded by the exertion of the simple gesture.

"Well then perhaps I'll just buy myself a drink and enjoy the view," he smiled, exposing yellow-stained teeth behind the grizzly shag that covered his cheeks and chin.

No, this kind of thing would never happen in Metropolis.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Free country, honey," he chuckled into a cough that echoed with the wetness of two packs a day.

Lena was used to all kinds of people. Although few and far between some were genuinely kind. Some were naive fools who could be talked out of house and home. Others were snake-oil salesmen, hiding behind earnestness. And then there were those who lacked any sort of self-awareness, boldly trying to claim what wasn't theirs in the process. These were the kind of people she'd spent the last few weeks battling, and she was exhausted from it.

She opened her mouth to articulate how unwelcome his presence was when a warm hand landed on her shoulder.

"Hey babe," came a voice behind her, and Lena smirked.

"Darling, you made it," Lena replied, turning in her seat toward the tall figure clad in leather with a helmet dangling from one hand.

"Sorry I'm late," came an apology.

Before Lena could play it off, she was caught by the feel of lips were pressed against her own. She peripherally heard the clatter of the helmet land on the bar before two warm hands slid up, cupping her face and turning the quick kiss into something more entirely. Initial surprise faded into confusion which then faded into the warm, flush lips on hers and the tongue greedily fighting for something more. She gave in on instinct, and was rewarded with the slight nip against her bottom lip and the unfamiliar taste of Kate Kane.

Whether time had suspended or continued to tick away, Lena wasn't certain, but when Kate finally pulled back and their eyes met she felt an unexpected warmth at the mischief glowing back at her.

"Can I help you?" Kate asked, finally breaking from Lena and turning to the stranger.

His face had frozen, stuck in a contorted look of envy and disgust. "N-no."

"No? Great," Kate continued smoothly. "Do you mind though? Because you're in my seat."

Lena glanced back at her half-empty drink trying to contain the smile that threatened to break at the man's discomfort. A few begrudging seconds passed before the figure folded and heaved himself out of the chair, sauntering off toward the far, empty end of the bar.

The long fingers that had just sent Lena's cheeks flush slid around her glass, lifting it to her nose before smirking and tossing the rest back.

"You have good taste," Kate remarked, setting the empty glass back down and waving over the bartender.

"Do you normally use that much tongue?"

"I was trying to make a point."

"I think a hug would have sufficed plenty."

"This is Gotham. We're more animalistic here; nothing like your fancy Metropolis folk," Kate smirked, ordering another pair of Scotches. "You can't mince words otherwise you leave them with deranged hope."

"That's not my problem."

"It isn't until you're leaving at the end of the night and get yanked into a dark alley because he's been lingering for hours taking that last remaining thread of hope and weaving it into some deep-seeded, confounding belief that you were meant for him."

"Speaking from experience?"

Kate shrugged.

"So instead you go for a full make-out session in the middle of a very public hotel bar."

"You're a quick study, Luthor."

Lena hummed impatiently.

"Besides, now I've got something to strike off my bucket list."

"What's that?"

"Lena Kieran Luthor kissed me."

"I'd hardly say that. I believe you instigated, and I was struck in a moment of surprise."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'wooed'. I wooed you."

A stoic look with a hint of skepticism stared back at Kate.

"How long have we known each other?"

"I think that depends on what you mean by 'known'."

"And in all those years," Kate continued, ignoring Lena's analytical response, "how many times have you been floored by my charm?"

"Never once. Not even in the slightest," Lena deadpanned.

Kate scoffed in exaggerated disbelief. "You have, you're just too uptight to have any fun. What about that time I punched Lex?"

"I was eight."

"Your point?"

"Mostly I was mortified."

"I bet that's even the word you used to describe it. Did you walk out of the womb a genius?"

"You joke, but Mother was outraged. To this day she practically spits whenever she hears the Kane name."

"Is she still alive?" Kate smirked into her glass. "It's not my fault she raised such an egotistical snob. Beth told him 'no' a dozen times. If he couldn't hear words, I figured he could hear a fist crushing his nose."

"That's not how he tells it."

"Because he can point to so much precedent for honesty," Kate replied dryly. Lena felt herself flinch, and Kate's demeanor softened. "Sorry."

"He wasn't always an ass."

"Sometimes people just… spiral."

"Speaking of, are you back for good?"

Kate shook her head. "Just passing through."

"Special occasion?"

"A wedding," she answered, quickly draining the rest of her drink.

"Was it nice?"

"Don't know." The empty glass was lifted toward the bartender. "Just leave the bottle."

This was the part of Kate that Lena loved and hated. They were both raised in over-sized homes with curated lifestyles and a litany of archaic topics they could talk endlessly about, but the concept of speaking about their personal lives was a loss to both of them. It was a familiar feeling that echoed deep into Lena's core, and she took no offense to Kate's aloofness - she was cut from the same cloth.

"Where to next?"

"France," she answered.

"Sounds romantic."

"Sure," Kate chuckled at some unspoken joke.

"Does anyone else actually know you're in town?"

Kate shook her head again.

"You've been away for a while."

"Miss me?" Kate smirked, and Lena saw the telltale signs of deflection through humor. Yes, they were practically carbon copies of each other. Different around the edges, but traces of the same upbringing formed matching foundations.

"Haven't had the time."

It was honesty that would seem cryptic to anyone else, but Kate nodded in understanding.

They sat in silence for a moment, Kate shuffling the glass across the smooth, lacquered finish of the bar.

"When do you-"

"Next week," Lena interrupted with a practiced tone.

"Nervous?"

"I am excited about the potential of-" Lena began before catching Kate's unamused expression. It was enough to silence the curated response she'd spouted for weeks to reporters, board members, and potential funders. "Yes."

It was a single word, but it was an admission she'd kept contained in a tiny box under the mountain of to-dos that guided her days and late nights. She glanced down at the dwindling drink in front of her, suddenly appreciative Kate had the foresight to keep the bottle.

"Good," Kate replied, now swirling the glass between her fingers.

"Good?"

"I'd be worried if you weren't."

"That's not how some would see it."

"Lillian doesn't really get a say."

"Mother isn't the only resistance. God knows I've stopped trying to prove anything to her, but it's more than just her now. It's board members. It's the public. It's the very people employed by the company. I am… I am not ready for this."

Lena didn't know where the admission was coming from, but now it felt like a spigot had been pulled open, and every reservation she had about becoming the youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

"I'm 22," she said, and it felt like a confession - like no one had uncovered this hidden truth about Lena, and she was one big headline away from the rug being pulled from under her.

"You know what I was doing when I was 22?" Kate asked, preemptively refilling Lena's drink. "I was getting kicked out of school and spending my nights bouncing from one dive bar to another."

"I'm not sure what your point is, but I think it serves my argument better than yours," Lena scowled. "22 year-olds shouldn't be in charge of anything."

"My point is, you're not normal," Kate clarified. "If I was asked to run a company at 22, I'd be an idiot not to run in the opposite direction. But that's because I was a normal 22 year-old. One hundred percent of the world was a normal 22 year-old."

"Again, I'm not sure your argument is-"

"The reason it's one hundred percent is because I'm rounding. I'd need to rattle off, like, a hundred nines to make my point. You're the one in seven billion meant to do this."

"Seven."

"What?"

"Seven nines. After the decimal."

Kate stared dumbly for a moment before breaking in laughter. "You really are a freak. And you've just made my point for me."

"Mental math isn't a reason."

"No, but your persistence is."

"Haven't you heard? I'm a Luthor; can't be trusted."

Kate sighed, and Lena watched her mentally struggle to find the words to say. It was different than other times Lena had met Kate. Granted, they weren't close. After Lex's nose was bloodied and Lillian's disdain made known, the Kanes and Luthors rarely interacted. From that point on, the majority of their interactions were limited to formal galas and parties of similarly rich families, bouncing from one side of the bay to the other in their efforts to impress the extents of their wealth onto others. Kate always had a knack for slipping out and getting into some sort of trouble while Lena was petrified at the thought of disappointing Lillian.

When Kate's sister and mother died, Lena 'had the audacity' to ask if they would attend the funerals. Lillian refused, but Lex persuaded her otherwise, suggesting that it would be politically good to show sympathy for the Kane family. It was perverse but worked, and Lena was eternally grateful. It was that dark day that struck up an uncanny relationship between the Kane and the Luthor.

It had been nearly three years since their paths had crossed - the longest stretch of time since Kate was thirteen and Lena ten. Lena knew Kate's absence was due to world-traveling, but the details were sparse. Whispers at the latest galas spoke of general disappointment for the Kane daughter. Like Lena, Kate was the black sheep. Unlike Lena, Kate didn't seem to care.

"You're a Luthor, yes," Kate began. "You're honestly from a pretty shitty family. I have first-hand experience, and even without that the headlines have done a damn good job at making the average person aware of it. The company is in shatters, Lex is going to prison, and Lillian isn't human. I mean, she's really truly terrible. Like… is she human? Because when we were kids, I half wondered."

"That's not really-"

"Hang on, I'm getting off topic," Kate waved away. "Yes, you're a Luthor. Yes, the world is against you. Yes, it'll be hard; I won't even pretend to know how you'll do it, but you will. I also know I'm not saying anything you can't deduce on your own. I won't waste our time with talk of your talent, your genius, your raw determination, or the sacrifices you're making to turn Lex's sins into something good. Those reassurances mean nothing to you because you aren't ready to see it yet, and I'm not the person who can help you hear it."

"That's not even remotely close to advice, not to mention helpful advice."

"I didn't say it would be advice or helpful. If it was, I'd charge you for it."

"Are you offering?"

"Are you paying?"

"Depends on the advice."

"Clever. We'll make a decent CEO out of you yet."

Conversation flowed more easily from there. The edges were softened and the curated exteriors peeled back as the bottle slowly dwindled into nothing. The void of years spent apart was slowly filled in with stories of failures, happy accidents, lovers, and reminiscing.

There was an easy comfort with Kate that always took hold; she wasn't trying to pretend to be anything special and there were never any expectations. It made for a breath of fresh air when Lena's world revolved around accuracy, planning ahead, and keeping face. Kate lived life like a game of casual checkers. Lena lived her's for the chess match it was. But for one night, on the eve of her formally stepping into her new life, she played checkers.

Lena should have known better than to assume the interaction would end after a single drink, and she was only slightly surprised when the bartender came by with the bill. She looked around realizing the bar had emptied; for how long it had been just the two of them she didn't know. She also didn't care.

They paid the tab but lingered a while longer, fighting off the real world for a few precious moments until finally, the staff politely advised that, while they didn't have to go home, they couldn't stay here.

"You aren't driving, right?" Lena asked, gesturing at the helmet left forgotten on the bar.

"No, 'here' is home tonight," Kate replied lightly, albeit with a slight slur.

"I'm sure your dad would like to see you."

"Jacob would like a lot of things."

Lena nodded, recognizing the window had closed.

"Any chance I can woo you again, Ms. Luthor?" Kate asked with a cheesy smirk. "I've got a fancy suite with a bed and stuff."

Yes, the light-heartedness was still there but it fell into their respective roles.

"That's your pick-up line? I expected more from you."

Kate pondered for a moment. "Ok, how about this: I wasn't sure if you were a beautiful angel or a sexy devil, but now that I'm close, I see heaven in your eyes."

"Does that actually work?"

"Fifty-fifty? A guy used it on me once."

"And?"

"Well, obviously it didn't work with him, but I tried it a few nights later… and, yea," Kate smirked, "it worked."

"Years at Military school, and you didn't lose an ounce of confidence," Lena sighed, tossing back the rest of her own drink and grabbing her jacket.

The entrance came far too quickly, and the door swung open to reveal the murkiness of the city night beyond.

"Huh, it's raining," Kate said, gesturing for Lena to exit ahead of her.

"It's pouring."

"It's Gotham."

"It never rains this much in Metropolis." Lena mumbled it in frustration, trying to excuse her lack of preparedness to the foreignness of her surroundings.

The sound of a soft click and thwoop came, followed by an invisible shield deflecting the incoming rain drops. Lena glanced up and saw the city was blocked out by a stretch of black fabric.

"How are you getting back?" Kate asked, holding the handle of the umbrella suspended over them.

"My driver should be here in a minute."

Kate whistled softly, muted by the avalanche of raining falling around them. "Fancy CEO privileges."

Lena forced a smile, feeling the familiar pull of stress and weight of worry return to her shoulders. She glanced back at the hotel lobby; the warm light, the soft chairs, the comforting sting of alcohol, and the laughter. For a moment she had forgotten, and in this moment she wanted to forget again.

"You'll be great. And I hope one day you'll find someone who can get you to see who you are Lena. You're a Luthor, yes, but you're so much more than a name."

Lena's eyes were pulled back to the voice next to her, and she found herself staring into Kate's piercing green eyes. Even through the haze of alcohol they were focused and confident. Focused was something Lena was very familiar with; confidence though? Hardly. Years of Lillian's cutting words had stripped her of that. But in depriving her of it, she'd acquired something better: persistence.

Kate's gaze didn't waver. Instead something else appeared, and it took all of Lena's brain to comprehend what it was: it was admiration. It was unfamiliar, and if it weren't for years of being trained as a Luthor, she'd have averted her eyes to the nearest distraction.

"If you're ever in National City, give me a ring."

"And if you're ever back in Gotham-"

"Unlikely."

"-immediately turn around and leave," Kate finished, and Lena felt her lips fight against her facade to curl into a smile at the deprecating humor. "Besides, I won't be around so who is there to see?"

"I'm sure any one of the millions of Gothamites would be a suitable substitute for Kate Kane."

"At least you didn't include the entire world."

"Only because you didn't offer," Lena shot back, and for a moment the masks fell back off, and they let laughter be swallowed into the city around them.

It settled when a black car slowed to a stop in front of them, and Lena felt the tug of life return.

"As usual, you've gotten me tipsier than I'd planned, Kate Kane."

"It was my pleasure Lena Luthor," Kate smiled, reaching for the car door and swinging it open.

Lena hesitated, feeling the wash of new car smell and air conditioning waft from the car and mix with the city and humidity. Her fingers gripped the edge of the door, feeling the drips of water mix with the dirt that had accumulated.

She didn't know the words to say to express her appreciation. Kindness wasn't something she'd been exposed to and so never quite knew how to articulate the swirling, changing web of emotions that fought to be seen. A life of compartmentalizing had cast these feelings off into the tiniest of boxes in the shadow of her mind, and she knew that a week from now the warmth and friendship she felt tonight would be a distant memory. It wasn't enough to change her, but it was enough to remind her that she could.

"Thank you," she said before stretching up on her toes to close the gap between her lips and Kate's cheek, leaving a soft kiss and silencing Kate before she could cast back a signature sarcastic response. "Now you can strike it off your bucket list."

- eqt_95 on ao3

#Batwoman #supergirl #kate kane #lena luthor #kate & lena #fanfic #oneshot #crossover

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problems-turn-fics · 4 years

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I have a lot of feelings about Caleb and his self worth even before he was captured by Simcoe. Please enjoy Sackett telling Caleb he’s a good man and that loving Ben isnt a bad thing.

Caleb was a practical man. He had hopes and dreams and fantasies just like anyone else, but he’d accepted that that was where they would stay. The reality he lived in would never allow him to have the things he truly wanted so he settled and accepted and moved on.

He shouldn’t have even wanted the things he did. They weren't good or moral, they weren’t what Good Men wanted. They weren’t the kinds of things men like Ben or Washington wanted.

Sometimes he wondered if that’s where his trouble with conventional morality had begun or if it was the natural conclusion of being a menace to society. Because he always had been a menace. Every adult who’d spent more than a few minutes with him when he was a kid had told him so. He didn’t remember caring what they thought then and he certainly didn’t care what they thought now.

Having that loose set of morals came in handy when there was dirty work to be doing. He didn’t have a problem with stealing from those who could spare it even if it broke Washington’s precious rules of war. He didn’t have a problem with roughing up a captured officer just a little. He didn’t see the glory in those rules who had just been made up one day and everyone had agreed to follow them, not when they didn’t make sense.

So Caleb accepted that when dirty work needed doing it fell to him and he didn’t resent it for even a second.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll go. I’m the expendable one with the loose morals.”

Ben laughed a little and rolled his eyes, shaking his head but smiling. Caleb watched him go for just a second before he turned to Sackett who had not laughed. Which wasn’t in itself odd, but usually the man at least cracked a smile at Caleb’s jokes. He was one of the few people in camp who actually appreciated Caleb’s humor.

Instead he was frowning at Caleb.

“What?” Caleb asked with a shrug. Maybe Sackett was worried about the mission. They seemed to be the only things that Sackett cared about. “I can handle it.”

“I am aware.” Sackett turned away and back to the sheets of paper in front of him. “It is your other assessment that I disagree with.”

Caleb tried to remember what else he might have said that Sackett would have a problem with.

“Though I find it interesting that you think you have loose morals when you are one of the few men who I would say has a handle of his own moral code,” Sackett said, having obviously sensed the question in the air.

“Yeah, handle on that they’re barely there,” Caleb said with a laugh.

Sackett frowned. “Just because you don’t see the reasoning in every facet of what is considered standard morality in our society does not mean you lack for your own. I would daresay that you have a more rigid moral compass than most, because you built it to point towards your own values.”

“That doesn’t make them the right ones, jus’ means I’m stubborn,” Caleb said with a shrug.

Sackett nodded at him in conceit but the pinched look on his face made it clear that he wasn’t done arguing yet. “I hardly think that loyalty and empathy are bad traits to strive towards.”

Sackett was watching him, waiting for something to crack and Caleb thought he might just be the thing to break. It was a little too much like when his uncle used to ask him if he’d actually started the trouble he was in or if he’d just accepted the blame for one of the other kids again. Too much like acceptance, too much like being known. It made his chest hurt. He missed his uncle. “Careful, Sackett, you almost sounded like you liked me there for a second.”

With a wink he started towards the door but Sackett’s voice stopped him again.

“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Brewster, and I am not one prone to making that statement,” Sackett said, taking a moment and leaning back in his chair as he watched for Caleb’s reaction. Though it felt more like he was flexing some invisible power over Caleb to force him to listen. Caleb knew Sackett well enough that he barely had to be in the same room as someone else to be able to feel their reactions. The man was practically psychic.

“Oh yeah?” Caleb asked, as he turned around to lean up against a table and picked up the drill he’d used to practice on the bust of Georgie’s. Caleb knew it probably made him look nervous to Sackett even if it was the same tactic Caleb had used on Ben for years to distract from tense conversations he didn’t want to have. He just had to pick something up, fiddle with it for a while, and then Ben would get annoyed and grab it from his hands and whatever they’d been talking about would be forgotten.

“You’re far from expendable. Your intelligence comes from something much more important than Yale. Your skills are beyond most of this camp. And as previously stated your moral code is as sound as anyone’s.” Sackett shrugged one shoulder. “You are, in fact, the type of man other men lie to themselves about being. Which is why it is fascinating, though incorrect, for you to think that you are not to the same standard.”

Caleb’s eyes burned and he looked down at the drill as he continued to flip it just so he didn’t have to look at Sackett anymore. “No man wants to be like me and I’m a mother’s nightmare,” Caleb forced himself to say. It was true. There were days he was relieved that his mother had been gone too long to ever see her son as the man he’d grown to be.

“A mother’s nightmare maybe, but I have seen more than enough to know that you possess one skill and trait that all men pretend to have but few do.”

Caleb didn’t want to hear it anymore. He was tired and it hurt and he kept listening he might trick himself into believing it. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“Men like to pretend that they are above it but love makes fools of us all. You keep your head despite it,” Sackett said with a grin. “That is a trait I would say most men would envy; a trait many men pretend to have.”

Caleb laughed and it was almost genuine that time. He was a bigger fool for love than anyone knew. Though no one knew he was in love to start with which he supposed was the key. “I’m not in love so I would say your assessment is a little off there, Sackett.”

Sackket smirked, cocked his head towards the door that Ben had walked out of not ten minutes before, and said “Aren’t you?”

Caleb forced himself to keep flipping the drill even as his fingers went numb and his blood went cold. “I don’t know what you think you kn-”

“What I know is that you joined this army for the same reason many men did. Love of one’s country, love of freedom, love of another person, they are all love. I see no problem with that.” Sackett took a deep breath and gave a small smile, the one for when he’d said something he thought was particularly clever. “Especially not when, as I said, you seem to keep your head despite it.”

Caleb still couldn’t breath. He trusted Sackett to a certain extent but he’d never trusted anyone he had to look in the face again with his secret. And he’d certainly never let anyone on about why he’d actually joined up.

“Now, you have a lot of work to do before you ride out, I suggest you get back to it,” Sackett said before he turned back to his own papers.

Once Sackett turned away it was a little easier and Caleb pulled himself together and decided to ignore it. As long as he didn’t piss Sackett off he would probably be fine. He’d have to trust that.

#tallster #kinda #Sackett #rated g #caleb centric

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hufflepirate · 4 years

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Why I Cried About the New Dixie Chicks Song

Ok, alright, so I’m having Extremely An Emotion about the return of the Dixie Chicks, and I know a lot of folks on here are either too young to remember the blacklisting or weren’t in the country scene at the time, so here’s the whole story the way it felt to a 12-year-old girl who loved them.

You should love and support them!! This story is why!! The vague recaps of the situation in articles about the new release don’t cut it!

*********

So. Let’s start at the beginning (for me). It’s 1998. I’m 8 years old. My parents aren’t really into Christian radio, but we’re also Good Southern Baptists, so obviously the only radio we really listen to is classic rock/oldies and especially country. You can’t trust those pop music stars these days. Or, God forbid, rappers. They don’t make music the way they used to. (Yeah. I know. But I’m just telling it like it was.)

I hear “There’s Your Trouble.” The singer’s boyfriend is constantly comparing her to his ex and she is Calling Him Out and I have never thought about such a thing before because I am 8, but I am deeply certain that any woman deserves to be loved by somebody who sees her for her. This is important to me. I don’t understand why.

It’s still 1998. I have recently moved west and I am still only learning to process the new geography. I am a child. I do not yet feel the full impact of “Wide Open Spaces” the way I will come to as an adult. And yet... already the idea that part of freedom is having “room to make a big mistake” matters to me. Instinctively, I know that one day, this will be a thing I need, even if I don’t right now. I am right.

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We don’t get the album. That’s fine. They’re on the radio a lot. They top the charts multiple times. They win grammys. They sell more cds than all other country groups combined. They are, if you read writeups of them, “not yet political,” but there’s something about the idea that a girl can not only want but need space and independence, need it as a necessary part of growing up, that is setting the stage for what they will become, at least from the perspective of someone who grew up hearing ‘feminist’ used as a dirty word for women who have been brainwashed by... someone?? into having a victim complex. (Again... just telling it like it was.)

The next year, I am 9. They drop Fly. I am never the same.

The first single to hit the radio is “Ready to Run.” It is bouncy and happy. The singer is not getting married, because she does not want to get married. She knows what she wants and she won’t be pinned down by expectations. I am Living, and the feelings I did not yet have about “Wide Open Spaces” are Here In Full because it is hard to imagine being a grownup for the first time, but it is easy to imagine taking off to be yourself instead of doing what everyone else wants and it makes me feel alive.

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“Cowboy Take Me Away” is deeply romantic and makes my little 9-year-old heart swell with feeling. It will be years before I realize that is because she is living her life and talking about what she wants and he is just... there. She is doing what she wants and he holds her when they sleep and smiles at her in the daytime and that is all we know. It is the peak of romance, and I, too, want to walk and not run, skip and not fall. I too want to grow something wild and unruly and that thing I want to grow is me.

My parents buy the album.

“Goodbye Earl” is released as a single and starts getting played on the radio. I grab the CD out of the basket we keep them in and it lives in my CD player until my mother begins to worry about the degree to which I am obsessed with this song about murder. I do not have the words to explain that the appeal is not the murder, it is the solidarity. I am being bullied very hard in school. I have only one friend, and she is often mean to me. It will be many years before I understand the true extent of the truth they are dropping in this song, but the details are chilling and honest and disturbing and when Maryanne flies in from Atlanta on a red-eye midnight flight, I feel something I cannot put into words.

It has been 21 years and I still do not have the words to explain “Goodbye Earl.”

Trigger warnings for domestic abuse and I guess also for poisoning domestic abusers and like, murder is bad or whatever.

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The album is a masterpiece. It is an experience. I am 9 years old and I do not want to fall in love, because I am 9 years old, and I am learning right now that if a boy falls in love with me when I clearly do not want to date him, that is his own damned problem, and I am singing at the top of my lungs to tell the world that I don’t want to fall in love but if I do, then screw them, I will drag everyone else down with me.

There are limits to how many vids I can drop in here, so I was just gonna drop in the ones that were important to “Hey, you should love them!!” but I can’t resist dropping this one in. This one was never a single but also like... y’all. Do you know how many times in my life I needed songs that told me it was ok to not be in love/pursuing love/dating people? And I’m not even aro/ace? Anyway, this one sounds so sad but feels so good. An indulgent vid choice, but this is my post, so??

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Also the album had some bops. These will probably not convince you to like them if you don’t like the country sound/genre, because the Dixie Chicks sound was always very country, but I dug the sound of 90s country then and I dig it now, so here you go.

Some Days You Gotta Dance

Sin Wagon (Fun fact about this one, which is like........ aggressively country I can’t even. It was not a single but it did get enough radio play to chart anyway.)

And then. The end. (For then.)

It’s 2002. They drop a new album in August. I am 12 and their cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” has me all up in my feels on the radio. In December, they drop “Travelin’ Soldier,” a cover of a shmaltzy song about an 18-year-old soldier who dies in Vietnam after writing letters back and forth with a high school aged waitress who loves him. It’s sad. It features a couple young enough to be relatable to a 12-year-old. I am not so foolish, at 12, that I don’t realize even though they say Vietnam, I’m supposed to be thinking about the fact that we’re at war in Afghanistan and they’re talking in the news about how we might go to war with Iraq and Congress had passed a resolution saying we could.

Here’s the thing that sometimes gets lost in things about what happened next. This song was popular. It’s anti-war, but it’s not particularly toothy. The actual text of the song is just that a young soldier goes to war, a girl he met right before he left gets his letters and is faithfully his girlfriend because... soldiers?? and then he dies and she’s sad. It’s not supportive of war, but you have to be pretty far out there not to agree with a premise like “We should be sad when soldiers die,” or “There is/should be someone who cares about every individual soldier even if other people just see them as one of a list of names/a statistic.” The song charted. The album sold well and won awards. And I missed all of it, because it takes a while for things to trickle down to a 12-year-old whose friends, at that point, listen almost exclusively to showtunes.

On March 10, lead singer Natalie Maines told a London audience, “Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence. And we’re ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas.”

Country music listeners lost their shit. Some people didn’t, of course, but a lot of people did. They called radio stations. They dramatically and publicly destroyed or threw away their CDs. People in the industry got involved, many of them in abusive ways, but I didn’t know much about that. All I knew was that one day they were ubiquitous, and the next, they were completely banned from the radio.

My local country station, or at least, the one my family listened to, was owned by Cumulus Media, who instituted a 30-day ban on the group’s music at all of their country stations (though not their general top-40 ones, apparently? I did a google this morning.) Other large media corporations mostly let their individual stations decide, though Cox Media also did a general ban. Lots of stations banned them individually, some for much longer than 30 days.

My parents didn’t make me stop listening to my beloved Fly. But the clampdown was, at least where I lived, intense and immediate. It felt like all of a sudden, they were gone. Dead in the water.

It fundamentally did not make sense to me. My parents shrugged it off with a similar attitude to President Bush, whose response had been, “The Dixie Chicks are free to speak their mind. They can say what they want to say,” but also, “They shouldn’t have their feelings hurt just because some people don’t want to buy their records when they speak out.” This was all, to me, baffling. Sure, people could decide they didn’t want to listen to them anymore, but why did they get to decide for everyone else that we couldn’t? Why did they get to ban their music?

I was 12, soon to be 13, and this whole thing was, to me, the antithesis of what freedom of speech was meant to be. I believed in freedom of speech. I believed it applied to everyone. I believed that even though, in my confused, hurting, terrified, post-9/11 12-year-old mind, I liked the President and thought we should go to war, no one should be stopped from saying we shouldn’t. I believed freedom of speech was a moral imperative, a principle for interacting with other people and respecting them even if you disagreed. I believed it meant protecting people you disagreed with, because otherwise who would protect you when the disagreeing one was you?

It was utterly baffling to me that one comment - one comment that she apologized for, because she said she’d phrased it too harshly - could so utterly shut me off from something I loved. I assumed, when she apologized, that even though she said she still didn’t believe in the war, that things would soon go back to normal. They didn’t. I turned 13 a few months later, and the Dixie Chicks were still not on the radio in my town.

By the time they put out their next album in 2006, I was running with a crowd that listened to CCM and classic rock and never country, and when I listened to country at home, the radio still wasn’t playing them, not necessarily formally, but certainly in practice. I heard that Natalie Maines had come out and said she wasn’t sorry about what she said, after all, and I didn’t like that she’d said she didn’t think the President deserved her respect, but I didn’t even realize she’d said it in the context of new music.

The 2006 album, Taking the Long Way, was a commercial success. Their song about the event “Not Ready To Be Nice” also did very well....... but not on country radio. I was still listening to country radio at the time, not exclusively, but enough that when I looked up songs that had topped the charts, I recognized more of them than I didn’t, by title alone.

I never heard the Dixie Chicks’s new album on the radio.

Here’s what my local station didn’t play. What they were too scared to play, maybe, or maybe what they didn’t want me to hear:

youtube

So, yeah.

That happened.

Badass.

But it happened without me, because the radio station was instead still playing “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk,” a song about women’s butts that a bunch of men wrote in a club in an hour while, presumably, staring at women’s butts. A song that sparked slogans on t-shirts in a little t-shirt shop my friends and I visited that year on a school trip. A song the middle-aged man who worked there (and with whom we were alone) referenced when he leered aggressively at my 16-year-old friend and made suggestive comments to our whole group (4 teenage girls) that made us run out of the building and race back toward the fast food places nearby where we hoped to find some of our teachers.

Country music was never the same for me after the Dixie Chick blacklisting. I knew it didn’t believe in freedom, even as it bandied the word about aggressively. I knew that it relied on everybody saying the same things and believing the same things, and it didn’t have room for me not to agree, and that was not then and is not now any kind of freedom. As the years went on, there were more and more Honky Tonk Badonkadonks, and I was less and less willing to give men a pass for being sexist and disgusting and entitled.

I miss country music, in the sense that I miss the Dixie Chicks, and I miss women like Jo Dee Messina and Sara Evans who were singing similar stuff at the time and might still be but aren’t on the radio because they’re over 40 and not also white men. I miss the way county music women made me feel in the 90s. I miss women who called out the men who’d done them wrong, who stated their own value and self-sufficiency, who sang about independence and made me believe in it. But more than anything, I miss believing in them. Some of that is of course still happening. But as much as I love Carrie Underwood and Miranda Lambert and Kacey Musgraves, I can’t ever get back there. Not really.

The thing is, I believed the Dixie Chicks when they told me I could have the space to make mistakes. I believed them that women could and would stick together. I believed them that I could be single and happy about it, that I could say no to men I didn’t love, even if they loved me, that if I wanted to fall in love, I could find somebody who would love me without ever tying my wings. And I believed I could be and do those things and still fit into the culture of country music.

I still believe the rest of it. But I’ll probably never believe that last part again.

Anyway tl;dr you should love them because they tried to be themselves and tell the truth and because they tried to buck the system, and you should love them because they never backed down, even when the system pushed back so hard that, from where I sat as an impressionable preteen, dependent on my parents and the radio, it completely destroyed them.

#dixie chicks #long post #music #country music #holy SHIT long post #but hopefully worth it??#if you're like ok wow so they got blacklisted in the 2000s and haven't put out music in 14 years that's wild #this is hopefully helpful #but also it helped me process my Many Feelings over which I Did Cry this morning so #worth it regardless

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danceswithcybermen · 4 years

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The Night Manager

Written for the X-Files Spooky Fanfic Exchange! It’s been on AO3 for a couple of weeks; click here to read it there. I’m just getting round to putting it here.

My spooky word was "satanic," and my recipient was @alienqueequeg. She requested, “Horror and/or smut if you're comfortable going there! I also like UST/RST, angst, casefile, AU. I'm open to anything and everything except baby/kidfic :)”

I’ve literally had this idea in my head since the 90s, and since you asked for horror, I figured this was an opportunity to finally do something with it.

I hated the episode “3” because it was a weak story, and it gave us only a cursory overview of Mulder’s mental collapse after Scully’s abduction. I wanted to write another, hopefully better vampire story, so here we go. This effort is an AU that replaces “3.” While it is a stand-alone story right now, I may turn it into a series.

Someone is exsanguinating victims in Los Angeles. Mulder, reeling from Scully’s disappearance, reluctantly investigates, and meets a mysterious woman he knows he recognizes -- but from where?

Rated T / PG-13.

This is NOT A MULDER/OTHER STORY!

Tagging @xfilesfanficexchange

Saint Petersburg, Russia, 1910

“But WHY? Why must we do this every day? It’s boring!” The little girl rose to a standing position and pouted. She was hyperactive and petulant, with no patience for daily meditation exercises.

The mystic shook his head. He had never before dealt with such awesome potential in such a young child. Usually, powers to this extent didn’t manifest until early adulthood. The girl was only nine, and he knew that her strengths exceeded even his own. “It’s for your own protection, Nastya. You don’t want to get hurt, do you?” What he didn’t mention was that others needed the protection more than the girl did. “You must learn--”

“To control my mind. Yes, I know. You say this every day.” She pointed at a nearby window. “Can’t we stop and go outside, just for a few minutes? It’s so nice.”

The mystic was firm. “One more set of the breathing exercises first. Center yourself, and then we’ll go for a walk.”

The girl rolled her eyes, but she sat back down on the floor pillow and acquiesced. The old mystic continued to watch her. It was clear that she had been given all of this power for a grand purpose, but he couldn’t fathom exactly what it was. He’d seen visions of what he assumed was her future, but he couldn’t make sense of any of the images. He knew he had seen a faraway place. Enormous steel and concrete structures rose from the ground in cities teeming with people wearing strange clothing and horseless carriages moving on the roads at great speeds.

In each vision had appeared a particular man. At first, he’d thought him her future husband or lover, but their relationship was -- something different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was something about that man, and also a woman with red hair. They were important somehow.

He kept all of this from the child. How could he possibly explain it when he didn’t understand it all himself? He also knew that his time with the girl would be limited, and he didn’t know how limited it would be, whether he’d have another 10 years or only 10 months to tutor her. With a long way to go and an abbreviated time to get there, it was better to concentrate on the mind exercises. The visions could wait.

Yekaterinburg, Russia, July 17, 1918

She was running through a thick forest, with no destination other than away from her captors, away from the death squad that had just murdered her entire family. She didn’t even know she was capable of running. Under normal circumstances, the bunions on her feet gave her too much pain to even try, but the bayonet wound that had penetrated her bejeweled corset was proving a much more serious problem. She felt her lifeblood flowing out of her, seeping through her many layers of clothing.

I shouldn’t even be alive right now, she thought. Her mind was fogging, and she struggled to center it, the way she had been taught as a child.

She tripped over a branch and plunged forward hard, unable to suppress a scream as she hit the forest floor. She tried to center herself again and concentrate on getting back up, but she had reached the end of her endurance. She had lost too much blood.

It isn’t supposed to happen this way, she thought as she felt reality slipping away from her. My visions--

As she struggled to remain conscious, she heard a WHOOSH, then felt someone picking her up and turning her over. She forced her eyes open and saw a face she recognized. It was one of the night guards, one who was always kind. She had suspected him of being enamoured of her.

“Sebastian,” she whispered.

He smiled, and his eyes glowed. “It’s all right, my love,” he cooed, drawing her up into what she thought might be a kiss.

In the moments before she lost consciousness, she felt a prick in her neck.

Alexandria, Virginia, 1994

Fox Mulder woke up screaming and flailing, nearly knocking his coffee table over as he jumped to his feet, his arms positioned to ward off an attack from unseen aggressors. When he got his bearings, he sat back down again, picked up his pot pipe, and took a long hit.

The weed Langley had supplied was smooth, and if he smoked enough of it, he would drift off into a short but usually dreamless sleep, a brief respite from the hell his life had become. Usually. Not this time. Instead, he’d dreamed of a white room and his beautiful, loyal, funny, and kind partner strapped down to a cold steel table, evil-looking medical instruments doing ungodly things to her as he watched, frozen in place, unable to even speak.

She’d been gone for 45 days now. It had been forty-five days of sleeping little, eating even less, and overall letting the rest of his life go to hell as he chased every lead he got, no matter how shaky, all over the country.

He’d even driven up to Delaware because someone on an obscure Usenet group had sworn that a group of “devil worshippers” was holding her hostage in their “cult house.” He’d found the “cult house,” which turned out to be nothing more than a long-abandoned structure on a rural road. He’d found lots of evidence of teenagers using the house to drink and smoke weed, but there was no satanic cult, and there was no Scully.

Mulder exhaled. Drinking and smoking weed had seemed like a fine idea to get past this latest letdown, and that’s all he had been doing since returning the previous evening. He knew he could get drug-tested at any time, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about much of anything anymore. He ate little, slept even less, wore the same clothes for days, and showered and shaved when he remembered or when Skinner yelled at him to do it.

He was in the middle of packing his next bowl when he heard pounding at the door and Skinner yelling his name. He put the pipe down, not even bothering to conceal the pot or the paraphernalia, and wandered to the door.

Mulder had barely gotten the door open when Skinner growled, “Where have you been? It’s after one o’clock, and you haven’t been answering your phone.” He looked Mulder up and down, sniffed, then spotted the bag of weed and the pipe on the coffee table. “Jesus, Mulder. What the hell are you thinking? What if you get called for a random drug test?” Skinner pushed his way in.

Mulder shut the door and shrugged. “Then I guess it would be the end of my storied career.” He sat down on the couch, considered taking a hit right in front of Skinner just for spite, then decided against it and put his head in his hands. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered without her.

Was that love? He didn’t know, but he was certain he didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t include Dana Scully. You could call it love, soulmates, or the Easter Bunny; the end result was the same. If she didn’t come back safe, he didn’t want to go on.

Skinner sighed. The apartment reeked of weed and beer. There were empty bottles all over the place, and Mulder clearly hadn’t showered or changed his clothes in days. Under normal circumstances, an agent in Mulder’s condition would be ordered to undergo a mandatory psychiatric evaluation, possibly paired with drug counseling. But these weren’t normal circumstances. The man was clearly out of his head with grief, having lost his other half. Skinner wanted to believe that Dana Scully was still alive, but he also knew that with every day that passed, the odds of her being found safe diminished. Officially, this was still a missing persons case. Unofficially, everyone knew it was a recovery operation, but he didn’t dare tell Mulder that.

“Clean yourself up now, Agent Mulder. You have a case.” He thrust a file towards the younger man. “A string of homicides in Los Angeles, could be the work of a cult. The victims are being exsanguinated.”

Mulder took the file and half heartedly leafed through it. “That doesn’t sound like an X-File.”

“The victims are the X-File. The coroner says the bodies are decomposing at rapid rates, and if the bodies are exposed to the sun, the skin starts burning as if it were in a frying pan.”

Mulder laughed bitterly. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me with this.”

“Is there a problem, Agent Mulder?”

Mulder threw the file atop the coffee table, and several empty beer bottles fell to the floor. “What do you expect me to do with those bodies? Autopsies aren’t what I do. They’re what my partner does. My MISSING partner. The partner that I know everybody in that goddamn bureau thinks is dead!” Mulder jumped to his feet and stalked over to the window. Part of him wanted to jump out of it, bust right through the glass. At least then, he’d feel something. He’d reached the point where he could no longer feel grief. He just felt nothing.

Skinner approached him from behind, the file in his hand. He threw it down on Mulder’s desk. “LOOK AT ME, Agent Mulder!” Mulder reluctantly turned his head to face Skinner. “I’ve been covering your ass for the past 45 days, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up. People are noticing your behavior, Agent Mulder, people who aren’t as patient as me, people who make sure you’re called in for a random drug test if you show up at the Bureau smelling like weed! You will be gone, and the X-Files will be gone with you.

“For god’s sake, look at yourself! You’re drinking like a fish, you’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, you’re not even bathing or changing your fucking clothes. I know you want to find Agent Scully. Goddamnit, I want to find her, too, but when you do find her, shouldn’t there be something for her to come back to?” He didn’t specify whether the “something” was Mulder himself, the X-Files, or both, a purposeful omission. How Mulder chose to interpret it didn’t matter. He needed to clean himself up and get back to work, give himself a purpose, give himself something to occupy his mind.

Mulder nodded and took the file from Skinner. He was right. Scully wouldn’t want to see him like this; she hated it when he got like this. She also wouldn’t want to hear that the X-Files had been closed because of his behavior.

“So,” Mulder began, “We’re looking at a reverse-vampire case?”

The Marlex Motel, Canoga Park, California

The case was pretty much as Skinner had described: A string of victims, of both genders and of various ages, body types, and ethnicities, all exsanguinated, most having suffered severe burns due to post-mortem sunlight exposure. Mulder noticed that. The killer always moved the victims into the sunlight. Even the victims who were killed indoors had been dragged over to a sunny window.

It was definitely an X-File, but without Scully’s expertise, Mulder didn’t understand what he was supposed to contribute. She was the only one who could do autopsies on X-Files cases properly. She knew what to look for.

It was after dark by the time Mulder approached a nearby motel that fell within the Bureau’s lodging allowance. He had thought of just not getting a room. There was nothing for him to do here, but he had to make a show of it, look like he was trying. One of the victims who hadn’t completely burned up by the time she was found, a young woman, had a stamp on her hand from the Blue Moon, a nightclub in this area. He’d go check it out.

At least they had alcohol there. Mulder fumed that he couldn’t bring his marijuana. Fucking airport security. Nothing helped him sleep better.

The front desk area was empty, and he rang the bell. “Just a minute!” a woman’s voice called from the back area. He heard what sounded like the same woman finishing up a conversation with a man, and then the woman emerged from the back. He noticed her eyes grow wide for just a moment, but then the woman quickly regained her composure. “May I help you?” she asked, and he thought he detected the slightest lilt in her voice.

He studied her for a moment. She looked so familiar, yet he couldn’t place her. She was small, about Scully’s height, with long brown hair and an exotically beautiful face. She was young, a teenager perhaps, and Mulder wondered if she was the owner’s daughter. But she wore a name tag that read “Anna - Night Manager,” and her demeanor was of a woman much older.

“Do I know you?” he finally asked. “I saw you look at me funny.”

The woman smiled. “No. For a moment, I thought you were somebody else, but I was mistaken. How can I help you?”

“One room, just for me. Three nights.” Mulder continued to look at her as she readied the paperwork and his key. Dammit, he’d seen that face before, but he couldn’t remember where. He realized he was staring and forced himself to look away. Maybe this is the owners’ daughter; maybe she’s older than she looks. Maybe he recognized her face from a file; maybe she’s an abductee and--

Mulder blanched, and the woman gave him a concerned look. “Are you all right, sir?”

He nodded. “Uh, yeah, just a sour stomach.”

“Well, I hope you get over that.” She handed him a key. “Room 6, straight that way. It’s next to the ice machine.

After Mulder left, the man from the back came to stand behind the woman. “You were very troubled by that man, Anastasia. I could tell. Why?”

“Sebastian, that’s him.”

“Who?”

Anastasia spun around to face her companion. “The man from my visions, from Grigori’s visions! I would know that man anywhere, Sebastian. That’s him.”

“So what does this mean?”

“I don’t know.” She turned back toward her desk. “I really don’t know, but that man is -- something terrible has happened to him. He’s overwhelmed with grief.”

Sebastian shook his head. “No, no, no, no. We don’t have time for humans’ problems. We have to find the people who are killing our kind before the humans do. You know that. The Council specifically requested that we take this on.”

“That I take this on, Sebastian. Me, not you. It’s my talents they want, but I’m going nowhere with this.” She pointed in the direction Mulder had gone. “That man has something to do with this case.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “The killer?”

“No, not the killer. I’d have known. But something.”

**************************************************************

The Blue Moon had been a complete bust. Nobody who Mulder tried to question knew anything, or if they did, they weren’t telling. He could have gone at a few of them harder. He would have, had Scully been there to examine the bodies and investigate what he’d convinced himself was the most important facet of the case.

Now he wanted to get drunk, but he wasn’t going to do it in a nightclub where he’d just been waving his badge around. Luckily, there was a dive bar a block away; he’d passed it on the way to the club.

Mulder didn’t stagger out of the bar until the bartender cut him off. The nightclub he’d ostensibly come to investigate was only a few blocks from the motel, so he had walked. It was a sketchy neighborhood, and nearly empty this time of the night, but the temporary buoy he’d gotten from Skinner’s stern talking-down-to had worn off. Mulder was back to not caring about anything anymore. What was the worst that could happen to him?

He didn’t notice the mugger until the guy had his gun pressed into Mulder’s kidney. “You know what this is. Wallet and watch, man. Wallet and watch.”

Mulder sighed. “You don’t want to do this, kid. I’m a federal agent.”

“I don’t care if you’re the fucking President!” The mugger jammed the gun against Mulder’s back harder. “Wallet. And. Watch.”

Mulder thought he could turn around and take the guy, so he tried -- his second miscalculation that evening. His reflexes slowed down by the alcohol, Mulder wasn’t able to execute the move correctly or pull his weapon on time, and the mugger pulled the trigger. Mulder felt the bullet tear into his abdomen, and after he hit the ground, the mugger came to stand over him and aimed his gun at Mulder’s head.

Mulder closed his eyes. Scully, if there’s another side, I will find you there.

Instead of another shot, he heard a whooshing sound, and then the mugger screaming. Mulder opened his eyes and tried to position himself to see, but it was dark, and he found he couldn’t move. But he heard a woman’s voice; the night manager’s voice.

“None of this ever happened, and you never saw me. Now go.” Mulder heard someone beating a hasty retreat, and then, he saw the face of the night manager -- including a pair of fangs.

She looked around, concerned. “We don’t have much time,” she said, “so I don’t have time to explain this, but you need to drink.” She used one of her fangs to slice open her wrist and held the gaping, bleeding wound over Mulder’s mouth.

Fear breaking through his alcohol-induced haze, Mulder whimpered. The woman sighed and looked directly into his eyes. “You must drink. You must.” He still didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself from opening his mouth and drinking the blood straight from the open wound. He thought he would be repulsed, but the taste was earthy and primal. It also relaxed him similarly to marijuana. Even before the night manager removed her arm, Mulder was falling asleep.

********************************************************

He woke up in his motel room, to the sounds of the night manager arguing with the man he’d heard at the front desk.

“Have you gone INSANE?” the man was yelling. “What if someone had seen you?”

“Nobody did.”

“But somebody could have, and then, you compounded your offense. Saving him was bad enough, but then, you had to make him a fucking Familiar. The Council will--”

“You know what? Fuck the Council and their bullshit fucking rules. They won’t sanction me, because they need me on this. They need my talents.”

Mulder didn’t completely grasp what these people were talking about, but he decided he liked the woman right then and there. He knew what it was like to go up against “councils.”

“Shit, he’s awake.”

The man threw up his hands, and the woman came across the room to be at Mulder’s side. He sat up -- and it all came back to him. How could he possibly have sat up? He looked down at his clothes; they were covered in blood, but there was no wound. There was no pain. In fact, physically, Mulder felt better than he had in his life.

“I do know you, Agent Mulder,” the woman said, “But we’ve never met before. I think you have some sort of file on me?” She could feel him searching his tortured mind for the information. “My name is Anastasia Romanov.”

Oh my fucking god, that was it. The Anastasia Romanov file. That’s where he’d seen the face, but Anastasia Romanov was only 17 when she was allegedly murdered, and this woman looked … more like a teenager than a woman.

“You haven’t aged,” Mulder sputtered.

Anastasia laughed. “Oh, I’ve aged, but my body hasn’t. It’s one of the perks.” She shot a strange look at the man, who pulled the curtain aside to look out the window.

“It’s nearly daylight. You need to wrap this little, um, reunion up.”

“That’s just Sebastian. Don’t mind him. Anyway, we seem to be running into situations where there’s just no time for me to explain things, don’t we, Agent Mulder?”

Mulder suddenly felt a chill go down his spine. If he was alive, and not wounded anymore, what did that mean, especially since Anastasia had hypnotized him to drink her blood. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME?” Mulder jumped out of bed and looked in a mirror. He saw his reflection, but then he also saw Anastasia in the background, so…

“That’s a myth,” she said. “But no, I didn’t turn you. You were bleeding out from the gunshot wound, and vampire blood has healing properties. Trust me, you’re 100% human, but since you had to drink a lot of my blood, you’re also what we call a Familiar.”

Mulder’s head was spinning. He wasn’t entirely sure what Anastasia meant, but this was all too much.

“Listen, I’d love to continue this conversation,” she told him, “but unless you want Sebastian and I hiding in this room all day, we need to go right now. I can come back after dark. Can I trust you not to get yourself shot again until then?”

She gave Mulder a sly smile, and he had to appreciate her wit. He nodded, and the two vampires were gone.

What the hell was a Familiar?

********************************************************

Another victim turned up the next morning, what looked to be an older man, no identification, the body burned beyond recognition.

Mulder reexamined the files on the victims who had been identified. With a slightly clearer head -- amazing that an encounter with vampires had cleared his head -- he noticed that all of the victims had led solitary lives, with no known relatives and few if any acquaintances. All of them either worked at home or worked night jobs.

Someone was hunting vampires. Vampires, Scully!

When his mind turned to Scully, he felt himself getting lost again. Thankfully, it was near nightfall.

That night, in the back office of the Marlex Motel, Fox Mulder was given a crash course on vampires, Familiars, and the mysterious Council his new vampire acquaintances kept going on about.

Since he had drank so much of Anastasia’s blood, he was now bonded with her, not as closely as Sebastian, who was her maker, but they now had a psychic connection of sorts. Anastasia told him that while he wasn’t indestructible, he would heal from injuries and illnesses more quickly than before. He also found out that as a Familiar, he was impervious to vampire hypnotism -- but he wasn’t impervious to Anastasia’s numerous psychic powers.

“It started when I was a little girl,” she explained to him. “First, I knew how people were feeling. I could tell if they were sad or mad or gleeful. Then, I started being able to see inside their minds, not just words but images. And if I concentrated, I could do things. I could move things, just by thinking about it hard enough.”

“And that’s when Grigori Rasputin started training you,” Mulder said.

“For my own protection. He said he’d never seen such power in a child so young. It scared him, the things I could do, and I couldn’t control any of it.” He saw a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “He taught me as much as he could before he was killed. He knew he wouldn’t have enough time to train me properly. He had visions, prophecies of the future. I started having them, too, and he taught me how to interpret them. We both saw you, with the red-haired woman, Scully, who was taken from you. I can see her in your mind.”

Mulder felt a pain in his gut at the mention of Scully’s name. He was surprised when Anastasia reached out to pick up the small crucifix hanging around his neck. She smiled at him. “That’s a myth, too, but if this were silver, I couldn’t touch it. That part is true. You’ve seen that the sunlight part is true.” She put the crucifix back in its place. “When I was turned, I retained all of my powers. All vampires have some psychic ability; that’s how we can glamor humans, but I’m uniquely gifted.” He saw something flash across her face that indicated she didn’t see her powers as gifts; quite the opposite. “The Council needs me to find this exsanguination killer before the humans do. He’s putting us at risk of exposure, and if they capture him, the risk is worse.”

“Believe me, Anastasia, nobody would believe him,” Mulder assured her. “Shit, nobody believes anything I say.”

“They won’t take the chance, and despite my misgivings with the Council, I don’t think they’re wrong on this one. Most humans don’t know about the healing properties of vampire blood. I think this killer knows, and that’s why he’s killing us. He drains all of his victims. I’ve seen some of the people in your mind, your own Council. What do you think they might do if they knew vampire blood could save people from gunshot wounds?” The desk bell rang, and Anastasia went to answer it.

Other than her looking too young to be a motel manager, she blended in well, Mulder thought. There was nothing unusual about her, nothing that would make people question her. That Sebastian guy, who apparently worked at the Blue Moon, looked rather ordinary, too.

“How is this killer finding his victims?” Mulder asked Anastasia when she returned. “If all of your kind live covertly, how is he identifying you?”

“We think he might be finding them at some of the vampire bars in the Valley,” Sebastian said as he entered the room. “At least three of the victims were customers at the Blue Moon.”

Mulder thought back to his unsuccessful interviews at the club; that’s why they’d gone nowhere. This community was very good at keeping its secrets. An idea occurred to him. “Did you ever think that the killer might be a Familiar?”

He could tell that the vampires had not. “Well, there aren’t that many of them,” Sebastian explained. “The Council frowns on us making Familiars these days. It’s too risky. They want us to stay away from humans, not get personally involved with them.”

Anastasia looked as though a lightbulb had gone on above her head. “But it happens, Sebastian. You know it does. This would all make sense!” She started pacing back and forth, reminding Mulder a bit of himself when he latched onto a theory. “An angry Familiar, someone who didn’t want to be made one, or someone who fell out with the vampire who made them. But why not just kill us? Why steal our blood?”

Mulder thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s not for the killer. Maybe he’s selling it, or he’s giving it to someone else. You said I had to drink a lot of your blood to heal, Anastasia. That means the amount needed corresponds to the severity of the injury.”

She nodded. “Or the illness. If the illness is really bad, like cancer that’s spread everywhere, the effect is temporary at best. I don’t know why. Even we don’t understand how our blood heals.” She stopped pacing. “My god. I think I might know how to find the killer.”

*********************************************************

The trio returned to the Blue Moon, and Anastasia made a beeline for a table occupied by a young dark-haired woman smoking a cigarette, someone who hadn’t been there the previous night. The woman apprised Mulder as he approached with Sebastian. “My, my, Nastya, you do attract handsome men. I haven’t seen this one before.”

“Cut the bullshit, Kristen,” Anastasia said as she pulled up a chair. “Whatever happened to Richard? I think he may be the one doing this.”

Kristen laughed as she stamped out her cigarette. “Richie? You must be kidding. He’s a sweet old man.”

“He wasn’t sweet when he was young, and you turned him into your Familiar,” Anastasia reminded her. “He wasn’t sweet when you broke things off with him.”

“Yes I did -- 30 years ago. I assure you, he moved on. Got married, had kids, and everything,” Kristen told her. “He came to see me a few months ago. He wanted me to turn him and his wife, full-on turn, so that they could live together forever. I didn’t want to take on that kind of responsibility. Some of us would rather steer clear of the Council’s watchful eyes.”

“A few months ago?” Mulder interrupted. “How many months is a few?”

Kristen raised an eyebrow, then gestured to Anastasia. “Well, you certainly have a live one here. Where’d you find this one, and what do you intend to do with him?” She gave Mulder a seductive smile, which he returned with a stony stare. She sighed. “Well, you’re certainly no fun. If you must know, two and a half months ago, but I don’t see what this has to do with anything. I told him no, he got mad, but then he left. I haven’t heard from him since.”

Mulder and the other vampires looked at each other. The murders had started two months prior. “Do you know where we could find him?” Mulder asked.

********************************************************

“What I don’t understand is how he’s getting the drop on you,” Mulder said as he drove the trio to Richie’s home in nearby Van Nuys.

“Vampire hunters have existed throughout history,” Anastasia explained. “You know that, and you know we’re not indestructible.”

“Because the bodies decompose so fast after death, he must be incapacitating his victims, then draining them while they’re still alive,” Mulder mused.

“Silver,” Anastasia offered. “It weakens us.”

They finally pulled up to Richie’s house, a small home on a quiet street. “Can you tell if he’s in there, Anastasia?” Mulder asked.

She looked at the house and concentrated. “No, I’m only feeling one person, a woman. She’s in a lot of pain, very ill -- dying. It’s cancer. It’s everywhere.”

Great, he’s probably out hunting, Mulder thought, but they couldn’t do anything about it now. The best chance of catching this guy was to wait for him to come back. They waited in an uncomfortable silence. Sebastian had been dead-set against Mulder coming. Their instructions had been to find and dispatch this killer before the humans could get hold of him, but he suspected that Mulder wouldn’t go for that. Anastasia had insisted he come because of her visions. Sebastian had told the petite vampire what he thought of her visions, which had been entirely the wrong thing to say. Mulder couldn’t help but smile through the pain at the sight of her dressing this much taller man down the way Scully often did to him.

“You’re thinking of her,” Anastasia said, interrupting his train of thought.

He fingered the crucifix around his neck. “Always.”

“Please don’t give up on finding her, Mulder.” Anastasia stopped short of saying he’d find her again. The truth was, she didn’t know. She could control her mind-reading and object-moving powers very well, but the visions either came to her or they didn’t.

Soon after, a car pulled into the driveway, and an older man got out, carrying a satchel. It was him, Richard Keenan. He entered the house. “Stay here,” Mulder told the vampires. “He might be able to hurt you.”

Sebastian fumed as Mulder headed for the house. When the agent was out of sight, the vampire made to exit the car. “We can’t let him go in there alone, Nastya. You know that. This is our kind’s problem. We need to take care of this.”

Anastasia nodded and reluctantly got out of the car. Her lover and maker was right. Richard Keenan couldn’t be taken by the human authorities alive.

******************************************************

Mulder crept to a window with a light on and peered inside. It was a bedroom, in which an older woman slept on a hospital bed. Richard came in holding a large glass of red liquid and woke the woman. “Here you go, darling. More of that Chinese elixir that works so well.”

The old woman shook her head, and Richard looked crestfallen. “No, Richie. It’s not working anymore.”

“NO! It will work, Marion!” Richard sounded desperate, and Mulder saw a bit of himself in the older man. “It always has!”

Marion gave him a sorrowful but firm look. “No, Richard. It worked for a while, but not anymore. I can’t eat anymore. I don’t even want to drink water anymore. It’s time for me to go.”

“Maybe you just need to drink more. I can get you more! It’s not that expensive.”

“Yeah, what’s a few vampire lives in the grand scheme of things?”

Shit, Mulder thought as he watched Sebastian enter the room. I knew they wouldn’t stay put. He ran around to the front of the house, and as he suspected, the vampires had simply twisted the doorknob off. Superhuman strength wasn’t a myth.

By the time he got back to the bedroom, Richard was warding off Sebastian and Anastasia with a large silver necklace, the two vampires were arguing again, and Marion was in tears. Mulder approached Richard with his weapon drawn. “Richard Keenan, you’re under arrest. It’s over. Give yourself up.”

Richard waved the jewelry at him, but Mulder kept advancing. “So you’re not one of them?”

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” It was Marion. She sounded very weak. Anastasia studied her for a moment, then looked gravely at Richard.

“She’s dying, Richard -- and I mean, right now. No amount will make her better now.”

Ignoring Mulder’s gun, but still clutching his silver, Richard rushed to his wife’s side. “It’s going to be okay, darling. I’ll get you more medicine. I’ll get you better medicine.”

“Please, Richie,” Marion’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Could you hold me, just for a minute?”

Richard climbed halfway into bed with his wife and hugged her. She put her head on his chest. “Always love you,” she whispered. And then she was gone.

Richard clutched his wife’s dead body and screamed. Sebastian tried to make a move toward him, but Anastasia held him back. She could see into this man’s mind. She knew what was going to happen next.

That’s why she wasn’t surprised when, so quickly that Mulder didn’t have time to react, he pulled a handgun out of the nightstand, placed it under his chin, and pulled the trigger.

*****************************************************

Marlex Motel, the following evening

After Richard Keenan blew his brains out, Mulder sent his two vampire companions away and dealt with the aftermath. The official story he told the police was that Keenan had believed that having his dying wife drink blood would cure her cancer. Mulder had tracked him to his home and forcibly entered when he heard the shot.

He booked an overnight flight back to D.C. so that he could see the night manager again. She was alone. “Where’s Sebastian?” Mulder asked.

“At work. He’ll be around later. She looked at his luggage. “Checking out?”

Mulder nodded and handed her the key. She clutched his hand and gave him a very serious look.

“You cannot give up on finding her, Mulder. She still lives. That I can promise you.”

He felt drawn into Anastasia’s eyes, not the way he was drawn into Scully’s, but still drawn. She was a beautiful woman, but the feeling he got was more like what he would have for a sibling, perhaps if he’d had a twin. It was difficult for him to wrap his head around, but at least it was a feeling. He was finally feeling something again. “Thanks for everything. I think I needed this case.” He turned to go. The devastation was still there, but he’d gotten the boost he needed to carry on just a little while longer.

“I’ll see you again, Fox Mulder,” Anastasia promised him as he exited the motel.

She didn’t tell him about the vision she’d had after she’d left the Keenan house, the one where she’d seen Mulder, Scully, and an infant in a future that wasn’t so distant.

She didn’t tell him that the infant could move things with his mind.

Author’s note: Yes, I know that it's widely accepted that Anastasia Romanov's remains were found and identified through DNA, but that hadn't yet happened when I first conceived of Vampire Anastasia -- and in my little AU, she survived.

#xfiles #the x files #fanfic #txf fanfic #TXF #msr #msr fanfic #mulder #mulder and scully #fox mulder #agent mulder #fanfiction #fixitfic #fix it au

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lovemesomesurveys · 5 years

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Why did you last feel like crying? I’m sensitive and something rubbed me the wrong way yesterday. How long ago and why did you last feel infuriated? About a month or so ago because of certain circumstances. I was just so fed up. Do emotions control you or do you control your emotions? Oh, they definitely have control over me. Do you keep your friends secrets/private information to yourself? Yes. I share a lot on here about myself, but otherwise I keep to myself for the most part about certain things. What negative quality do your friends bring up the most? No one really brings up negative qualities about myself except for myself. I’m very much aware of them.

What quality do you think you have that others don’t think you do? I don’t know. Do you often “jump” to conclusions? Yes. Would you let your best friend babysit your younger sibling (hyp if none)? My younger sibling is 20 years old. Do you find being alone with strangers scary, interesting or indifferent? Pretty indifferent usually unless they try talking to me or I feel uncomfortable for some reason. Do you think you know a lot about the world? There’s a lot I don’t know. A lot none of us know. What about the world do you wish you never found out? Uhh. Do you know first aid? I mean, I could clean a cut and put a bandage on. That’s about the extent of it. Does the sight of blood make you feel sick? Yes. Does your first name have an L in it? Nope. Middle name have a C in it? No. Last name have a R in it? Yes. Do your initials spell a legitimate word? If so, what? No. The word above, does it have any connection to you at all? Do you prefer classic rock or nope alternative? What’s “nope alternative”? Do you like Kings of Leon? I liked some of their songs. I wonder what happened to them. How about The Script? Yeah. I wonder happened to them, too. Does crying make you feel better? Sometimes. Do you know a girl called Becca? No. How about a guy called Gregory? No. Does someones background effect whether you’ll be friends with them or not? I mean, depends? How about their religious background? No, not for a friendship. If someone admitted cheating in a past relationship of theirs, would you trust them? That would certainly raise a red flag for me. Do you drink tea and/or coffee every day? Coffee, yes. Did you ever want to be a cook as a kid? No. How about a fashion designer? No. Do you wish that magic was real? I used to wish that. What food would you love to wipe off the face of the earth? None. Just cause I don’t like something doesn’t mean I’d want to take it away from those who do. Can you use a bottle opener? Yes? Do you own a cheese grater? Yes. What time will it be in 38 minutes time? 8:49PM. What day/date will it be in 11 days time? March 23rd. Have you ever owned a pet fish? Yeah, several. Do you prefer fire or ice? Fire for bonfires, fireplaces, or candles. I personally don’t mess with fire, like I won’t light anything myself cause I’m afraid, but it can be relaxing and pretty to look at. Do you rap along with rap songs? Sure. When happy, do you become more talkative? Yeah. Bowling or sailing? Why? I guess bowling, but I’d rather not do either one. What colour is your kettle? We don’t have one. How about your microwave? Black. Do you prefer sitting in the front or back of a car? Front. How about in a train? Never been on one. On the bus? I had to sit in the designated handicap spots, which were in the middle. Do you care about politics? I used to keep up with that stuff more, but I just don’t have the energy for it. Especially with this presidency... Obama or Bush? Blair or Brown? When did you last cook something from scratch? I don’t cook stuff from scratch. What things make you jealous? Eh. Are you offended easily by non politically correct language? Not usually. Do you think the censors/fcc go a bit too far or are just right? I don’t understand why you can say ass but not hole. Do you feel hungry, thirsty, sleepy or none of the above? Hungry and sleepy. What’s your Mum’s Mum called? Her name was Lupe. How about your Dad’s Dad? His name is Charles. Do you prefer crepes, pancakes or waffles? Waffles or desert crepes. Do you have ice-cream in your fridge right now? I don’t think so. How about chicken nuggets? No. Do you eat fish often? I never eat fish. Have you ever taken a martial art? Which one{s}? Nope. Do you know anyone who is scared of you? No? I don’t know why anyone would be scared of me. What person who has died would you bring back and why? As much as I miss my loved ones and would love to see and hug them again, I wouldn’t bring anyone back. Where they are is a lot better than being here on earth and I believe I will see them again one day. Do you like watermelon? Yeah. Can you remember the month of your first kiss? October. Do you make friends easily? I don’t try. What makes you different from everyone else? *shrug* I give you a piece of paper. What do you draw/write on it? I don’t know. Scribbles. Do you like purple and white patterned things? Sure. Do you know anyone called Pipa? No. I say purple, you think… Grapes. What do you think is the most interesting thing about you? I don’t think I’m all that interesting. Do you like being complimented or does it make you uncomfortable? I’m just so awkward. Does the description of your starsign correspond with your personality? I don’t believe in that stuff, but no. I’m so opposite of what a Leo is described to be. Do you have a photo album? We have a few. What artists paintings do you find the most beautiful? There’s many beautiful pieces. What about the most disturbing? Uhhh. Have you ever gone to a camp or summer school? I’ve been to science camp, Girl Scout camp, and summer school. I had to in 6th grade cause I missed a lot of school due to having to have surgery that required to me to miss a few months and then I took some classes in college during the summer to finish quicker. What was your favourite cartoon as a child? “ive listed these a lot lately” <<<< What was your biggest fear as a child? Bugs probably. Would you rather be able to fly or breathe underwater? Fly. What about invisibility or mindreading? Invisibility. Do you like what you see in the mirror? No. Which stereotype do you dislike the most? Any harmful ones. Can you remember all your past teachers names? Not a lot of my college professors, actually. A few, but not all. Especially from community college. Do you like talent shows? Which ones? The Voice. Have you ever failed an important exam? In what? In math. Do you find people taller than you intimidating? Maybe, but usually it’s because of how the person comes across rather than their height. Pretty much everyone is taller than me, so that’s not usually a factor. Do you think you are better than people of a different country/background? Absolutely not. What’s your favourite thing about your country? A lot of things. What’s your least favourite thing about your country? We have our issues, but so does everywhere else. Who is your favourite bzoinker? I. Don’t. Use. Bzoink. What websites do you have bookmarked? The main social media sites I use. Do you use bows and ribbons to decorate your gifts? Yeah. Do you listen to the same type of music as your parents? What type is that? Yeah, we like a lot of the same stuff. What TV show scared you as a kid? Are You Afraid of the Dark. I liked watching it, though. Family Guy, The Simpsons or South Park? Why? I don’t care for any of them.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

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noelenjaycee · 3 years

Text

THE BENCH

A conversation between two kindred souls who used to mean so much to each other but was led through different paths a short while back. She just got tired of waiting and not knowing where she stands. It was just about time that he was ready to fight for what they had. She eventually found someone who did not made her wait and who always makes her feel loved. He still reels from the pain of what ifs and is just starting to entertain the idea of starting a wonderful thing with another person.

However, lately she’s been frequently visiting this one bench at the park where she can sip her coffee silently and stare at the glorious view of the busy city. She’s been mulling over things and thoughts that are just as frenzied as the overseen traffic. She thinks she forgets that this used to be “their” spot, she is just mocking herself though. He tried his hardest to avoid this neighbourhood because of unwanted memories and because he knows how much she loves this place.

As fate would have it, his girlfriend (Is that what she is to him now? He really has no idea). His girlfriend had suggested a really nice coffee place within the area, and it seemed weird to deny her of that just because he has a bias against the place. So here he is, an hour early at the meeting place and decided to check out that “bench”.

He steps in. She looks up. Here they are, 5 years after that unprecedented big fight that ended it all.

She is taken aback. “Why are you here?”

He smiles. “You don’t own this place, you know?”

Oh, how she missed that boyish smile, but she still looked away.

“I’m kidding. I’m meeting someone at that coffee shop nearby, but I’m a little early. I decided to take a walk. So you still come here,” he adds.

“I also just happened to drop by.” She doesn’t know why she lied. So be it.

“Can I sit?”

She shrugs. “It’s a free country and this is public property.”

He sits.

“How have you been?” They both ask in unison, they stare at each other for a moment.

Understanding befalls them, so she speaks first. She always does whenever they reach an impasse during the days of old.

“Same old. Same old. Still busy with work and stuff. And you know, life in general.”

A moment passes by. They both understand what life in general means, she’s been busy with the preparations for her wedding. It’s all in the news. The biggest celebrity wedding because both her and her beau are coming from rival networks. She doesn’t know that that’s what prompted him to start dating, which is the reason why he is in this area in the first place.

“I hear it’s only 3 weeks away.” His indirect response to her non-update.

“Yeah.” She puts on her best smile, she hopes. “I’m just taking a breather from all of the chaos. But I’m excited for the big day.”

“I’m happy that he’s making you happy and making your dreams come true.” I’m happy that he’s giving you what I can’t give years ago.

He finally looks at her again and sees through that smile. “You’re happy, right?”

“Of course, I am.” She chuckles. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be? All my life, I’ve wanted to find a partner and now I am marrying him in 3 weeks. I’m ecstatic. It’s just that… Never mind.” She shifts the topic. “How about you, I hear you’re dating again?”

She gives him a genuine smile. She wants him to be happy, too. That’s what she had always wanted, always what she says as her birthday wish for him. And if this girl he is dating is making him happy, then she is happy for that.

“What if I asked you to marry me that night?” He blurts.

“Don’t. No what ifs, remember?” She fights through unwanted memories. How could he ask that? Of course she’d say yes. He knows she would have said yes. That’s why he did not ask. They are both still at the peak of their careers, both their managements are pressuring them to accept more work. And if they followed their feelings back then, they will not be where they are now. Both at their own pedestals, both successful, both achieving every milestone there is – apart.

He shakes his head, as if to shake the same unwanted thoughts, too. “I’m sorry. You might still have an effect on me, after all. But no harm, right? We’re still friends?”

“Friends? Are we friends again, now?”

“That is what I always thought we are. We are just not fortunate enough to enjoy our friendship.” And I still think of you as more than that to me, most of the times, but not lately. His mind drifts to the person he is supposed to meet in less than an hour.

“Yes.”

She frowns. “Huh?”

“Yes, I’m dating someone now. I know the media is playing it more than what it is. To some extent, the rumors are true. Nothing is official though.” He smiles. “Maybe, soon.”

She looks at him. She knows he is playing up the smile. Or she hopes he’s faking that smile, he can’t be in love already. A hypocrite, that’s what she is. She is the one getting married, yet she is jealous of an unofficial relationship. She needs to get a hold of herself. She chose this path, or did she?

What if? What if they just go together from here? What if they leave this bench together and leave their careers and leave their lives and pursue those dreams they had together 5 years ago? What if they just forget that the last 5 years happened? Will there love be enough now? Did they achieve enough?

A phone rings. It’s his.

He answers. “Hello? Yes, I’m just around the corner. Yes, you too. See you.”

He turns to her to talk.

“You have to go.” She does it for him.

“We’re okay, right?” That boyish smile pops up again.

“Yes. Just go. Say hi to her for me.”

“Will do. And hey, it was nice running in to you.”

“And you too. I’m glad I dropped by here. Have a great time.” She is still keeping up with the charade as she watch him walk away from her, towards his life now. She still doesn’t know the answer to the majority of the questions boggling her mind lately. One thing is certain; she will not be coming back to this bench again. It just holds so many memories, memories she thought she forgot, memories she is still trying to forget, memories she may never forget; even if she stopped dropping by this bench.

0 notes

onlyjihoons · 6 years

Text

eunoia; p.j.h

request: Hello! Can I request for a Balloonman! (idk someone who sells balloons)park jihoon where you usually get balloons for your bf(ex) and he suddenly gives you a balloon when he sees you in the park crying(bec of ex) and occassionally when you visit the park (bec ur an outside person) he gives you balloons with notes in it? and it signifies how closer you're getting to each other? Sorry for the long request and thank you in advamce!

a/n; i had an idea for this and i have to write it as soon as i can in case i lose motivation... so ye, i hope you like it^^thank you xuan @hwinkinghwi and jas @perkwoojin for helping me out too:))

requests are open// masterlist

starting line: “even when you’re crying i still find you beautiful”

synopsis: not all heroes wear capes, neither do all psychologists wear a doctors’ jacket.

warnings: uhh none i guess

genre: fluff/ slight angst

Ever since you started your senior year in high school, you found yourself frequenting the park near your home more often than ever.

Not because the teachers were slowly getting on your nerves, not because your classmates were a bunch of immature animals.

But that was exactly why you wanted to go to the park to take a breather after surviving a day in the zoo.

You would always beg your mother to bring you to the park when you were younger, being the only child in the family with no siblings to play with. She would reluctantly comply, only on days she felt willing.

You lived in the outskirts of the city, but not quite far from town, thanks to the accessible transport infrastructure your country has. You were privilleged to have a choice of the sea or city, you loved both nonetheless.

The park you frequented was at the seaside, but there was no beach, as the sand only reaches out one to two metres away from the sea. Railings were implemented to prevent people from entering, and bicycle tracks were built for cyclists to cycle on. There was even a playground, and a swing set, which served as your spot on evenings when you went to the park.

You would spot a boy, around your age, every other day you went to the park. He always had a Crumpler messenger slung on his shoulder, and inside was filled with balloons. Around 5pm every Tuesday and Friday, he would pump air into the balloons with his trusty hand pumper, and twist them into shapes and animals, then giving them to children. Sometimes, he would just bring a bunch of helium balloons to give out, and that was it. He didn’t accept any form of payment from the parents, as he would always politely shake his head and reject their money with a cute smile.

His fashion sense was peculiar though, one day he appeared in a all-pink outfit, another he would be wearing a chilli-red cardigan over a black and white stripped shirt. You didn’t dislike it, neither did you preach it. You just shrugged it off as part of his job as a “balloon boy”.

You have to admit though, balloon boy was strikingly cute, with big eyes that gleamed galaxies and lips so soft that would melt under your touch. He had a really nice smile too, as his eyes would crinkle into crescents whenever he does.

You have always wanted to say hi to balloon boy, but you have never mustered up the courage to do so. Sometimes you would be staring at him so intently that he would notice and look your way, as your head turned to a random direction to hide your growing blush.

One day, you decided not to pussy out and actually confront him to make friends. Well not really, as you never left your spot on the swing set.

As balloon boy gave out his last balloon, he turned your way and noticed you staring at him. He smiled at you, as you beckoned him to sit on the empty seat beside you. He pointed to himself, as you nodded. He slowly made his way to the seat beside you, as you tried to calm your pulsating heart.

“I thought you had always wanted to be alone so I didn’t join you every time i see you here.” balloon boy confessed, with a deep voice you were not expecting.

“I just wanted some company today,” You shot him a genuine smile, “I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Jihoon.” the boy started to lean back to build up momentum, then pushing off.

“How long have you been giving balloons every Tuesday and Friday?”

“Not very long, probably as long as you frequent here.” Jihoon commented, “What about you? Why are you here?”

“Well,” you began, “senior year has been stressful, and here is the only place where there is peace.”

“Shouldn’t a senior class be quiet and peaceful?” Jihoon frowned, “My class is awfully quiet and peaceful because everyone started studying for the entrance exams at the beginning of the year.”

“Not mine, at least,” you scoffed, “the boys in my class are a bunch of wild animals and the girls are too busy gossiping about each other.”

“They must be good at studies then,”

You burst out laughing, almost falling off the swing in the process of calming yourself down. Jihoon widened his eyes, helping you stop the swing.

“What’s so funny?” Jihoon looked a little hurt.

“They’re good at being snakes,” You clutched your stomach, “yeah, its true to a certain extent that they get good grades, but not that good either.”

“Ah I see...”Jihoon nodded in understanding.

A comfortable silence waved between the both of you, as Jihoon suddenly sat up straighter to face you, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Your smile faltered, “yes, I do.”

“Usually people light up at the mention of their boyfriend or girlfriend, but you don’t,” Jihoon pointed out, which surprised you, “is there something going on?”

“Uhm...”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jihoon apologised, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s alright,” you shook your head, “i’ve been wanting to talk about it to someone but i don’t even trust my friends...”

“If you don’t mind, I can be your listening ear.” Jihoon smiled, “We’re from different schools anyway, and I have nothing to gain too.”

You felt strangely relieved, telling someone you had just met about your relationship woes, “Okay.”

“So, what’s wrong?”

“My boyfriend and I have been together for about 2 months,” You began, “I’ve been really happy and he’s really sweet, like picking me up from class, getting ice cream together and celebrating our monthsaries at really nice places. But...”

“But?”

“He has just been distant recently, I’m just really concerned.” You sighed. “Maybe I’m just over-thinking but i think he wants to break up.”

Jihoon’s eyes softened, as his hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, “I think you should tell him about it.”

“But...”

“No buts,” Jihoon’s hands gripped your limp shoulders, “You have to tell him about it, its better to know now then get hurt later.”

A tear escaped your eye, as you nodded and gave Jihoon a weak smile, “I will.”

“Jinyoung...” You wrenched your hands nervously, “Do you love me?”

Jinyoung frowned as he took his hands in yours, “Of course I love you, Y/N, you’re my girlfriend.”

Your hands flinched slightly at his touch, as you slowly removed your hands, “Tell me the truth, Jinyoung. You’ve been really distant nowadays, what’s wrong?”

Jinyoung sighed, then raking his fingers through his hair, “Y/N, I really don’t want to break it to you but...”

“What are you trying to tell me now? Are you cheating on me?” unshed tears brimmed your eyes, soon falling one by one.

“No, it’s just...”

“Just what, Jinyoung?”

“I like Kyulkyung noona.”

“What...Kyulkyung unnie?” At this point of time you have lost all sense of rationality, “I thought you got over her.”

“i tried getting over her... but I can’t.” Jinyoung confessed, “Look,Y/N, you’re not a rebound I swear--”

“I’m totally not a rebound, but I am a doormat for you to trample on.” You wiped your tears away with the sleeve of your hoodie, “But thank you for the past 2 months. It has been great. See you around school, Jinyoung.”

You stood up, the chair scraping on the wooden floor or the cafe. You left the place where you had your first date, red-eyed and heart broken.

You found yourself crying again, and calling Jihoon.

“Hello?”

“J-Jihoon,” You sniffed, “We broke up.”

“What--why?”

“He still has feelings for his ex-crush, oh, crush. And he probably used me as a rebound to get over her.”

“Y/N, are you free right now?”

“I am, why?” You tightened the hoodie on your head, not wanting people to see you crying.

“Meet me at the park in an hour.”

“Okay but--”Before you could ask Jihoon why, he hung up.

You shrugged, then boarding the bus near the cafe that would bring you to the park.

You sat on the swing, swinging as high as you could to get rid of the sour feeling in your heart. However, you still found yourself crying, as your legs gave up on creating the momentum and swung lazily on the seat.

You leaned against the metal chains of the seat, tears flowing down your cheeks like a waterfall. You didn’t even know why you were crying, and you didn’t know what to do to stop it.

Just then, Jihoon ran to you, panting, with one of his hands resting on his knees and the other holding four helium balloons.

“Is that why you told me to come here for?” You laughed humourlessly, with no trace of feelings left in your voice.

“Lowkey, yes,” Jihoon shot you one of his smiles, which sent your heart racing, “and here,”

Jihoon handed you a toothpick, as he then bent down to your eye level, “Pop these balloons one by one.”

“Isn’t that a waste?” You smiled weakly, “You must’ve spent so much time doing these.”

Jihoon shook his head, “Just do it, it’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

You popped the first blue balloon, and a small piece of paper landed on your lap. You unfolded it, and it had a little message inside.

“The first time I saw you, I was shy.”

You smiled, as you popped the next green balloon.

“I wanted to be friends with you, but I’m afraid.”

Next, you popped the purple balloon.

“I love it when I catch you looking at me, and you’re my favourite daydream.”

“What’s this...” You hid your face in your hands, shy from Jihoon’s words.

“You still have one last balloon left,” Jihoon pried your hands out of your face, “and this message is slightly longer.”

As you popped the last pink balloon, a bigger slip of paper fell onto your lap.

“I then realised, I wanted to give you my world, my everything. You don’t deserve someone who doesn’t appreciate you. Forget him. In fact, you’re kinda actually on my mind all this while.”

You looked up, Jihoon was holding your hand in his, with one knee on the floor, “Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?”

You shyly nodded, as your now-boyfriend engulfed you in a hug you would never want to pull away from.

#wanna one scenarios #park jihoon scenarios #wanna one #park jihoon #Fluffy writes

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capsicletho · 7 years

Text

I Can’t Make You Love Me

…if you don’t. You can’t make your heart feel something that it won’t.

a Tony Stark series; author: @stvrktony | chapter 07

trigger: none.

word count: 2.6k

summary: Reader and Tony found comfort in each other while they were trying to mend their own broken hearts.

a/n: There’s a snippet of how reader and Steve met once! Reader might have just dove head first into dangerous territory that is falling in love with Tony without even realizing ;)

masterlist | ICMYLM masterlist | previous chapter

It seemed like hours before you can finally pick yourself up from the floor. You immediately packed your clothes and anything else you feel necessary. Your other things can just be picked up tomorrow or whenever you were available.

That night you pulled your hair up into a bun and rummaged through your still-packed suitcase to find a comfy sweater that you can enjoy your newly bought Ben and Jerry’s and Netflix in, while you wallow in your recent breakup. A girl is allowed at least one day to cry and live on her couch. You still have work to do after all. That was when you found Steve’s sweater in the middle of your clothes; that was the one sweater that you would always wear and wash only once a week until one day it mysteriously vanished, but now you found it amongst your things.

You decided to wear that sweater, knowing that this is probably the last time you can wear it because next time you’ll be moving on. At least that’s what you hoped.

The next morning you called a moving truck to help move your work desk from the tower along with the other things you decided not to pack yesterday, and also your idle chair that is placed on the corner of Steve’s room. You turned to pack the polaroids that are stuck to the wall above the bed. But you decided to leave one of you and him on his birthday; you two were wrapped in the biggest American flag you could find at Target because Steve was so big. He was holding a beer and looking at you while you looked back at him, hands wrapped around his waist.

You also left one of your small potted plant near the window; you once joked about naming the two succulent and the cactus you bought, but Steve only liked the fat, round, cactus that you named Bob and that’s what he always called it. He even had you write ‘Bob’ on the white ceramic pot.

The room looked bare without any decorations like it first looked when you arrived because Steve wasn’t one to decorate and he was away a lot. When you moved in, you spent an entire day decorating and making the place look livelier. The polaroid and the cacti both looked lonely, just the way you felt.

You didn’t hear anything about the Avengers anymore aside from what you read or hear in the news; but of course as someone who were very much involved in politics, you were aware of what is going on. That the government thinks that the Avengers freely running amok in another country, ruining cities, and causing civilian casualties are starting to concern the entire UN.

Spending lunch in your favourite restaurant, you enjoyed the one hour you have to yourself before you have to start working again. You flagged the waiter to get your bill as you packed up your things, but instead of returning to fetch your bill for you, he said, “I’m sorry, Miss, but your bill had just been paid by the gentleman over there.”

You followed where his hand was pointing and spotted Tony Stark sitting a few tables away from you with a smirk on his face. Tony stood up, leaving his table, and approached you. “May I join you for a little bit, Miss (Y/L/N)?” He asked.

“I only have fifteen more minutes, but of course, Mr. Stark,” you smiled.

The conversation lasted more than fifteen minutes, but honestly, you didn’t mind. Getting back on time wasn’t necessary because you are meeting a client after that so you should get out of the office again. The two of you caught up on everything--including what happened to Bruce after Ultron and how most of the Avengers spent more time in the new facility now.

“Where’s Pepper? Why aren’t you lunching with her?” You asked.

“We’re not...you know,” he just shook his head and looked away. Tony didn’t look comfortable talking about it and you can only assume that something was going on between them so you didn’t press on it.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Well, I have to go meet my client now, but you know if you want to talk you can just come to me, right? Not that I can help you with saving the world or building tech...” you chuckled, knowing how silly it was for you to offer help to him when he can do much more than you can.

He chuckled too and nodded, offering to drop you off, but you had enough help from him for the day, so you refused politely and the two of you went separate ways. That night, just as you were about to spend a few hours reading before you go to bed, you heard a knock on the door. You looked into the peephole and the face you see outside caused you to smile as you opened the door.

“How did you know where I live?” You asked, not knowing whether to be impressed or crept out

Tony just shrugged and lifted up his hand to reveal an entire bottle of his bourbon. “I want to talk,” he smiled widely.

That night was spent almost the same way you last had bourbon late at night with Tony. The difference is it involved more talking. Tony told you everything about what has been going on; how he has been busting his ass trying to deal with the government, trying to clean things up, trying to make sure that the Avengers doesn’t have every government officials chasing after them.

“I’ve never known that before. I thought you spent night working more on your gadgets and suits,” you said, feeling slightly terrible that you have never known about how hard he works. “You know, I know someone from the government...maybe I can help in some way?” You offered, trying to help him.

“I’ll be fine,” Tony smiled.

“Do they know about this?” You asked, referring to the rest of the Avengers.

“They do,” he confirmed, but something about that sentence tells you that he wasn’t certain.

“But I’m sure they don’t know it to the extent,” you completed the thought for him.

Tony flinched slightly, knowing that you are right. How the rest of the Avengers didn’t know just how much work was put into keeping the government and the nation at peace. He didn’t say anything, and so neither did you. The two of you were lost in your own thoughts as you looked at the way your knee was almost touching his.

“What happened with you and Cap?” He asked.

You frowned a little, “It’s just not working. We want different things now,” you said. But then paused and proceeded to correct yourself. “Actually, I think we’ve always wanted the same things, it just took us a while to realise that we’re not it,” you gave a little shrug and sipped your drink again. The two of you wanted to share your lives with someone; but you weren’t Peggy, and Steve wouldn’t be the one for you, because you expected the one to love you just how Steve loves Peggy. “What about you and Pepper?” It’s your turn to ask.

“It actually has been going on since the Mandarin. She thinks the suits are a distraction, she thinks it’s a shell and she just...doesn’t want me doing all this. I’ve given up the suit for her once, but I just can’t seem to let go,” he said. “Finally after Ultron, she had enough. She wanted to take a break.”

You nodded slowly as you listened to his story. You’ve always understood Steve doing hero work. You didn’t mind, because you knew he wanted to keep the people safe, and there’s no stopping him from doing that, because you knew what you were getting into. Being a soldier is a huge part of Steve’s life. But maybe it was more difficult for Pepper because she knew Tony before he was Iron Man, and it hurts her to see him hurt because despite the metal suit, Tony was an ordinary man--he had no superhuman endurance like Steve and yet Tony is the one who does most of the work because he had to deal with all the background stuff and also the things on the field.

“This is depressing,” you spoke up in humour, and he hummed in agreement. Tony stood up abruptly and walked across the room, towards your TV and where your Harman Kardon speakers are. He turned it on and immediately connected his device to the speakers via Bluetooth.

Rock music was blaring throughout your apartment, which made you laugh, but you knew this wouldn’t sit well with your neighbours. “You’re gonna make me get a noise complaint!” You yelled over the loud music. Tony just smirked, refusing to turn it off. And sure enough, a loud, continuous bang was heard on your door which caused him to widen his eyes and held his laugh in. He paused the music as you approached the door to see your neighbour there. He was only a few years older than you, and they have a three-month-old baby. You knew the music must have waken the baby up, or at least your neighbour from his much-deserved sleep.

After apologising profusely, you padded back into the living room and shook your head at Tony who was already giggling on the couch. You disconnected the Bluetooth connection from his speakers and connected yours instead, playing jazz music from the olden Hollywood days.

“Ugh, you like Cap music?” He scoffed.

“It’s kind of the reason we first talked to each other,” you shrugged.

It was a Sunday and you had to finish up some work you’ve decided to procrastinate on over the weekend. While you typed away your e-mail, you were humming to the popular I’ll Be Seeing You. You have always had a nice voice, but you weren’t that interested in pursuing singing as your career--it was just a hobby you do to relieve your stress. While your melodious tunes were helping you get through work, the man sitting next to you was lost in nostalgia with a soft smile on his face.

As you ended the song, he finally spoke up. “That was really nice,” he said to you. You did not realise that he was listening the whole time.

You chuckled awkwardly, “Thank you,” you said for the compliment. You were not quite processing who he was just yet.

“It’s not that often I find people your age randomly humming thirties’ songs,” he shrugged.

“People my age?” You repeated, finding it funny that he says that as if the two of you weren’t from the same generation.

“I don’t mean that in an offensive way. It’s just that it’s usually older people who like to listen to songs like that,” he said. That was when he fully looked at you without ducking under his cap. It finally dawned on you who he was. He was the super soldier everyone had talked about. You knew he was like 90 years old, but he was incredibly good looking.

After talking about how you were introduced to jazz songs when you were a kid by your father and about his favourite songs back in the day, his phone chimed and sadly he had to leave for an urgent work call. And you nodded in understanding; a part of you were sad because in the back of your head you thought you might never meet him again.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he smirked, causing you to laugh. “Same time next Sunday? I feel like we still have much to talk about,” Steve said.

You beamed; a bit taken aback by how straightforward he was being, but then you nodded. “Same time next Sunday,” you confirmed. That entire day, you were not able to wipe away the stupid smile you had, impatient for next Sunday.

As you were a little bit lost in reminiscing about how you first met Steve when Tony stood up, offering his left hand to you. With the two of you slightly tipsy, you accepted his offer and placed your hand right in his. He twirled you around which made you chuckle, but then he snaked his right hand around your waist and pulled you close--leaving absolutely no gap between your bodies which made your breath caught in your throat.

The two of you looked at each other, deeper than you’ve ever looked at each other before. You were always partial to men with blue eyes--feeling as though you could be lost in a beautiful meadow with wildflowers, soft breezes, and freedom when you looked into them. But the way you were lost into Tony’s darker eyes was something different altogether. They were not dark enough to resemble the night sky, but you can just see the faint and somewhat mysterious constellation in his eyes. But it mostly felt like warmth and comfort; like the warm coffee you like to sip every morning or the tea you brew after a long day of work.

It was not an open and boundless space like how you’ve always felt when staring into Steve’s eyes, it was actually the exact opposite. It felt like the piles of warm blankets after a refreshing shower in the comfort of your bedroom which made you feel completely safe and secure. The hints of dark felt like the unreachable demons Tony had in his life--places where even he doesn’t like to go. But as his thumb grazed the small of your back, you knew you were safe. From what, you were still unsure, but you knew you just were.

Who knows where this road will lead us Only a fool will say But if you let me love you You can bet I'm going to love you All the way Yes all the way

Taller, taller than the tallest tree is That's how it's got, got to feel Oh if you let me love you You can bet I'm going to love you All the way Oh all, all the way

At the last note of the song, your lips were just inches away from each other. But you were hesitant, and so was Tony. The two of you had just gotten out of a relationship; you weren’t sure if this was rebound or just the alcohol, and you were afraid to take another step. So instead you prevented what could be something that would catastrophically ruin your friendship and ducked your head, smiling a little bit. And with that, Tony pulled his head back slightly.

“It’s late,” you said.

“I should go,” Tony responded.

“Don’t drive. Take a cab or something,” you suggested as the two of you pulled away completely from each other.

Tony smiled, liking the way you were concerned about him driving and at the same time a bit amused. “Don’t worry,” he assured you. The man took his keys from your coffee table, but left his bottle of bourbon there, and made his way to the door, you following behind him.

“Be careful,” you reminded him after he stepped out of your door.

Tony nodded, “See you,” he said.

You watched his back as he walked away, and when he rounded the corner to the elevators, you closed the door. Immediately slumping on the floor trying to regulate your breathing and get your heart to stop beating so fast.

You buried your face in your hands for a little bit. “What the hell was that?” You muttered to yourself, sitting there for a few seconds before finally standing up and headed to your bedroom, spending all night pondering what just happened.

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@thevanishedillusion @welcometomyworldwithoutrules @plan3tmadison

#tony stark fanfic #tony stark x reader #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark #tony stark imagine #icmylm

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footbaliimagines · 7 years

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attention (a hector bellerin imagine)

this is the sequel to happy birthday (if you haven’t read that yet or want to refresh considering I posted it about 45 years ago it’s linked here) but more so from hector’s perspective this time. it’s vaguely based on attention by charlie puth (an absolute BANGER) and I hope you like it :+)

maybe you just hate the thought of me with someone new

you just want attention

you’re just making sure I’m never getting over you

It’s July, the peak of summer, and the weather outside is humid and surprisingly warm for London. Hector and his friends are celebrating for one last time before the new season begins, as a final hurrah and opportunity to go out and not worry about the consequences before the return of strict dietary regimes, a cycle of unending training sessions and weekends busy driving up and down the country. The club is hot and sweaty, with the thumping bass and sporadic bursts of bright light not helping the humidity in the slightest.

She’s wearing that dress again.

And she’s swaying side to side, head tilted back ever so slightly, hair tumbling down her back in messy, loose waves and hips moving to the beat. The flashing lights of the club are reflecting off the silver of her earrings and her dress is gripping her curves, taunting him, teasing him, as she sucks on her straw. It’s an innocent action but Hector’s mind can’t help but wander elsewhere.

He wasn’t expecting her to come tonight.

(It’s probably a good thing, too, a blessing in disguise that he was unaware, because otherwise he probably would have convinced himself that turning up at all was a bad idea full stop, and that staying at home, wallowing in Game of Thrones, would be much more appealing.)

Hector clenches his fists and leans back on the sofa behind him. His friends are surrounding him and laughing and knocking back shots, slapping his shoulder and his knee and whenever a particularly good song comes on, jumping to their feet. All he can do, on the other hand, is watch her.

It feels creepy, and he knows that deep down he shouldn’t be staring at her so intently, but coming out and wearing a dress like that and dancing like that so nearby meant that anything else would have been virtually impossible.

She has to know what she’s doing.

(She must know.)

And it must be on purpose.

Hector can’t help but muse that it’s all probably a massive cry for attention- and not just anyone in the club’s attention, because if this were the case he wouldn’t care and he’d be happy for her to go home with anyone she pleases- but his attention.

(She was doing a pretty damn good job at capturing it, if that were the case.)

She flips her hair over her shoulder and gives him a look, dipping her head forwards slightly. They’re standing metres away from each other, and the space of the dancefloor between them is littered with people, but she’s always had this funny habit of being the only person he could focus on in a crowded room. When they make eye contact again, she presses her lips together in a smile.

(Or rather, an attempt at a smile. It was more a mixture of a glare and a frown, and her eyes are burning into him to such an extent that he when he stands up to greet her, he nearly trips over his own feet.)

Her eyes are gleaming under the lights, shrouded in smoky eye makeup and narrowing slightly, captivatingly, as she sends a coy smile his way.

“I didn’t think you were coming tonight.”

They were familiar words, reminiscent of his birthday party and the last time they spoke, and he’s ready to burst out laughing at the coincidence when Little Mix start to play in the background again.

(Alex’s doing, probably.)

(He can’t say he blames him.)

“This is becoming quite the occurrence, isn’t it?”

Hector nods and exhales. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s been a while.”

“How have you been?”

“Fine.” She shrugs, dismissively and calmly. “Are you here with Emily?”

“No.” He replies, and he watches her ears prick up and her eyebrows raise slightly. “She, um, couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Ah,” She nods slowly, before convincing herself that they must have broken up and running with the assumption. There’s a hint of a smile on her face that makes Hector’s blood suddenly run hot. “That’s a shame.”

(To her, it really, really isn’t.)

“No, what I meant was that-.”

She continues, smugly, “You don’t have to explain. Some relationships don’t work out, it’s not a big deal.”

“We’re still together.” He clears his throat. “She’s just busy tonight. We’re still together.”

She grimaces. “That’s embarrassing. Sorry about that.”

He watches her eyes dart nervously around the room, everywhere apart from looking at him, and the smile she had previously adopted, that sadistic pleasure she had taken when thinking they had broken up, has dissipated entirely. Hector almost takes pleasure in watching her squirm.

“No worries.”

“So, you and Emily, then?”

Hector nods slowly, “She’s a friend of Calum’s. We met through him.”

“How long?”

“About a month, give or take a week, I guess.”

She compliments, “She’s lovely.”

(She’s not lying, and she knows deep down that it would be ridiculously unfair to harbour any bad feelings towards Emily.)

(But vodka is currently clouding her judgement, and it hurts, so much that sometimes she thinks she can’t breathe, and heartbreak has made her bitterer and angrier than she’d ever care to admit.)

Hector swallows, his throat dry and restricting his ability to breathe properly, and he runs a hand through his hair. It feels wrong, to talk about another woman with her, and it feels like cheating, in some weird, warped way, despite their current relationship being non-existent, or civil, at best. “Yeah, things are going great.” His voice cracks ever so slightly, revealing the lie he’s telling, but he swallows and nods quickly to play it off as a tickle in his throat.

In reality, things aren’t going so swimmingly. Arguments relating to his apparent inability to commit and disagreements about the direction in which their relationship was going were becoming increasingly common.

(But she of all people doesn’t need to know that.)

“I’m happy for you.” She looks across at him, and maybe it’s the vodka rushing to her head or maybe she’s finally accepting things, but she smiles at him and speaks, “I want you to be happy, Hec.”

(Her smile is sickly sweet, and he knows her too well to fall for it.)

“And I want you to meet Jack.”

The next thing Hector knows, there’s a 6”4 brunette stood next to her with his arm looped around her waist and his right hand offering a handshake. Hector watches his hand snake up around her ribcage and squeeze her side, and he’s almost certain he can taste vomit in the back of his throat. “Nice to meet you.”

She watches his face fall, and smugly asserts, “He’s training to become a surgeon.”

It produces a dull ache in his bones and an emptiness in his gut, and he nods and swallows, smiling forcibly. He’s almost as attractive as a man could possibly be, Hector muses, he’s tall, sculpted, handsome, and he’s virtually drowning in self-pity until he stumps up the courage to look at her again, and he notices the way that she doesn’t make proper eye contact with Jack or appear to listen to what he’s saying at all.

(It’s then, to Hector’s great satisfaction, that he realises Jack’s being used for nothing more than to piss him off.)

(And to his annoyance, it’s been 2 minutes and it’s already working.)

She turns to Jack, placing a well-manicured hand on his chest and fluttering her eyelashes, “Can you grab me another drink, baby?”

Hector leans back and smirks. If she seriously thought that this was going to grab his attention and get a rise out of him- well, he could watch this shit show all day. Jack nods, and wanders towards the bar, and she settles beside him. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

He rolls his eyes, narrowing his eyes and sighing, mock-dramatically, “Makes me wish Emily was here. She would have loved to see you again. God, she probably would have got on well with Jack too!”

“What a fucking shame that is.” She smiles, that sickly sweet, forced smile again, and turns to gesture to Jack again, who was queuing at the bar. “Did I mention that Jack was-“

“Actually, I was saying to Emily before-“

“I don’t want to fucking hear about Emily!” She squeaks out.

The outburst seems to shock her just as much as it does him, and she groans in embarrassment, leaning back against the wall and twiddling the straw of her drink between her fingers. It’s a tell-tale sign of nervousness, of backing down from their verbal battles, and he’s intrigued. When she speaks this time, her voice is softer, and it’s almost like she’s pleading. “Can we just not talk about Emily, please?”

“Why?

“I hate the thought of you with someone new. Thinking- no, knowing, and seeing with my own two eyes- that you’re getting over me is just a bit of a kick in the guts.”

“Yeah, because I’m having a great time sitting here watching you fawn over Jack too.” He rolls his eyes. Hector sighs, and he approaches her; both the familiarity of her perfume and the way that she slowly, carefully, shifts her body in his direction don’t go unnoticed by him. “But I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Not getting over you.”

“Um-“

“And I’ve wanted to tell you that for a while now, but every time I hold back.” He shakes his head and sneers, “Because I know that’s exactly what you want. You want to watch me squirm and get me to admit to you that I still love you and that I’m not over you, and I-“

“Hector, what the fuck-“

He shakes his head and snaps, “I’m not stupid. Is that why you’ve come here tonight, in that kind of dress and with your makeup done all special, when I know for a fact that you hate clubs in this part of town? I can tell you’re after my attention, and I just wanted to say that it’s doing my fucking head in.”

“You are unbelievable.” She scoffs and shakes her head, before placing her drink down on the table beside them. “I came here tonight because, believe it or not, I have friends here too! And funnily enough, how I dress and how I do my makeup are my own fucking choices, so I don’t think- no, I know- that you have zero right to talk to me like that.”

Her words sting slightly, and he winces before sipping gingerly at his beer. “You’re right. I was bang out of order, and I’m sorry. Sorry.”

She nods curtly, as if to acknowledge his apology but deem it unworthy of a response.

Hector can’t help but probe further, “But come on- he’s not really your boyfriend, is he?”

She scrunches up her eyebrows, and crosses her arms self protectively over her chest. The proximity between the two of them that is swiftly dashed, and she takes a step back. “Actually, he is.”

“You’re such a bad liar.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes, uncrossing her arms. “Well- he’s not my boyfriend boyfriend per se, but we’re still seeing-”

“I knew it.” Hector laughs and knocks back the rest of his beer, propping himself up with his right arm on the ledge between us. “I know you far too well to fall for your little white lies.”

There’s a change in the tone of his voice, and instead of spite there’s some fondness evident. The smile they exchange, a nervous, small smile, is the first of the night not to be laced with malice or another ulterior motive.

She winces, feeling her heels pinch her toes, and leans onto the same ledge for support. Their arms are mere centimetres away from each other now, and the tension leaves his neck for the first time that night. “Still watching Game of Thrones?” She flashes her gaze up at him.

“Attempting to.” He chuckles. “It’s getting a bit stupid, and there are too many storylines. I can’t keep up.”

She giggles and teases, “Just because you can’t concentrate on more than one storyline at the same time doesn’t make a show stupid. It makes you stupid.”

A pleasant lull settles, but Hector’s still too wary to let himself relax entirely, given the way things ended last time. She dips her head, and whispers, glancing back up at him, “Hey- do you want to get out of here?”

He freezes and raises a single eyebrow, “But you have a boyf- that guy.” Hector gestures at Jack in the corner.

The way she smirks, and the subtle roll of her eyes, as if she’s diminishing any importance of Jack to her in the slightest, gives Hector the slightest inkling of hope. “That guy doesn’t mean anything to me. He’s nice and all, but the second we take things outside of the bedroom it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“So- is he your boyfriend or not?”

“He certainly hasn’t stopped me from flirting with you all night, put it that way.” She rests her hand on his forearm lightly, and she cocks her head towards the exit. “And the fact that you have a girlfriend hasn’t stopped you either.”

“What are you implying?”

“What do you think I’m implying?”

She picks up her jacket in the crook of her arms, downs the remainder of her drink before tossing it to the table and grabs her handbag. When she smiles at him this time, it’s different, and it sends his stomach flipping. Her eyes are seductive, captivating, and when she runs her tongue over her top lip, Hector is pretty sure he momentarily forgets how to breathe. She leans down to his ear, and her perfume drifts over towards him, “Let’s get out of here.”

There’s an extra swing in her hips as she walks away.

(And Hector can’t help but follow her.)

ummmm am i dreaming or have i finally actually posted this

i know i’ve said this has been done for literally like months but every time i’ve re read my draft i’ve found things i didn’t like and you guys know how fussy i can be (there are still bits i want to change with this but i thought it’d be better to just bite the bullet and get on with it) i really hope you like this!!! as always please let me know what you think :)

millie xxx

#my writing #hector bellerin #hector bellerin imagine #hector bellerin fanfiction #footballer one shot #football imagine #footballer imagine #footballer imagines #arsenal fc imagines #arsenal fanfiction #footballer fanfiction #football one shot

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eleanortiernan-blog · 6 years

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Home to Ireland for Xmas

As our ferry made its way across the Irish Sea on Dec 24th, I rehearsed my answers for the RTE news reporter I felt certain would be waiting to ask us how it felt to step back onto Irish soil. My conclusion was based on our national broadcaster’s tradition on Xmas week of sending news crews to the country's international transport terminals to capture the tearful reunions of emigrants with their families for transmittal as the Six One News feel-good item. That's the item at the end of the news after all of the distressing stories that's supposed to lift your spirits. As an Irish emigrant, I understand that my role in our national drama is to spend every waking moment regretting my decision to leave and, as a mark of respect for my country, I avoid any kind of happiness that comes my way while abroad. Grateful for my good fortune of being born in Eire, I was excited that finally I might have my personage used by RTE to inform other young people of their civic obligations in this regard. "It's so great to be back home" I annunciated brightly into the mirror of the ship’s ladies toilets with as much relief as I could muster. My make up looked lop-sided but considering it was being applied at sea that was to be expected. I dropped to my hands and knees and collected the cosmetics that had fallen on the floor as they rolled from left to right and back again. "The thing I miss most about Ireland, Brian? Why Cheese & Onion Taytos of course" I said, this time adding a giggle for effect. And there may well have been some truth in this statement. For all I know I could miss Cheese & Onion Taytos. I can't say for sure though as my psyche has been so bombarded by national rhetoric like "Top Ten Things People Miss Most About Ireland" of late that I haven't had an original thought or feeling about Ireland in nearly a decade. Online compilation articles have become so ubiquitous that moments of personal discovery now are no longer possible. I emerged to the large flourescent-lit seating area. Amongst the families, truckers and backpackers, a familiar face caught my eye. It was my friend Siobhan. We had been attempting to meet for the past few a months but time had eluded us. Now, as if to mock our supposedly busy lifestyles, here we were face to face. “How does my makeup look?” I ask her. “You look like I painted you” she replied. Damn it. Siobhan is a brilliant painter whose work is fast gaining the respect of the cultural elite of east London. Her representation of the human form however is more “Punch and Judy” than “RTE Six One News”. "What time did you tell your folks to come to collect you?" Siobhan asked as the boat began to moor. Whoops! In my excitement about coming home I had forgotten to tell anyone that I needed collecting from the port. Now whose arms would I fall into as I wept at being back in my country? At this late stage there was no possibility of letting them know either. The batteries of all of the electronic devices I own were long since dead which is irrelevant anyway because the ships wifi wasn't strong enough to sustain connection with so many passengers . The Rail and Sail option from London to Dublin Port asks what it is to be human as well as any Cormac McCarthy novel. On disembarking, while Siobhan went to collect some bubble-wrapped canvases from the baggage carousel I found the nearest Dublin Port official and asked her "Can you tell me where Brian Dobson is? He'll want to interview us for the news". It was as if she had no idea what I was talking about. Reasoning that he must be outside, I ventured through the automatic doors and breathed in the dark Irish night. To my disappointment, no microphone was pushed into my face. My heart sank as I considered that I might not get the opportunity to be one of Ireland's Xmas heroes this year. They just weren't there. Then, as if to further deny our existence, there were no taxis waiting either. Two double decker Dublin buses were the full extent of public transport provided to help us returning emigrants continue our journey. Furthermore, the bus would only stop at Heuston or Busaras, the opposite direction to which I was headed. It was for this reason and the slim hope of encountering a lost news camera that I persuaded Siobhan, also without a welcoming committee, to attempt to walk with me from the ferry terminal to the entrance of Dublin port. Pulling our suitcases behind us we wobbled forward in the dark. As our legs acclimatised to being on land again, articulated trucks driving towards the next sailing splashed road water in our faces. Gravel from the unlit road stuck in the wheels of our suitcase slowing us down. A deceptively wet shower of rain spat on us stealthily drenching our clothes. I loved every second of it. “I am home!! Oh Ireland how I have missed you” I cried into the cold Dublin wind. My mood changed however when the headlights of an oncoming car illuminated a particular pebble on the road. To the untrained eye this might go unnoticed. However I happen to be in the habit of cataloging pebbles and as such there isn't a stone on this island that I am not familiar with. This one was no different. Sharp-edged on one side, it had ruined a walk on Sandymount beach for me about a year previous by making its way into my shoe. I burst into tears. "What's wrong Eleanor?" Siobhan asked. "I know that stone. It used to be in another part of Dublin. Ireland is changing and we are missing out by living abroad” I said. Siobhan shrugged. All I could do was take comfort in the familiar by reaching down, picking up the stone and putting it back into my shoe. Hours later our progress came to a halt when we were confronted by a chainlink fence that stretched as far left and right as our eyes could see. With no sign of an RTE news camera we elected to abandon our attempts to make it home that night. We set up camp underneath a large overhead crane using Siobhan's paintings to break the wind against us. Uncomfortable as it was, disgust at my own failed attempts at patriotism was all I could think about that night. It was only when I managed to start a fire using stray lumps of coal i found around the dock that sleep was possible. Someone must have informed Santa Claus of our whereabouts because the next morning we awoke to find that gifts had been laid out for us. For Siobhan the man from Lapland had left a DVD of Conor McGregor’s greatest knockouts. For me, a copy of the English textbook Soundings that I had studied in school. Unfortunately however this stirred a nostalgia in me so strong that I worked myself into another state of emotional hysteria. The source of my angst this time was how everything we encounter as adults seems tainted by a disgraceful sexual energy. “For the love of God, I just want to be clean” I howled, throwing myself off a harbour wall into the Liffey. After eventually admitting the impossibility of scrubbing adulthood off oneself I emerged from the water to find Siobhan cooking Xmas dinner. She was using her creative talent to roast a discarded Ballygowan water drum in a functioning kiln lying nearby. Then when the clear blue plasticky soup had cooled sufficiently we transferred it into our mouths by dipping our toothbrushes in and sucking it off. As darkness fell our hearts leapt as we noticed as a shadowy figure approaching us. "May god help us" I thought until the light from the fire fell on his face revealing that it was none other than Minister for Jobs Enterprise and Innovation, Richard Bruton. Starstruck, I ran towards him. “Minister may I be the first to say thanks ever so much for your efforts to create jobs so we poor emigrants can end our hell of living abroad. If you do manage to create any jobs I'll be home in a flash. Only a madman would stay abroad if they had a job in Ireland to go back to”. “And may I be the first to thank you for your patience. Living abroad is cruel state for any Irish person to find themselves in” he said with a statesman-like air. “Oh it is” I said “integrated public transport systems, abortion rights, increased entertainment options. Between myself and yourself minister, I swear some of those desperate creatures don't even know who Richie Kavanagh is”. I took out the copy of Philip Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs that I keep in case of emergency and a box of matches and set it on fire to make my point. We bid him good evening. That night I drifted off to sleep with my clothes drying on the kiln, promising myself that the next day would be more productive. It wasn't to be however. The next morning our sleep was broken by a loud foghorn announcing the arrival of the 8:15 sailing from Dublin to Holyhead. Directly in front of us the gangway led aboard the ship. I'm not proud of this but the lure of albeit poor wifi was too much for us. Ticketless, we traitors gathered our belongings and climbed aboard unseen, utter failures as both celebrators of Christmas and Irish patriots. Oh how we gorged ourselves on plates of carvery dinner while the ship barrelled through the beginnings of Storm Frank! In our defence however we did take the opportunity as two of the only passengers on board to get ahead of the posse and book our tickets home for Christmas 2016. This year nothing will be left to chance. Our tickets home are via airplane. Ireland, this time we won't let you down.

#ireland xmas ferry rte

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danielsmith46 · 6 years

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On Disbelieving Atrocities

New York Times, Arthur Koestler (Jan. 1944) There is a dream which keeps coming back to me at almost regular intervals; it is dark, and I am being murdered in some kind of thicket or brushwood; there is a busy road at no more than ten yards distance; I scream for help but nobody hears me, the crowd walks past laughing and chatting. I know that a great many people share, with individual variations, the same type of dream. I have quarrelled about it with analysts and I believe it to be an archetype in the jungian sense: an expression of the individual’s ultimate loneliness when faced with death and cosmic violence; and his inability to communicate the unique horror of his experience. I further believe that it is the root of the ineffectiveness of our atrocity propaganda. For, after all, you are the crowd who walk past laughing on the road; and there are a few of us, escaped victims or eyewitnesses of the things which happen in the thicket and who, haunted by our memories, go on screaming on the wireless, yelling at you in newspapers and in public meetings, theatres and cinemas. Now and then we succeed in reaching your ear for a minute. I know it each time it happens by a certain dumb wonder on your faces, a faint glassy stare entering your eye; and I tell myself: now you have got them, now hold them, bold them, so that they will remain awake. But it only lasts a minute. You shake yourself like puppies who have got their fur wet; then the transparent screen descends again and you walk on, protected by the dream barrier which stifles all sound. We, the screamers, have been at it now for about ten years. We started on the night when the epileptic van der Lubbe set fire to the German Parliament; we said that if you don’t quench those flames at once, they will spread all over the world; you thought we were maniacs. At present we have the mania of trying to tell you about the killing, by hot steam, mass-electrocution and live burial of the total Jewish population of Europe. So far three million have died. It is the greatest mass-killing in recorded history; and it goes on daily, hourly, as regularly as the ticking of your watch. I have photographs before me on the desk while I am writing this, and that accounts for my emotion and bitterness. People died to smuggle them out of Poland; they thought it was worth while. The facts have been published in pamphlets, White Books, newspapers, magazines and what not. But the other day I met one of the best-known American journalists over here. He told me that in the course of some recent public opinion survey nine out of ten average American citizens, when asked whether they believed that the Nazis commit atrocities, answered that it was all propaganda lies, and that they didn’t believe a word of it. As to this country, I have been lecturing now for three years to the troops and their attitude is the same. They don’t believe in concentration camps, they don’t believe in the starved children of Greece, in the shot hostages of France, in the mass-graves of Poland; they have never heard of Lidice, Treblinka or Belzec; you can convince them for an hour, then they shake themselves, their mental self-defence begins to work and in a week the shrug of incredulity has returned like a reflex temporarily weakened by a shock. Clearly all this is becoming a mania with me and my like. Clearly we must suffer from some morbid obsession, whereas the others are healthy and normal. But the characteristic symptom of maniacs is that they lose contact with reality and live in a phantasy world. So, perhaps, it is the other way round: perhaps it is we, the screamers, who react in a sound and healthy way to the reality which surrounds us, whereas you are the neurotics who totter about in a screened phantasy world because you lack the faculty to face the facts. Were it not so, this war would have been avoided, and those murdered within sight of your day-dreaming eyes would still be alive. I said: perhaps, because obviously the above can only be half the truth. There have been screamers at all times-Prophets, Preachers, Teachers and Cranks, cursing the obtuseness of their contemporaries, and the situation-pattern remained very much the same. There are always the screamers screaming from the thicket and the people who pass by on the road. They have ears but hear not, they have eyes but see not. So the roots of this must lie deeper than mere obtuseness. Is it perhaps the fault of the screamers? Sometimes no doubt, but I do not believe this to be the core of the matter. Amos, Hosea, Jeremiah were pretty good propagandists and yet they failed to shake their people and to warn them. Cassandra’s voice was said to have pierced walls, and yet the Trojan war took place. And at our end of the chain–in due proportion–I believe that on the whole the M.O.I. and B.B.C. are quite competent at their job. For almost three years they had to keep this country going on nothing but defeats, and they succeeded. But at the same time they lamentably failed to imbue the people with anything approaching a full awareness of what it was all about, of the grandeur and horror of the time into which they were born. They carried on business-as-usual style, with the only difference that the routine of this business included killing and being killed. Matter-of-fact unimaginativeness has become a kind of Anglo-Saxon racial myth; it is usually opposed to Latin hysterics and praised for its high value in an emergency. But the myth does not say what happens between emergencies and that the same quality is responsible for the failure to prevent their recurrence. Now this limitation of awareness is not an Anglo-Saxon privilege, though they are probably the only race which claims as an asset what others regard as a deficiency. Nor is it a matter of temperament; stoics have wider horizons than fanatics. It is a psychological fact, inherent in our mental frame, which I believe has not been given sufficient attention in social psychology or political theory. We say, “I believe this,” or, “I don’t believe that,” “I know it,” or “I don’t know. it”; and regard these as black-and-white altematives. Now in reality both “knowing” and “believing” have varying degrees of intensity. I know that there was a man called Spartacus who led the Roman slaves into revolt; but my belief in his one-time existence is much paler than that of, say Lenin. I believe in spiral nebulae, can see them in a telescope and express their distance in figures; but they have a lower degree of reality for me than the inkpot on my table. Distance in space and time degrades intensity of awareness. So does magnitude. Seventeen is a figure which I know intimately like a friend; fifty billions is just a sound. A dog run over by a car upsets our emotional balance and digestion; three million Jews killed in Poland cause but a moderate uneasiness. Statistics don’t bleed; it is the detail which counts. We are unable to embrace the total process with our awareness; we can only focus on little lumps of reality. So far all this is a matter of degrees; of gradations in the intensity of knowing and believing. But when we pass the realm of the finite and are faced with words like eternity in time, infinity of space, that is, when we approach the sphere of the Absolute, our reaction ceases to be a matter of degrees and becomes different in quality. Faced with the Absolute, understanding breaks down, and our “knowing” and “believing” become pure lip-service. Death, for instance, belongs to the category of the Absolute and our belief in it is merely a lip-service belief. “I know” that, the average statistical age being about 65, I may reasonably expect to live no more than another 2.7 years, but if I knew for certain that I should die on November 30, 1970, at 5 A.M., I would be poisoned by this knowledge, count and recount the remaining days and hours, grudge myself every wasted minute, in other words develop a neurosis. This has nothing to do with hopes to live longer than the average; if the date were fixed ten years later, the neurosis-forming process would remain the same. Thus we all live in a state of split consciousness. There is a tragic plane and a trivial plane, which contain. two mutually incompatible kinds of experienced knowledge. Their climate and language are as different as Church Latin from business slang. These limitations of awareness account for the limitations of enlightenment by propaganda. People go to cinemas, they see films of Nazi tortures, of mass-shootings, of underground conspiracy and self-sacrifice. They sigh, they shake their heads, some have a good cry. But they do not connect it with the realities of their normal plane of existence. It is Romance, it is Art, it is Those Higher Things, it is Church Latin. It does not click with reality. We live in a society of the Jekyll and Hyde pattern, magnified into gigantic proportions. This was, however, not always the case to the same extent. There were periods and movements in history-in Athens, in the early Renaissance, during the first years of the Russian Revolution-when at least certain representative layers of society had attained a relatively high level of mental integration; times, when people seemed to rub their eyes and come awake, when their cosmic awareness seemed to expand, when they were “contemporaries” in a much broader and fuller sense; when the trivial and the cosmic planes seemed on the point of fusing. And there were periods of disintegration and dissociation. But never before, not even during the spectacular decay of Rome and Byzantium, was split thinking so palpably evident, such a uniform mass-disease; never did human psychology reach such a height of phoneyness. Our awareness seems to shrink in direct ratio as communications expand; the world is open to us as never before, and we walk about as prisoners, each in his private portable cage. And meanwhile the watch goes on ticking. What can the screamers do but go on screaming, until they get blue in the face? I know one who used to tour this country addressing meetings, at an average of ten a week. He is a well-known London publisher. Before each meeting he used to lock himself up in a room, close his eyes, and imagine in detail, for twenty minutes, that he was one of the people in Poland who were killed. One day he tried to feel what it was like to be suffocated by chloride gas in a death-train; the other he had to dig his grave with two hundred others and then face a machine gun, which, of course, is rather unprecise and capricious in its aiming. Then he walked out to the platform and talked. He kept going for a full year before he collapsed with a nervous breakdown. He had a great command of his audiences and perhaps he has done some good, perhaps he brought the two planes, divided by miles of distance, an inch closer to each other. I think one should imitate this example. Two minutes of this kind of exercise per day, with closed eyes, after reading the morning paper, are at present more necessary to us than physical jerks and breathing the Yogi way. It might even be a substitute for going to church. For as long as there are people on the road and victims in the thicket, divided by dream barriers, this will remain a phoney civilisation.

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