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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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Title: Trapped

Word Count: 3.2k

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Oikawa/Reader.

Synopsis: Oikawa isn’t the first stalker you’ve caught the interest of, and you really, really didn’t think he’d be the last. Now that you’re in trapped in his arms permanently, you’re forced to make the best of his smothering obsession.

TW: Non-Con, F. Reader, Non-Consensual Touching, Overstimulation, Bondage, Knife-Play, Blood, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Stalking, Imprisonment, Gaslighting, Mindbreak, Flashbacks and Implied PSTD.

Part One.

It'd always been the adrenaline, for you.

You liked the danger, too, and the satisfaction of knowing you’d beat a stalker at their own game. You liked being able to smile as you crushed a hidden camera under your heel, to laugh as you lost the poorly-disguised ‘stranger’ in a festering crowd, to feel utterly, entirely contented as you pictured Oikawa’s expression while he watched you rip another one of his hand-written, stumbling, rambling letters into shreds after reading the first nonsensical line. The rush was the best part, though. The frayed nerves, the blurry vision, the way your heart threatened to give out every time you woke up somewhere you didn’t remember falling asleep, a rope wrapped sloppily around your wrists and your own panties shoved in your mouth because someone hadn’t thought to buy a gag before you started screaming. It was fun. There wasn’t a better way to say it. It was fun.

It’d been fun back then, too. But, that’d been different. You’d gotten out in time. You’d assume Oikawa would be as easy to read as he was, and that was your mistake. You thought you had more time. If you were being honest, you were starting to think Oikawa’d gotten predictable. You were starting to think he’d gotten boring.

Huh.

It makes you sound like the creep, when you put it like that.

There was nothing exciting about laying on a bare mattress, stripped of your clothes and weapons and dignity, blindfolded and restrained as your captor, your actual captor, did something on the other side of the basement, assessing the small amount of damage you’d caused before you were caught and captured in earnest. You hadn’t fought back, not really, not after you realized you wouldn’t be able to escape without breaking down the door.

You’d been in a stupor, but now that your pulse was beginning to slow and the panic was slowly turning into solidified, gnawing terror, you were starting to regret reacting so calmly. You thought he’d go easier on you, if you went along peacefully. You were used to the lead-up. You weren’t sure what to do, now that you were working out the aftermath.

You were in Oikawa’s territory, now, his fantasy.

All you could do was bite your tongue and hope he wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.

But, that didn’t mean you could stop yourself from flinching when you heard him take a step towards you, the noise jarring compared to the quiet tension you’d adjusted to. There was a light chuckle, breathy and non-committal, punctuated by a gentle, sympathetic hum as he crouched by your side, the sound of skin scraping against concrete and a subtle dip in the mattress underneath you serving as your only hint at his position. He didn’t touch you, not at first, but it might’ve been better if he had. At least then, you wouldn’t have to wait for it. If he lashed out, you wouldn’t have to spend so long wondering where he was going to strike first. “I’ve been dreaming about this, cutie,” He stated, the words almost a sigh. Contented, fulfilled. As if he might let you go again, just to see how good it’d feel to snatch you back up. “You kept me waiting for forever, you know that. Wanna guess how long?”

You thought it was rhetorical. This was his long-winded, villainous monologue, and you were the damsel in distress, forced to listen. Your assumption was corrected with a flick to your forehead, the gesture playful, but still startling enough to make you recoil. “Answer when I ask a question, brat.”

You remembered the day, but not the date. He’d tried to get your number in a bar, then when you politely declined, he’d tried to slip something into your drink and you’d splashed it over his chest, staining the nicest shirt you’d ever seen. You’d been so proud of yourself, you’d let yourself buy coffee from the most expensive shop in town every morning for the next week. “Seven months?” You guessed, your voice coming out meeker than you meant for it to be. “I... I’m not really sure.”

Another laugh, this one punctuated by a tap to your cheek. “You really don’t think much of me, huh? Can’t say I’m not offended, (Y/n).” There was a slight lull, and when he went on, his tone dropped, lowering just enough for the change to be noticeable. Just enough to make his touch seem dangerous, as he took you by the jaw. “Two years. We’ve been playing this game for two fucking years, and apparently, you didn’t even notice. It would’ve been one thing if you rejected me, but I don’t like being ignored. I spent so much time watching, so much time nudging you in the right direction, but you’ve always been the oblivious type, haven’t you?” There was another sigh, this one labored, heavy. Tired, but not as regretful as it should’ve been. “Oblivious and energetic. But, we’ll plenty of time to take care of that together, won’t we?”

It was a numb sort of shock. A realization you should’ve seen coming, an injury that phased through your skin and struck your chest without a buffer to cushion the blow. “Bastard,” You spat, before you could think better of it. It was more frustration than anything - hot, overwhelming frustration. Suddenly, you wish he’d been kind enough to gag you, too. You wouldn’t be able to make things worse for yourself, that way. “You were following me for years, and your first move was to drug me? You must be even crazier than I thought--”

He was gracious enough not to let you dig your own grave any deeper. Without warning, two fingers forced themselves into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat and making you lurch forward, only for Oikawa to catch your shoulder. “We’ll have to work on that too, but don’t worry.”

He paused, leaning forward, pressing a kiss into your forehead, one so light and so sweet, you could almost ignore the bared teeth, lingering underneath it.

“Your boyfriend’s gonna take care of everything, from now on.”

It was a small mercy that he’d gotten rid of the mattress.

He must’ve gotten tired of it, of giving you the luxury of being able to squirm and lean away from his touch and pull at the tether he’d repurposed when you got too brave, for his taste. Its replacement had been simple - a wooden chair, metal fetters keeping your wrists bond to its arms and your ankles to its legs. You’d say you didn’t see the point in the latter pair, but it would’ve been impossible to ignore Oikawa’s intentions, this far into your captivity.

You’d tried biting at him. You’d tried worming your way out of your restraints and finding weak-points in your shackles and, the few times you’d been able to, attacking him out-right, but Oikawa was an Olympic athlete and you were sore and stiff and drained, and there was nothing you could do to stop him as he draped himself over your shoulders, a knife in one hand and the other preoccupied, playing with your pussy and getting a little more impatient every time you growled or shrunk into yourself or gave him an exuse to do something reckless and heartless. It was humiliating. It was risky, moreso than it had to be. It was…

It wasn’t your last admirer would’ve done. Not while you knew him. Not before you left. Not before he became one of two hellish options.

“Still awake, angel?” It was more of a purr than a question, finished off by a tilt of his blade, the sharpened edge pressing into the flesh of your throat. A rational, logical part of you knew he’d never do it. If he wanted to kill you, he’d already had plenty of time to, and while Oikawa was a pervert and a kidnapper and a psychopath, he didn’t seem like the type to get his hands that dirty. Part of you knew that, a part of you was so sure of that, but that sensible minority seemed to grow fainter every time his thumb prodded at your clit, pushing messy circles around the sensitive nub, every time lithe fingers traced over your slit, collecting slick and playing with the idea of fucking genuinely fucking into you. Playing with it, just playing with it. Touching you enough to make your mind fog over and tears form in the corner of your eyes, but not enough to let you forget where you were or, more troublingly, who was touching you. “I don’t know how far I can push you, after this morning,” He went on, casually. “I mean, when you passed out, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I never thought you’d have anything against blood.”

Blood. That reminded you of something, something older than the open wounds still littered over your hips and spotted across your back. A broken nose, an ex-boyfriend complaining about your ‘over-protective friend’. Dirty alleys and pieces of glass. Bloody knuckles, scraped and raw, but not Oikawa’s.

The blindfold was gone, but you clenched your eyes shut regardless. You didn’t want to think about that. Oikawa’s sadism was easier to lean into, in comparison, more welcoming, although not nearly as hospitable as the dark, repressed recesses of your mind. It wasn’t like he would’ve let you drift off, anyway. The moment he noticed your attention start to shift, two digits were forced through your tight entrance, making you jerk forward just enough for his blade to draw a thin, red line in your throat, warm blood just beginning to drip from the corners by the time he pulled away. It didn’t hurt. Hell, it barely stung, but suddenly, your heart was racing, your pulse beating in your ears, and Oikawa’s laugh ringing out like chapel bells on the morning of an execution.

It wasn’t adrenaline. It wasn’t panic suppressed by practicality. The only thing you felt in that moment was white, hot fear. For your safety, your well-being, your life. For all the things Oikawa could so easily take away, if he wanted to.

He was just as merciless in this facet as he was in any other, chasing after his own entertainment rather than your satisfaction. He didn’t try to hide it, either. You could feel his smirk bite into your scalp as he pushed a fleeting, affectionate kiss into the top of your head, as he curled his fingers and spread them apart, giving your aching cunt everything it’d been dying for. It was cruel, really, how you could barely buck your hips, every little movement only putting you closer to his knife, to the thing that could end you with a slip of his wrist or a switch in his mood, but there wasn’t anything you could do. You were beginning to think that was what Oikawa wanted. To push you into a defeatist mindset. To prove that trying to resist was useless, now that he’d gained the upper hand. To make you see that he’d already won, and he wasn’t going to indulge you with a second round.

There wasn’t anything you could do. Not anymore.

You’d already lost.

The first time he fucked you, it’d been in his own bed.

Or, you think it was his bed, at least. He’d taken you out of the basement the same afternoon, and when you didn’t try to run the first time he turned his back, he’d nodded approvingly and cuffed your wrists to his headboard as a well-earned precaution. There was a jersey mounted on the wall with colors you didn’t recognize, but it wasn’t like you’d ever been his biggest fan. Gold and silver trophies were arranged half-hazardly along a shelf on the far wall, but he might’ve just liked to show off. He liked to show off. Above all things, you knew he loved to show off.

That was why he’d waited so long, until you could barely think and your whole body ached and you’d been willing to do anything to sleep in a real bed, rather than on a cement floor with little more than ropes and chains for company. You really couldn’t think, could you? You’d been focused on the ceiling since he first forced himself into you, your cunt already wet from too much foreplay and too little pay off, but even that was blurry, now, a blend of beige and white with nothing to interrupt it. Oikawa was talking again, but you didn’t want to listen. You couldn’t be sure of how long you’d been here, but it was long enough to know things were easier, when you didn’t listen to him.

A few words made it through the haze, though, once your gaze drifted to his face and you saw his lips moving. “So pretty,” He muttered, his voice low, just quiet enough not to be affected by the way he thrust into you, measured and erratic, at the same time. There was a spark of pain in your hips, strain in your thighs, and you realized he was holding your legs, one thrown over his shoulder and a thigh pressed into his side, his nails biting into your skin. It hurt, but in a distant sort of way. The pain was cold, like a knife cutting dead meat. Something that elicited a feeling similar enough to be recognized, but missed the mark and landed somewhere alien, instead. “My pretty little girl, my stubborn sweetheart, mine,” He went on, almost incoherently. He didn’t think you were listening, and to his credit, you really wished you weren’t. “Mine, mine, mine. Perfect and beautiful and mine.”

His hips slotted against yours, his cock hitting something soft and spongy inside of you, and you couldn’t seem to smother the shudder that worked its way through your body, that dull electricity that had your nerves standing on-edge, your back arching, a pitch whine snaking out of your throat that would’ve been painful to swallow down. It was less of a reaction and more of an impulse, something you were too worn-down to fight off, but Oikawa’s lazy grin still widened as he leaned down, nipping at your jugular. “Like that?” He asked, the words nearly muffled by your skin. “Does she wanna be mine?”

You didn’t deny it. You didn’t have time to try. His lips were on yours before your could, the collision sudden and messy and harsh. You pulled at your restraints, but Oikawa’s only response was to groan against your mouth, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek, to clamp down around your jaw and hold you in place as he raked his tongue over yours. It was the first time he’d kissed you, beyond chaste pecks and bites that spoke more to his bloodlust than his fondness.

It was the first time he’d kissed you, and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him, you could hardly bring yourself to think about Oikawa. All you could do was remember the last time someone had kissed you like this.

All you could do was remember him.

It was a flood of information, too much to process at once. The house you grew up in, back in Japan, and a boy sitting on your bed with pretty eyes and a stern scowl and the lightest blush painted across his pale skin. How he’d tasted, the way he’d way he kissed you - shyly but fiercely, like you were the only thing that mattered to him, the only thing he was willing to dig his nails into and keep. The phone calls at midnight, the afternoons you spent on the bleacher’s of your high school’s gym, the friends that avoided you and the arm that was constantly wrapped around your waist, holding you just tightly enough to make breathing a little harder than it should’ve been.

The ring he’d tried to give you, after graduation, the one you’d never gotten a chance to wear. How he pushed his bangs away from his face as he tried to shove his way into your apartment, yours, not the one you’d shared with him and fled from, the first time he'd lost his temper. The restraining order that never stopped him, and the feeling of his hands around your neck, everything. Everything you’d tried to think of as an accomplishment. Everything you wanted so badly to think you were in control of, even as you bought a plane ticket and packed your bags and ran, just to get away from it. Everything you’d been stupid enough to think you could avoid, with Oikawa.

You couldn’t be sure when you started crying, but you must’ve. There was a cracked sob before you started talking, and then something you could only barely recognize as your own voice. “Tobio,” You gasped, flinching into yourself. There weren’t tears, but your eyes were wide, burning. You didn’t want Kageyama to touch you. Someone was touching you, and you didn’t want Kageyama to touch you. “Please, Tobio, it hurts, it-- I can’t-- I can’t breath--”

Finally, Oikawa stilled, pulling back just enough for his confused expression to be visible. He didn’t try to hide it, bewilderment mixing with offense before he put the pieces together, before uncertainty turned to realization and realization turned to anger. He didn’t hit you, but for a moment, you thought he was going to. It looked like he wanted to, but he didn’t.

Just as quickly, his features softened, and he broke out into a wide, forgiving smile. As if you’d only ever imagined his frown.

His next kiss was gentle, barely a shadow of his first. Soothing, in a way. It might’ve been comforting, if you weren’t so distraught. “Why didn’t you say something, angel?” It was a question, but he didn’t bother waiting for an answer. You were almost relieved. You probably wouldn’t have known what to say. “If I’d known you were scared of big, bad Tobio all this time, I would’ve done something. He’s so mean, isn’t he? Did he put his hands on you?” There was a hint of resentment in his tone, but it was easily lost under the faux empathy, the sweetness. So layered on, you might’ve believed it was genuine. You could’ve, if you tried to. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore, not while I’m here.”

“I don’t…” You tried to respond, it was a weak attempt. Now, the tears came, but Oikawa didn’t seem to have a problem brushing them away, cooing as he swiped his thumb over your cheek. “You won’t--”

“I want to keep you safe,” He corrected, before you could convince yourself he didn’t. “From Tobio, from everyone. And you’re gonna let me, aren’t you, princess?”

You wanted to feel safe. You wanted so desperately to feel safe. Running away from Kageyama hadn’t worked, not when it just led you to Oikawa, and it’d been so pointless to act like you were ever in control. You wanted to be protected. You wanted to be safe, and Oikawa seemed so sure of himself, as he started to fuck into you again, his pace considerstate and his touch loving. So loving, it was easy to think he might actually love you. More than Kageyama did, anyway, towards the end.

Maybe you would let him.

Maybe you’d try, just to see what it was like.

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justnerdthings · 3 years

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New Beginnings Ch. 14

F!Reader x Liu Kang/Kung Lao

Some of you are about to be real happy.

And then real pissed off.

just a friendly warning.

Also, only two of you voted. *stares in disappointed*

@ancientowlgirl @poor-unfortunate-soul-85 @shang-hung

Enough of this. Why were you being so nervous? You were a badass. You could run into blazing infernos. Or could lunge over cliffs. You could make the earth shake!

You took a deep breath and straightened as you looked to Lao. Alright. Do it. Just do it! You opened your mouth, ready to declare that you were more than impressed with his abs…

Only a small sound escaped you. Your lungs betrayed your sliver of confidence. Lao’s brows raised in confused concern.

You shut your mouth. Your lips pursed together. What had you been thinking? Of course you couldn’t do this. You sighed in your defeat and looked away again.

Lao chuckled as he recognized that familiar doubt come to your face. “Just say it,” he told you, earning himself a small cornered glance from you. He moved in front of you. “What? What’s going on in that head of yours?”

When you shifted your eyes away again to avoid looking at him, he just moved into your new line of sight. “What is it?” He pressed again.

You shook your head and turned away, only for him to once again move in front of you. “We’re not leaving this spot until you tell me. You really gotta get over this--… whatever it is. How bad could it really be? It’s alright if you’re cautious about water now. You said you almost drowned. It’s fine. We can work on that.”

“It’s not that,” you told him, fighting the annoyance in your voice.

“Then what?”

You sighed in defeat again. “I really don’t think I should—”

“Is it a woman thing?”

“What? No!” you gave him a disgusted look.

“Then what?”

You pressed your lips together in defiance.

Lao frowned. You noticed his spirit deflating. Dammit, he must have felt like you didn’t trust him again… You didn’t entirely, but the way his eyes looked right then made your heart drop. Damn puppy dog eyes. You looked away and grumbled. He hadn’t heard what it was you’d said so he stepped closer. “What?”

You took a deep breath. You said it a bit louder, but not any more clear.

“I can’t understand you when you mumble,” he’d told you.

“You’re hot!” You then blurted out, only to quickly shut your mouth and freeze like you’d just been caught red-handed while committing some crime.

Lao stared at you in silence for a moment, then grinned and began to laugh. You sank with embarrassment. You knew you shouldn’t have said anything. Now he was just laughing at you like all those guys you’d tried to ask out in high school. Dammit. Damn him! You turned in a huff and began to hurry away.

“Hey!” Lao called after you, and soon caught your wrist to stop you. He turned you to face him, that big grin still stretched across his face, but he was trying to fight it off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

“I’m used to it,” you told him, shame dripping from your words.

“No. No, it’s not like that. I swear.”

“It’s fine,” You tried to pull your hand back, but he gripped your wrist tighter and gently pulled you closer. You were wary as you looked up at his face.

“That’s what was so hard for you to say? That I’m hot?”

Your brows sunk as you frowned again.

“Y/N…” His grin slowly came back. “It’s fine. Really. Thank you.”

Your eyes shifted away. This was so embarrassing. Lao’s grip shifted from your wrist, gaining your attention, and you watched as he took your hand. Your chin was then lifted gently, making you look back to his face. He let his fingers linger along your jaw. That funny feeling in the pit of your stomach started up again. The one that knotted it the day before, just before Liu had pulled you into a kiss.

The icy chill of adrenaline washed over you as you stared up at him. Oh no. It was happening again. Now with Lao. Oh no. No. No. No. This was not a good idea. What if Liu found out? What did that even mean? Were you and Liu a couple now? Is that what happened yesterday? You had no idea. You two never said anything about that. Maybe it was just a one time thing? No. No, Lao had told you that Liu was interested in you. Maybe you two were a couple now. But now, Lao…

Oh, this was not going right at all. Not both of them. You didn’t know what Liu had in mind, but Lao… Lao had told you days ago that he was picky about his relationships. He was looking for a wife. He was looking for a mother for his future children. And just a few hours ago, he’d made it apparent that you were being considered for both those things. Oh no. No. No. This had to stop.

Lao’s eyes had shifted to your lips. Your breath hitched as he leaned towards you. You pulled your head back as a dark little piece of your mind screamed at you to let it happen. “Lao…” You said hesitantly.

He stopped. His brows knotted as he noticed a conflict on your face.

“I can’t,” you told him gently. “Not with… I mean… Liu…” You couldn’t form a proper sentence as guilt began sinking it’s talons into you.

Lao let out a slow sigh. Right… Liu. Liu had acted first, hadn’t he? And Liu had gotten so defensive over you last night. Lao let your hand go and stepped back. “Sorry.”

"No." You moved towards him, frowning. "Don't be… You…" Oh, god, how could you say this without sounding pathetic. "I… This is all really new to me. No one's ever been interested in me before. And now… Now I have two guys interested in me and they're practically brothers."

Lao watched you as a familiar hint of panic began to lurk in your eyes.

"I don't know what I'm doing…" you admitted. "Up until yesterday, I'd never kissed anyone."

Lao nodded and suddenly realized how uncomfortable you must have felt. Strange place. Strange people. Strange customs. And now strange feelings. He took a deep breath. Tears had threatened to fall down your cheeks. Lao was not good at dealing with crying. And thinking he may have caused this bout, dread and helplessness weighed on his shoulders.

Lao reached out and pulled you right into his chest. His strong arms wrapped around you and held you tight. He wasn't sure if this was the right move or not, but it felt like something you'd appreciate.

You couldn't help the tears as you were held. You cried right into his chest as anxiety surged through your body. You felt a gentle weight on the top of your head. "It's alright. I'm sorry," Lao said softly. You realized then that it was his chin resting on the top of your head. That was… sweet.

He must have held you for a few minutes before the awkwardness overwhelmed him. He lifted his head and pulled back a bit to look at your face. "You want to get some breakfast?"

You'd almost forgot that you hadn't eaten yet. Nodding, you pulled out of his arms and for a second it seemed like he didn't want to let you go, but had relented. You wiped at your wet eyes as you turned and headed for the dining room.

You were sitting next to Liu again at the breakfast table. Your eyes were still puffy and red, but you had assured Liu it was nothing. Lao didn’t do anything. It was just anxiety. He didn’t seem completely convinced, but let it go.

You both kept stealing glances at each other. You even stole a few of Lao, who wasn’t even bothering to hide his own efforts. A red hue stained your cheeks again.

The door opened and in walked a monk. He walked right over to the table and handed Lao an envelope with a polite bow. He bowed to you and Liu as well before taking his leave. You watched curiously before looking back to Lao as he opened the envelope.

“You guys… get mail?” You asked.

“We’re not completely in the dark ages,” Liu joked with an amused chuckle.

You grinned and looked back to Lao. Your grin quickly faded as you saw the look on his face. “What? What is it?” you asked carefully.

“Nothing. It’s fine.” He lied. Lao shook his head and folded the letter back up.

“It’s not nothing,” you pressed.

“It’s fine. Just junk,” Lao dismissed.

Liu reached for the empty envelope. He read over the address. “Your mother.”

“Yeah.” Lao took the envelope back with a sigh.

“What’d she say?” You asked.

“Nothing.” Lao was being so avoidant.

“She sent you a blank letter?” You asked in disbelief. No. It was definitely something.

“Yeah—Hey!” Lao reached out, but it was too late, you had swiped the letter from him. Your pride quickly fell as you looked over the handwritten letter.

It was entirely in chinese.

“Oh.” You frowned in your defeat. “Uh… I… I can’t read this,” you admitted.

Lao reached for it again, but Liu had grabbed it before he could. Lao sighed heavily. “Really? It’s none of your business—”

“Your brother and Ju had a baby?” Liu asked. “I didn’t know that they were expecting.”

Lao sighed again. “Yeah. Didn’t think it was that important to mention.”

“That’s great news!” You chimed in, beaming. “Why aren’t you excited? You’re an uncle!”

“Yeah. Great.” Lao wasn’t at all excited.

“Oh…” Liu mused as he read over the rest of the letter.

“Yeah…” Lao sighed as shame washed over his face.

“Don’t let it get to you, Kung Lao,” Liu told him.

“Easier said than done.” Lao seemed so defeated.

Liu frowned and you looked between them in utter confusion. “What? Don’t let what get to him?”

Neither one of them said anything for a moment, much to your annoyance. “C’mon. What’s wrong? I thought we were supposed to be a team?” Weren’t you? Shouldn’t you know what was bothering each other? What had Lao’s mother said in the letter?

Liu and Lao exchanged a glance before Liu looked back to the letter. He cleared his throat. “To my dearest, Kung Lao. We have welcomed your brother Chang and his wife’s first child into the family. They were blessed with a son who they have named Kung Jin. I hope this serves as motivation for you. How much longer are you going to wait? You are twenty-seven years old, unwed, and childless. I do not need to remind you that you carry the responsibility to carry on your ancestor’s legacy. Mortal Kombat is only five years away and you have not yet produced a son to continue the tradition. If you die in the tournament without a son to carry on the name, shame will fall onto this family. This is completely irresponsible of you. Your father is very ashamed of you. Stop fooling around. Love, Your mother.”

You could not believe your ears. “No. She didn’t write that,” you said, denying such a thing. How could a mother speak that way to her own child? You shook your head. This had to be a joke.

But Liu and Lao weren’t laughing.

It sunk in. What Liu read to you was real. Lao’s mother really had wrote those words. Your jaw hardened. “That bitch…” you mused, not meaning to say it out loud. Both of them heard it, but neither defended Lao’s mother’s honor. They just exchanged another glance with each other. You reached out and took the letter. You still couldn’t read it, but you didn’t want to if such awful words were on it.

You tore it up.

Liu and Lao both watched you in mild surprise as you shredded that letter into the tiniest pieces. “This never happened,” you told them both and brushed the pieces of paper off the table and your lap.

“Y/N…” Lao spoke, but stopped as you stared up at him defiantly.

“Never. Happened,” you repeated. “Got lost in the mail,” you offered.

Liu grinned and looked down to his plate.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was well after breakfast and you were training with Liu. You were balancing on the pole again… well, not really. Your balance was awful. Your concentration was shot. Each time you fell, you didn’t even pay enough attention to be upset with yourself. Liu noticed it immediately, but chose to not say anything at first, hoping you would work through your intrusive thoughts. But it was becoming obvious that you weren’t even trying to avoid them.

He let out a small sigh, and that was enough to catch your attention. You looked up to him with knotted brows.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

You shook your head. “Just can’t believe a mother would say that kind of stuff.”

He nodded. It had stayed on his mind too, but he was used to it. He’d known the woman almost his entire life. “She means well.”

“Bullshit,” you hissed.

Liu didn’t even fight your protest. He nodded in agreement. “She’s always been like that,” he told you. “Ever since we were children. His father isn’t any better.”

You frowned.

“He didn’t have the best childhood.”

“Don’t tell me he was abused…” You dreaded that thought.

Liu pursed his lips for a moment. That’s all you needed to see to know the answer. God, dammit. If you ever met that woman… if you ever met Lao’s father… No. You couldn’t even beat Lao. How good of fighters would his parents be? You sighed and let your clenched jaw relax.

“Thank the gods Lao turned out as well as he did,” you breathed. Liu nodded.

“I remember when we were children and I would notice new bruises on his arms or face. He never talked about them. He never had to. Sometimes I would just take him away from the temple and we’d run around… get in a bit of trouble together. Anything to distract him, really,” Liu said.

“Did the temple ever do anything about his parents?” You asked.

Liu shook his head. “They were practically untouchable. Still are, I imagine.”

“Like royalty,” you accused.

Liu nodded. “Something like that.”

“Still no excuse to beat your kid… Never an excuse for that.”

“I agree.”

“Has his family always been like that? Even his grandparents?”

Liu shrugged his shoulders. “Never met them.”

“Aunts? Uncles?”

Liu shrugged again.

“This really pisses me off, Liu.”

“Mhm.” He nodded. It upset him too. “But, they can’t do it anymore.”

“What about that baby? Is his brother like that?”

“Chang was always jealous of Lao. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has his own issues.”

“That’s not comforting to hear.”

“I know.”

“What about that baby, Liu?”

“I don’t know.”

You didn’t like that answer. You didn’t like that answer at all.

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat 2021 #liu kang #kung lao #raiden #reader insert #fanfic #fic #reader x character #ludi lin #max huang #tadanobu asano #new beginnings #reader x liu kang #reader x kung lao #liu kang x reader #kung lao x reader

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hazzabeeforlou · 4 years

Text

Walls Masterpost

It’s the 28th of pride month, and fitting to post this now. The soul of Walls is the unabashed, fierce, tender, and brave love of a man who has shown for years that he is proud. This album isn’t a cohesive story line, nor do I think it’s even the album Louis envisioned himself putting out. He only flirts with true indie music like that of his idols; Always You is a pop masterpiece, TOU is a ballad, and Perfect Now a love song in the style of Little Things. The album is a collection of letters each addressed to a singular recipient, personal, self-searching, blunt, too vulnerable to be easy listening (if you really listen). Walls shows us the scope of Louis’ capacity for love. It’s the culmination of years of pain, heartbreak, and hope, written with the raw honestly of an archeologist stumbling upon his own personal memoirs.

Please feel free to ask questions if any of the technical stuff is confusing, and remember these are my interpretations as a classically trained musician. I will use the name “Subject” for the implied “you” in each of Louis’ songs.

Kill My Mind: in F minor. The verses are i VII IV, the tiny bridge IV III I (?), and the chorus is VII IV I, repeat.

There are two oddities about this. First, in a natural minor key, the forth chord is minor (iv) but Louis keeps this B flat chord in major, changing the D flat to a D natural. Secondly, in the chorus, Louis changes from using a minor one chord to a major one. He raises the A flat to an A natural as he sings “Raise my body [A natural here] back to life.” This bit of text painting not only illustrates his words, but lends the song an off kilter feel, confusing the key signature between F minor and B flat Major (which has an A and D natural).

Kill My Mind is Louis’ only ‘drugs’ song on the album, and I say that both because the metaphor is obvious and because he uses that obvious metaphor to compare addiction to a relationship. It reminds me, lyrically, of Back To You, and, like that song, could easily be interpreted as about a controlling force in his life on whom he’s become dependent, or a lover.

Don’t Let It Break Your Heart: this is easily in the key of B flat Major. The verses are I IV vi 6/4 V 6/4, the bridge vi vi V IV vi V, the chorus same as the verses, I IV vi 6/4 V 6/4.

This is Louis’ most hopeful track, and is so clearly about grief. Much has been made of the first line “on our way to twenty seven” being a reference to the 27 Club, a cultural phenomenon of icons/musicians/artists that die at that age due to fame/high risk lifestyle, but Louis then says they’re “doing better,” implying that both he and Subject are in this category. The rest of the song is him counseling and comforting Subject, empathizing with the hurt of loss, encouraging Subject, “Don’t let it kill you even when it hurts like hell.” He knows this pain, knows it deep, and knows that it takes time to heal.

Two Of Us: IV I V iv V IV I V vi V. This progression is the same for both verses and chorus. The bridge is a bit hard to decipher as it moves in 3rds and not triads, something like IV V vi V vi V.

Not much needs to be said about this song. It’s Louis’ beautiful ode to his mom, and he sings it with incredible vulnerability and heart.

We Made It: this is the revolving door song. One progression is used, IV I V iii, and repeats from start to finish. It keeps reminding me of Coldplay.

What’s interesting is that each chord functions as the subdominant or leading chord of the next, basically spinning us ever forwards so we never stop on a tonic home base. The E flat IV chord leads to the B flat I, the B flat I then functions as a IV chord to the V chord (F Major), then the D minor III chord functions as a major VII leading to a I of E flat (the beginning IV chord we started with in B flat Major) and the cycle repeats.

Louis leaked part of this song several years ago, and a line about moonlight replaced the “met you at your uni” section, interestingly. “Playing something pop’y on the same four chords, used to worry bout it but I don’t no more.” Young love. He remembers how it tasted. Subject was high on what? Adrenaline? Orgasm? It’s a tender reminiscence with a hint of tragedy, “don’t know why they put this all on us when were so young.”

Too Young: in E Major, the verses and chorus are IV I V vi (the vi is omitted at the cadences), the bridge is vi I V IV I V.

Louis is once again looking back, regretful. Louis doesn’t speak in metaphors, the lyrics are to the point and precise. He’s hurt Subject, he’s given in to pressures, he’s cut subject off... the “2 years since I’ve seen your face” of course doesn’t fit the chronology of the album, but rather of his public life, as does the previous song’s line of “met you at your uni.” It’s interesting, then, that while Louis takes the blame for so much, he still says ‘we were too young’ and not ‘I was too young,’ implying that Subject was at least partly to blame for the hurt too, if only by fault of immaturity.

Walls: This is in B Major. The chord progression for verses is

vi I vi I, V [V7 with the melody note on the E natural] IV V V7 II IV i6 (passing chord)

chorus, IV I V I6, IV I V III6 vi V II6 Vi ii I (IV I passing chords)

bridge, IV vi V, IV vi V, Vi vi III6 vi V II (this holds over til chorus)

This is Louis’ tour de force. Walls is as complex as it is beautiful. His use of Major II chords, altered from a normal ii chord in Major key signatures, and his use of a Major III chord (which, again, is minor in Major key signatures) adds an unconventional twist. The opening and closing lyrics, “nothing wakes you up like waking up alone,” are set against a sparse vi I; but you see the vi chord doesn’t normally go to I, usually ii, IV, and V have that role, so by using a vi to I Louis is showing us the tonic alone, nothing ‘surrounding’ it. This song is so complex and layered, and I would argue it’s the one song besides OTB that is ripe for poetic interpretation; on first glance the lyrics seem so obvious, but there’s the music video to consider, the metaphor of him being left alone, high on a wall that has not fallen down, a blank name tag on his chest. The door opening to a desert on one side and a bullseye masquerade on the other has no happy implications, yet Louis has become a man through it all, he says, and he has no regrets about letting his walls crumble for love, damn the consequences he’s suffered.

Habit: in G Major, the verses are I ii IV I, the bridge vi V IV I vi V IV ii7, the chorus I ii IV (vi V added when leading to next verse). Interestingly, in the verse that says “come so far from Princess Park,” the repeated line “in front of me, in front of me” adds two chords to the verse, between the IV and I, a vi and V.

Like in too young, this is an apology, and Louis lays out his sins plainly. And while it’s unequivocal, we can see the extenuating circumstances: “took some time ‘cause I ran out of energy playing someone I heard I’m supposed to be.” There is no more damning line of lyrics. Louis has been exhausted holding some line, an invisible current through his music that he never truly addresses, yet always its there, a background character, a force of cruel divinity. “Don’t know why they put this all on us when were so young.” “I’m too far gone to pray.”

Always You: This song could conquer radio in half a heartbeat, given a chance. It’s in E Major, verses are I vi IV, chorus is I vi IV, the same.

This is world tour of missing Subject, this is Miss You but rephrased, reworked, gone from punk to pop princess. We have Amsterdam, Tokyo, LAX, Heathrow, which speak for themselves. “My baby,” Louis quotes over and over. He’s been “chasing a high,” and I’m reminded of the high in We Made It, “baby you were still high.” Orgasm? Adrenaline? Love?

Fearless: A minor. Verses, i VII VI (added VI VII when leading back to verse), bridge is i V VI (III VII passing chords can be heard) i V VI VII

Now the very short chorus (”fearless, fearless,”) is, if we stick to A minor, III, III4/2, i, VI. I think, however, that at this point the piece modulates, going from A minor to C Major, (A minor is the relative minor of C Major, which means that the two keys share a key signature and can go into and out of each other easily) making the progressions I I4/2 (4/2 is an inversion of a 7th chord) vi IV. Now to add complexity on top of that, having a I7 chord is incredibly unusual, so I wouldn’t label it that, I would label it a V4/2 of IV, meaning that C7 chord functions as a cadential chord leading to F, or the IV chord, of C Major. This is all rather complicated, but knowing how it was constructed shows the song’s complexity. The final “fearless, fearless” progression then is: I, V4/2 of IV, vi, VI.

In this song I believe Louis’ Subject is himself. it’s a song about fame and anxiety and the lost innocence (and gutsiness) of youth. It’s a brutal song that I doubt Louis would write to anyone besides himself given how he focuses solely on his own faults and doesn’t lay anything at the feet of his other Subjects. The laughing children heard fist and last are a cutting effect.

Perfect Now: D Major. Verses, I I7 [again this is technically a V7 of IV, and functions as that since it leads to IV] IV6/4 iv6/4

bridge, iii vi ii vi

chorus, IV V I IV V I, IV V I IV I

second bridge, V vi IV I, V vi IV vi (then to chorus)

This is a strange little song, perhaps its most unusual quirk being the switch from a Major IV chord to a minor iv chord in the verse. The Subject in this song loves to dance, and I’m reminded of KMM. Subject isn’t just not feeling pretty, they’re depressed, they are reticent to be looked upon (”don’t hide away”) they are a crown-less queen, and tears are the norm. Subject has a platform - everyone is looking at them - and is a scene stealer, charismatic without trying. I’ve attempted and failed to understand this song in any way other than that Subject is dealing with dysphoria, and that this is Louis’ ode to their perfection, an affirmation of an identity that perhaps can only be realized in private. It is in this interpretation that the Major to minor flip of the 4 chord makes me absolutely crumble into pieces.

Defenceless: C flat Major (a most unusual key for a pop song). Verses are I V6 vi IV, bridge IV vi I V, chorus is IV vi I V (the falsetto second bridge is the same)

Defenceless is Louis at his most honest. Who writes these lyrics in a pop song? “You don’t have to keep on being strong for me and you,” “just want to be loved by you,” “you don’t have a thing to prove,” “I’m too tired to be tough,” “Wish I didn’t need so much of you.” A moth to a flame is different from a moth to a light; immolation is a theme in love stories. This is too honest for a love song, and it feels intrusive just to listen. Louis has a deep love for Subject, an abiding care and need for them.

Only The Brave: E flat Major. Verse, I (IV I) IV I, I (IV I) IV I

Chorus is vi V IV I [ii iii IV V OR IV V IV V, I can’t determine because of the movement in 3rds] I

This song. I can only compare it to when I used to cry when I’d see speeches about gay love; I never understood why, but I just knew, in my heart, before my brain had figured it out yet, that I was the same. This song is that. It is so intrinsically gay, the metaphors are woven in every word, every nuance. Burn history, break rules, cry like a fool, close enough to touch... the church of burnt romances. “I’m too far gone to pray.” Love is only for the brave. Of course it takes a great deal of bravery to love anything completely, to face the prospect of loss knowing how that love will rip you apart. And in the end, some might say from the cradle to the grave you are ultimately alone. Yet Louis knows better than any that those you love are always with you, “even when I’m on my own, I know I won’t be alone.” I believe this song is Louis’ concluding thesis to an album filled to the brim with anecdotes of his own love, a gift to us speaking of the commonality he shares with the wider community, a history of brave love, of loneliness, of too many dying stars in the sky. The tall tales, only hello hello, no goodbye; we don’t focus on the goodbyes. We tell our stories with happy endings, but love, sometimes it doesn’t have those, for some of us it’s a solo song.

Louis Tomlinson, I’m sure there’s not a chance in a million you’ll ever read this but, if you do, I see you, we see you. You are so loved. Thank you for this album, thank you for giving us this gift of love. Continue your artistic journey and follow your heart. We’ll be here, because for us, it’s Always You.

#walls masterpost #mine #music analysis #lyric analysis #walls album #louis tomlinson #walls analysis

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flowerbinniee · 4 years

Note

Can I have an Isaac Lahey request? Angst then fluff maybe? Thanks so much!!!

hi, sweet nonnie! thank you for the request, and i hope you enjoy it.

title: burn it (til it’s all gone)

summary: a secret is unearthed from underneath your bed when scott and stiles help you move out of your childhood home, and what follows after is something you can only call karma.

word count: 1158 (i got a little carried away holy shit.)

warning(s): a bit of foul language (a couple of f-bombs are dropped) and mentions of major character death

a/n: i had quite of bit of fun writing this after i really got started. i got the idea for this from this song and a few lines of this one.

“Y/N/N.” You stop taping up another box to load into your car to face Stiles, who’s holding up a rectangular box tied closed with string. “What about this one? You taking it?”

You probably looked very much like a deer in headlights, eyes bulging out of your head and posture stricken with anxiety and horror. You forgot you’d tucked that little brown box into the farthest corner under your bed. Damn Stiles for finding the thing, and damn yourself for keeping it all these years. You should’ve burned the bitch after all. “Uh,” you bite your lip in apprehension, “I’m actually throwing it out. I don’t need it anymore.” He nods and tosses it onto your naked mattress.

“What’s in it?” Scott asked as he gingerly places a picture in a cardboard box.

You wave a dismissive hand. “Just some letters that I wrote when I was younger. It’s embarrassing now that I think about it.” Being in love with someone you’ll never see again, you sure are a fucking masochist. “They were more for me than they were the other person, so…”

“Ooh, our little Y/N/N wrote letters for someone?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at you, and as much you adored the spastic brainiac, you wanted nothing more than to throat-punch him. “Was it someone we know?”

If you don’t tell them now, you’ll never hear the end of it. “Yeah.” You push the pads of your fingers harder into your desktop. “Isaac.” Saying his name after three years still stung, still tasted rotten on your tongue.

“Isaac?” Stiles turns to face you fully, his face full of disbelief. “You wrote love letters to Isaac?”

You nodded. You couldn’t trust your voice not to break if you opened your mouth.

“For how long?” Scott stopped packing your bookshelf once he’d found out you wrote love letters to his old friend.

“Ever since he moved here,” you replied. “I wrote them until he left.” What was the point if I was never going to see him again?

“I’m assuming he never read them,” Stiles stated, and your head shook in agreement.

“At first, it was because I was too scared. I thought he was too good for me.” You ignored Stiles’s indignant scoff. “Then, it was because he started showing obvious interest in someone else.”

“You mean Allison.”

“Yeah.” You cross your room to pick up the box and throw it into the black trash bag. “There’s no point in keeping them if I plan on never see him again.” The boys said nothing in response—even though you know they wanted to—and the subject dropped.

It’d been about a month in you living in your apartment before the universe decided it hated you. You were rushing around your kitchen to find your keys, so you could go to the store to pick up a couple of little things before your next two-week grocery haul. Your roommate was out on a jog, so you didn’t think they’d have guests for at least another couple of hours.

That’s why you looked so frazzled when you opened the door and saw him on the other side, fist raised to knock. His mop of curls and ocean eyes were the same as they were at sixteen, as beautiful as they were seven years ago. But the two of you knew that seven years was a long time to go without seeing someone.

So, in retrospect, he really shouldn’t blame you for squeaking like a fucking mouse that’s just been stepped on and slamming the door in his face.

“Y/N?” He calls from the opposite side of your front door, the slightest hint of a French accent in his voice. “I, um, I know it’s been a while since… since we’ve talked, but I need—”

You tug the door open and face him with utter blankness. “Been a while? Isaac, it’s been seven years. What reason you could possibly have for coming to my apartment unannounced?” You pause for a moment. “Wait. How did you even get my address?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Scott.” You roll your eyes and mumble an irritated “of course” under your breath.

“Well, you can tell him that the next time I see him, I’m going to punt his furry ass all the way to Washington, D.C.” You try to close the door again, but he jams his foot into the doorway to stop it.

“The reason I asked him for your address and came all the way out here to see you is because of these.” He lifts his left hand, and you really were going to kick Scott’s ass now. In his hand were a bundle of seven letters, the letters you were sure you threw away.

“Where did you get those?” You crossed your arms over your chest, your stance defensive.

“Stiles mailed them to me. He said that you were hiding something from me.” Your friends are assholes, but you really should’ve expected this.

“I knew I should’ve burned them,” you offhandedly remark.

“If it means anything, I’m really glad you didn’t.” He smiles down at them softly, and your heart forgets that you’re not sixteen anymore. “I wouldn’t have known about them or gotten to read them if you did.”

“That was the whole point of me hiding them. You were never supposed to know about them.”

“Why did you never give them to me?” He raises his eyebrow as if it weren’t the stupidest question he could’ve asked you.

“You kidding?” You huff out a breath through your nostrils. “They’re pathetic, Isaac. I was sixteen and in love with someone who’d never want me.”

“What made you think I didn’t want you?” What you wouldn’t give to have heard this seven years ago.

“Your obvious boner for Allison was a pretty big clue.” You knew you’d regret saying that later, and there wasn’t a day that you didn’t think about your dead friend. But years of repressing such strong feelings was coming back to bite you. “Oh, and my rampaging social anxiety was another big thing.”

He purses his lips and seems to be in deep thought before he sticks his hand out to you. “I want to start over. I came back because I was losing my mind over the thought of you loving me for this long without much of anything from you.” His shoulders slump a bit. “I’ll understand if you say no, but I’d really like to catch up over some coffee.” You flick your eyes up to meet his and see the mix of desperation and what might be dread in them. Fuck.

You clasp your hands in his. “I know a place that’s a few blocks from here. They have the best pastries.” He smiles that bright smile you fell in love with all those years ago and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Lead the way.”

#emmy answers 🎶#emmy writes 🎶#🖋 blurb reqs #isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #daniel sharman #daniel sharman x reader

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jvlicns · 4 years

Text

julian amante , twenty - three , cis male , THE TOWER .

amusing , candid , resourceful , petty , cataclysmic , arrogant.

first of all HELLO !! im z. 25 / she+her / pst. im thrilled to be here and honestly a little shocked ?? my app was a rushed MESS but im so happy the admins understood my nonsense !!

this is going to be a lil long so pls bear w me. im going to break it down into sections and eventually make an entire bio , but this will do in the mean time !

connections are here , & my discord is zvvf#1885 !

* tw for mention of drugs & alcohol

. . .

TAROT ━

the tower represents chaos , destruction , & upheaval. this change is usually sudden & unexpected -- & not always good. the tower itself is a symbol of ambition , but in this card we see it built on faulty premises & false beliefs , all of which are no longer useful.

the ruin of the tower is inevitable -- necessary for growth & groundbreaking renewal. it’s time to break out of the old ways.

AESTHETICS ━

cracked asphalt , bloody knuckles , tangerine sunsets. the smell of freshly cut grass . still , slow mornings. a neat row of fire ants , climbing up your bedroom wall. broken stained glass , an overgrown field. tears of laughter , the only you’ll ever shed.

money in a yellow envelope , guilt in your eyes , pressed flowers , a string quartet , corruption , loss of morals , student debt , a yellow light , darkness , hellfire.

THOUGHTS ━

" you’ve got your orders & that’s enough. you don’t know who’s telling you to throw your classmates off the scent , but you’re getting paid to do it. maybe your moral compass would stop you if you didn’t struggle so much in the financial department , but hey. you’re doing what you have to do to survive. if only you didn’t have to go against your better judgment for it. "

GENERAL ━

assigned to REYNOLDS house

fourth year -- senior .

currently working at the corner store as a cashier .

scholarship student -- 2.3 average gpa .

athlete , st. cade’s lacrosse team .

BACKGROUND ━

grew up in a small town in arizona , in one of those unfinished suburbs that ran out of funding halfway through a government project to “ upgrade ” that was met with widespread disapproval. it’s all empty pools & dirt lawns , a patchwork neighborhood of old houses mixed in with the new.

former golden boy who peaked in high school : star athlete , prom king , voted best smile. eternally toeing the line between CHAMPION & DIRTBAG.

well - liked , but known for being something of a hell - raiser. out every night , hungover every morning. it was less obvious back then -- he could easily brush it off as simple youthful rebellion , rather than a real personality defect.

his first taste of alcohol was in seventh grade. a summer night , with the sun retiring for the day but leaving her kiss on the still - warm pavement. his world -- previously filled with sunday school , tense family dinners , & 24 hour marathons of professional passive aggression , was forever changed. finally , the boredom slipped away. & not just that ! this was actually FUN.

but for someone with zero impulse control . . . a door opened , & he never managed to close it.

from a young age , his parents were always involved in the church. they attended every sunday , no excuses.

this lapsed as the years passed & the amante family found it more & more unpleasant to be in the same room together , but his parent’s beliefs never wavered. religion was used as a weapon in their home -- to shame & guilt. they claimed love , preached tolerance. what they practiced , however , was the opposite. as he grew older , julian managed to weasel his way out of most of their theological outings. he gained some freedom , in addition to the ire of his family. their disappointment in him grew from a tiny acorn to a mighty oak.

his parents had their own issues , long before julian came along. a marriage between two irreconcilable people. the love they should have shared mutated into something twisted , something that they could give only to their son. it was enough for them to feed him , clothe him , & put a roof over his head. anything else was simply asking too much.

despite coming from a low - income family , things have never been particularly DIFFICULT for him. sure , they struggled. he’s lost count of the times the power got shut off , or the water. but julian was the type of kid who could charm teachers into bumping his grade up to a 71% , despite the dozens of half - finished assignments & failed tests. he didn’t really have to try -- they just wanted to help him. ( pity , perhaps ? he turns a blind eye )

he coasted through school. one of those natural athletes that coaches & admin treat like celebrities , focusing all their attention on a teenager they have high hopes for. higher hopes than he had for himself , in fact.

julian never had dreams , not a plan for his future. all that stubborn arrogance fooled them : he’s spent the better part of the past seven years stalling. cutting corners & taking shortcuts , desperately avoiding reality.

he never expected to even leave his hometown , let along attend a prestigious college on a full ride lacrosse scholarship. somehow , he played enough games & passed enough classes to qualify for an opportunity that would pluck him from his sad , tragic storyline & deposit him on a shiny path to success. a fresh start.

he didn’t want to go. fought endlessly about it with his parents , his friends , himself. his place wasn’t at some hoity - toity school , surrounded by do - gooders & the conscientious. julian may have a knack for delusion , for spinning a story that suits him in whatever moment is passing. but he’s smart enough knows what his future holds : drinking himself to an early death in the very house he was born in. you can’t fight fate -- but you can surely postpone it.

in the end , it’s the boredom that convinces him. he’s said & done just about everything he can here , exhausted all the options he cares to consider. made plenty of enemies , as well as friends. built & burnt bridges.

the expectation of his teachers , his parents , were choking him. it’s foolish to think that this might be the way out – he’ll never change. but why not have some fun , while he’s still here ?

st.cade’s was a treasure trove for julian , filled with endless opportunities to amuse himself. despite his placement in reynold’s house & the mandatory church shit ( a part of his scholarship’s stipulations ) , it hasn’t been bad. another social scene for him to invade , conquests to be had , fights to provoke. the first few years were amazing : an intoxicated blur of his own little slice of this world.

he lives in the moment , greedily gathering every experience he can. nodding off in class , smoking behind the greenhouse , collecting all the free alcohol he manages to sniff out.

he’s learned this : a loud laugh & bravado can get you far. but now , his actions have finally caught up with him. the school is threatening to terminate his scholarship , to pack up his bags & send him on the first train home. & while he has no idea what to do , he knows he can’t go back. god , no.

even without what’s keeping him – the enticing mystery of helena’s disappearance , his friends , his freedom. he just can’t stand to go in reverse ; it would mean facing the consequences of every mistake he’s ever made ( & there are quite a few ! )

he’s a shark – he has to keep moving.

that first letter came soon after the school - wide assembly. small , neat type. direct. there was no mincing words , the sender made it perfectly clear : this is his only option. if he wants to maintain this lifestyle , this is the way. so he burns the letters , following their instructions. almost relieved to be given direction. it’s a respite in the current disarray – something he used to enjoy , but now just feels exhausting. he’s the band , humming away as the titanic sinks. not my business , he thinks. but he’ll drown all the same.

PERSONALITY ━

he’s an asshole but a F U N asshole -- that makes it palatable , right ??

not a dumbass , but the lack of impulse control + arrogance could have fooled me ! his intelligence is only hinted at , invisible unless you’re looking : reciting keats from memory , listing off all 79 of jupiter’s moons. remnants of past & fleeting obsessions.

has to actively undermine his own common sense -- for the laughs , of course !

selfish ; his needs & wants come before anyone else’s. a childish habit , yes , but one he’s been unable to break. ( not that he’s tried )

vacillates between aloof & dramatic. you can count on him to stir some shit up -- he adores chaos & just can’t keep his mouth shut. petty , to a fault.

he’s hot - shit & he knows it ; well aware of his pretty face & statuesque build. julian’s never been afraid of using it to his advantage , or even just reminding anyone around him of just how cute he is. ( listen up 5′s , a 10 is speaking ! )

has a strong aversion to authority. “ don’t tell me what to do ! ” . . . * quietly takes your advice when you’re not looking * . . .

the good parts of him are buried deep. his loyalty , his gentleness. a warm heart that can easily empathize , but chooses not to. julians pursuit of superficial gratification blinds him , warping his reflection like a funhouse mirror.

aggressive & unrelenting. this could be channeled into something of a work ethic , if he cared enough. instead , he uses it to get what he wants. whatever that might be.

curious as a cat with nine lives , he won’t hesitate to ask the question everyone’s thinking. that bluntness is almost appealing , as long as it’s not directed at you. this makes him somewhat of a good listener , even if he’s only paying attention to satisfy his own nosiness.

he’ll literally fight for the ones he loves. there aren’t many of them , but the sentiment stands. years of sports have taught him the value of teamwork , & he has yet to shake it. once you endear yourself to him , there’s no going back.

despite everything , julian manages to be a charismatic little firebrand. he’ll guarantee a good time , he just won’t help clean up the mess.

FUN FACTS ━

can fit his entire fist in his mouth

has The Loudest Sneeze Of All Time

once bit into an apple n saw a WORM inside so now he hates apples w a passion

right handed , but taught himself to be ambidextrous during the summer between fifth & sixth grade

promptly forgot he was ambidextrous & never uses his left hand

has surprisingly neat handwriting

can fall asleep ANYWHERE

likes country music ( will never admit it , tho )

his mother used to read him poetry , so he’s lowkey Very Into It

can’t carry a tune for shit , & his impressions are a w f u l. his british accent is just a cheap dick van dyke imitation , & his australian accent is what the british one SHOULD be

#atonedintro #i refuse to look at this anymore so im gna go play ac for 6 hourS

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queerhargreeves · 5 years

Text

Finish Your Thought

Diego’s stutter resurfaces after the apocalypse. The siblings handle the situation better than he expected and they learn more than they thought they knew about their brother.

It doesn’t happen immediately. Diego, just like the rest of the family, needed a week or so to just sit on and process the events that just happened. They successfully avoided the end of the world. Five is back, but he’s not the same person they all remember and he never will be. Klaus went to war. Klaus is capable of so much more. Ben can be back in their lives. Vanya has powers, stronger than all of them. Allison may never speak again. Reginald lied to them all more than they ever could have believed. Eudora was dead. They were together again.

It was a lot to take in. That first week back together, the seven siblings were raw. They walked on eggshells around each other, not wanting to cause any more pain to one another. They had spent entirely too long doing that.

Diego woke up three weeks after the almost end of the world in his childhood room. He could hear the soft sounds of his siblings and mom making breakfast downstairs, the smell of bacon wafting its way up into his room. He smiled softly at the domesticity of it all,

“A family, huh?” Diego thought to himself, still unable to fully wrap his head around that concept. There had been so many years of radio silence between the six of them. So many years of pent up feelings and frustrations with one another and their respective situations. Sure, he’d seen Klaus a few times here and there, but the visits were never entirely pleasant. It was either an OD visit, which always ended in tears and unresolved issues, or running into him as he was too out of himself to even remember his own name let alone Diego’s. Yeah, they all still had a lot to unpack.

His stomach growling got himself out of his thoughts; his body is right, these conversations can happen another time. He quickly stretched and started his small morning routine attempting to keep some sort of normalcy in his life. He dropped down to the floor and did 50 push ups, 50 sit ups, and 100 crunches. He took pride in his body and strength, something he always had to work for harder than his siblings. Well, harder than Number One at least.

Once finished and feeling slightly flushed, he washed his face and teeth and threw on the first shirt he saw in his dresser. As he made his way downstairs, the current hot topic of conversation became more clear.

“Klaus we have been over this literally a thousand times. Donuts are both a breakfast food and dessert, not just exclusively breakfast. Nothing that sugary should be qualified as ‘just breakfast’. ” Ben emphasizes, a hint of annoyance in his tone but it’s mostly light, playful banter.

“Benny dear, I hear you, I really do. But why do cops get donuts for breakfast, huh? It’s not dessert breakfast, it’s a breakfast food!”

“Is this conversation entirely necessary this early.” Five deadpans.

“Discourse is always necessary, baby old bro! Oh, Diego!” Klaus waved at him from his seat on the table, literally on the table, with a grin on his face.

Diego waved back, beelining to the pot of coffee. He grabbed himself a plate of waffles and bacon, kissing his mom on the cheek as he did so.

“Children, breakfast is ready! Everyone go on and have a seat, I’ll serve you. I mean in a chair, Klaus. Diego here couldn’t wait another minute though.” Grace teased, winking at her son. He just blushed and sat down with his siblings, sandwiched between Ben and Allison. Ben didn’t need to eat, but he enjoyed spending the mornings with his family regardless.

Grace made her way and placed a plate of food in front of each of her kids, humming along as she did so. “There we are. If you children need anything else, I’ll be doing laundry.”

“Thanks mom!” Klaus called as she left the kitchen, his mouth half full of food.

They all ate in relative silence besides a few comments from Klaus about the food or the weather. Diego was appreciative for the useless banter, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. After everything, Klaus was still Klaus.

“Could you p-pass the syrup V-v-van” Diego cut himself off, mortified. Six heads whipped around to stare at their brother, their faces littered with different degrees of concern. Their brother hadn’t spoken all morning, but that wasn't too unusual. He wasn’t a morning person. This, however, was concerning.

“Hey, hey no it’s okay. Finish your thought, Diego.” Klaus spoke up softly, his tone missing it’s usual sarcasm. Diego clenched his jaw, that statement all too familiar.

A lot of the times his siblings would try to finish the sentence for Diego when he would struggle to vocalize his thoughts properly. Usually Luther, out of annoyance. But Klaus was always the first one to shut his siblings up, insisting they give Diego the agency to finish his own thought. Diego was always grateful for Klaus for that, for never judging him. For being there.

“I d-don’t know w-w-w-why,” Diego let out a frustrated groan, slamming his knife (well, the knife from Grace’s kitchen set) in the table. Allison softly grabbed his wrist, trying to get his fist to uncurl so tightly around the utensil. He met his sisters eyes, filled with nothing but kind, non judgemental compassion.

“It’s okay.” She mouthed, rubbing circles on top of his hand. She never understood what not having control over your voice felt like. It was a privilege, something she always dismissed when they were kids. She felt horrible about how easily she was to pass judgement 15 years ago.

“Diego,” Five started gently, talking almost as if was approaching a feral animal. To be fair, Diego’s temper sometimes made him act like one. “If I may, I believe this may be a residual side effect of the last couple of weeks. Your stutter only comes out now under a heavy amount of distress, correct?”

Diego nodded, his shoulders still hunched. They all noted how he was continuing to curl in on himself, almost fearing the reaction of his siblings. God, had they really been that cruel before?

“Well, all things considered, I’d definitely count the events we’ve experienced as very distressing. Your disability is not your fault, Diego. I had a lot of time to read in the apocalypse. Being alone permits you a lot of free time, you know?” Five looked down, tugging at the end of his sleeve with his hand. He hadn’t talk about what he experienced during the apocalypse much, this vulnerability rare.

“I found a book on speech disorders in the library. It was one of the only ones that survived. I um,” He cleared his throat, “I learned a lot about speech impediments and the underlying neurological causes. It certainly opened my eyes.”

“Why don’t we wait it out and play it by ear,” Five continued, waving his hand in the air. “If it persists, we can help you work on it if you so wish to choose.”

Before Diego could respond, Luther spoke up.

“I don’t want to make the same mistakes I did the first time, Diego. Dad always said that you were lazy, not trying hard enough.” He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable showing this amount of emotion, “But Dad has been wrong about a lot of things. And that was one of them.”

Diego’s mouth gaped open, his brows furrowed in confusion. Luther, the oh so obedient soldier, admitted he was wrong. And that Reginald was wrong. To his face, in front of everyone. This was certainly a new development for their family.

“I appreciate th-that, Luther and F-f-f-” He found himself once again cutting the sentence off, hoping they got the idea. Diego couldn’t help but feel ashamed of his impediment, even after hearing his brothers talk so candidly. Call it years of trauma from Reginald, drilling the thought of his stutter being his fault into his head. He’d been beaten, belittled, and mocked tirelessly for it as a child. Anytime he stumbled over his words, whether it was in front of Eudora or his family, he couldn’t help but feel that stomach dropping anxiety that lingered from his childhood.

“Diego, please. It’s okay. Go on, finish your thought.” Vanya said gently, insisting her brother he was safe to speak.

“Reginald l-l-locked me in the t-t-tank for seven h-hours once a-after I st-stuttered during an interview.” He chuckled lightly, his grip on Allison’s hand tightening ever so slightly, “E-everytime h-he heard me, I’d g-g-get sh-shit for it, you know? S-slapped, w-whipped, mocked. It’s f-fucked.”

The sibling were silent, sitting appalled in their seats as their brother’s story unfolded before them. They knew Reggie wasn’t a fan of his speech, but they didn’t realize he went to such extreme lengths to punish Diego.

“Speech th-therapy h-h-helped. It still should, I know all th-the tr-tricks. M-my trigger l-letters.” He felt himself getting more frustrated as he went on, “I d-don’t know w-w-why they’re not w-working.”

“Hey, we’ll help you figure it out, okay?” Ben reached across the table and pat his hand that was intertwined in Allison’s, relishing in the fact that he could physically comfort his siblings again.

“We have to help Vanya reign in her powers, help Klaus explore his. Helping you with your speech is literally the least of our worries.” Five quipped, his dimple prominent with that shit eating grin on his face.

“My dear Van-Van and I will be the biggest hurdle, my good brother.” Klaus said with pride, clapping triumphantly at his chest. The rest of the family burst into laughter.

“You mean you will be, Klaus.” Ben jested, causing an offended squeal and a blueberry to the face from the dramatic man.

“You wound me! Did I ever tell you guys about the time Benny here convinced me to wax my ass with chocolate pudding? Because let me tell you, it hurt like hell!”

Diego felt himself relax as the topic of conversation shifted to something more light, thankful again for his eccentric brother. He was feeling a lot lighter himself compared to the start of breakfast. He kept having to remind himself that the Hargreeves are not the same people they were a few weeks ago, and thank god for it. He loved his family and they loved him. Things were starting to be okay.

#diego hargreeves #tua #tua fanfic #the umbrella academy fanfic #fanfiction #klaus hargreeves #ben hargreeves #five hargreeves #luther hargreeves #luther friendly #vanya hargreeves #allison hargreeves

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hana-haki · 6 years

Text

burn // j.w.w angst

@pseudopo asked: The jihoon angst was so good I almost cried, could you do some wonwoo angst too?

a/n : i cried when writing this asfwhielh i’m emotional

genre : aNGST I CRIED THREE TIMES

word count : 1,937 words

warnings : none !!

it burns.

your heart, your eyes, your lips; they all burn as your fingers clumsily delete his number - not that it’d do anything. his number’s etched at the back of your mind like some kind of permanent reminder of him. your lips are beginning to bleed from how hard you’re biting them - you can’t get your fingers to block his social media. letting out a shaky breath, you glance up at him. his fingers foxtrot clumsily over his phone screen as he does the same, his face glistening with tears.

you never thought it’d hurt this much.

you always knew that falling in love, no, crashing, would sting, but you never thought that it’d burn. from your cheeks to the lining of your stomach, from your lips to your lungs. it was a tiny flame that had grown into a wildfire over the years. you always thought you’d be able to extinguish it, but you didn’t know that it would hurt this much.

the both of you had always been driven by your dreams; however, when he confided in you that he wanted to become an actor, you knew something was wrong. you always suspected that something was wrong - and when he received a scholarship to a prestigious university miles away, you knew you were going to lose something dear to you.

he needed this scholarship. he wasn’t filthy rich - this university was for the best of the best, and the fact that he received a scholarship to go there should have made you cry tears of joy, not tears of fear. you were so selfish. hadn’t you promised to respect each other’s dreams?

you stop breathing for a few seconds, staring at the clock that hands in the train station, like an omen of melancholy. you have twenty minutes. how are you supposed to fit an eternity of love and dreams in twenty minutes?

how are you supposed to forget that?

when he told you he was accepted into the university, the both of you made a vow. the both of you were young, but the both of you were ambitious. if you were distracted by each other, if you tried to merge your futures together, if you stayed as one everything would come crashing, fumbling, falling on each other. you loved each other so much, you burned with so much love, that you’d just burn each other out.

you knew you were young, and as painful as it sounded, as painful as it was to belittle whatever you had, it was just young love, and it shouldn’t stop you from what you were aiming for.

“promise me you won’t remember me, okay?”

you never thought six words could cut your insides up.

you had twenty minutes to say goodbye all the months you had spent together - all the cheesy notes you exchanged, all the teasing, all the jokes, all the kisses, all the sleepless nights, all the sunsets and sunrises and everything you had ever shared together. how could anyone do that?

maybe in a couple of years, you’d forget this entire thing had even happen - but you knew that you’d always come back to each other.

you take his hand (it’s shaking) and lead him to a bench near the station, before sitting down side by side. the bench is cold due to the weather, but you lean on his shoulder and warmth floods through your body. suddenly, something bitter crawls up your throat.

(it tastes like goodbye)

you squeeze your eyes shut - you will not cry in front of him.

tears betray reason and flow down your shut eyes, soaking his sweater. he grips your hand tighter - he grips it so tight his knuckles are white. your fingers intertwine with each other perfectly; you couldn’t imagine never holding his hand again.

“tell me to stay,” he speaks. his voice leaves his lips quietly, but you hear every word. “tell me to stay, just once. i’ll do it, y/n. i’ll stay. you just have to tell me,” he chokes out, and you shake your head.

“listen, wonwoo,” you smile through tears, trying to cool the fire that engulfs your heart. you can barely talk - it hurts so much.

“you can do this. we can do this. we’re young, we have our whole lives in front of us. live a little. go to university, make some friends, meet a girl,” your breath catches in your throat, and you have to swallow a sob. “be happy. we’re young, we shouldn’t have to force everything down on us,” you conclude, scalding tears burning your skin.

“but i love you.”

“i’m letting you go because i love you. this isn’t a final goodbye, remember?” you whisper, and he looks up at you. “if we’re really, i don’t know, us, we’ll definitely see each other again. maybe i’ll see you in the subway, maybe in a restaurant, maybe in some dark alleys. probably somewhere really crazy,” you try to joke, and lets out a forced chuckle. “maybe in three weeks, maybe in thirty years - it’s a giant maybe."

“if not…” you trail off, and you wish you could slice off your tongue.

his face crumples up like a flower blooming in reverse, and his tears flow down freely. you’ve never seen him so broken, so helpless, so vulnerable. you want to beg him to stay. you want to get on your knees and beg, plead, scream for him to stay. you had never wanted anything more.

but jeon wonwoo did not teach you to be selfish, and you did not teach him to choose heart over mind.

you glance at the clock, fear bubbling in your stomach. you have five minutes.

five minutes.

you can’t breathe.

you spend your last minutes together on the bench, fingers intertwined tightly to try to sew your souls together. when the announcement for the train sounds, you feel your soul leave your body.

everything’s ablaze.

before he steps aboard the train, he slips a letter into your hands. you had given yours to him the day before - he wanted to give you his right before he left.

it felt like he was sending his heart away.

the very second his foot feels the smooth marble of the train floor, he feels his life crumble right of his eyes, he feels his breath leave him as he stares into your eyes. your eyes are red and puffy and you look lost and defeated but he wants to take a picture of you to remember you forever. he wants to break the promise and he wants to grow old with you, screw his future.

but he knows that's not what you would have wanted for him.

he jumps off the train, presses a kiss to your lips (it makes your entire mouth burn) then jumps back on. you clamp your mouth shut, because you know if you open your lips you’ll be begging him to stay. he rushes to the nearest seat and presses his face to the window, his eyes empty.

the doors start to close and you want to slide in between the doors.

his eyes fill with panic as he mouths words to you. you can hardly see with the tears in your eyes, but once you rub them away, you see what he has always felt.

“i love you.”

“i love you too," you mouth back, before the train starts moving. you run after it, trying to keep up with wonwoo, but he slips away. your heart burns out as you scream before he slips away between your fingers.

“i love you”

he catches one last glimpse of you screaming for him, and falls apart right in front of your eyes before slipping away.

his heart has burned out.

three years later.

the letter that wonwoo wrote for you never ceased to make your heart ache.

you hadn’t seen him in three years - you wondered how he was doing. was he happy? was he eating well? did he still make stupid puns?

was he in love with someone new?

maybe you didn’t want to know the answer to the last question. although three years had passed, there was always a part of you that still loved him. you had relationships after saying goodbye to him, but the only reason you agreed to them was to try and numb the dull ache in your chest whenever you thought of him. you thought about him everyday - in between courses, your part time jobs, meals, even.

but you were starting your first day of work soon, and you were feeling nostalgic, that’s all.

you stir the mocha on a saucer slowly. the cafe opposite your apartment is quaint - it’s typically quiet, and they play jazz and lo-fi alternating in between the days. their coffee is great, and the owner of the cafe is a sweet old lady.

in one hand, your fingers stir your mocha mindlessly, and your other fingers hold loosely the letter wonwoo gave you. you’ve read it so many times you could recite it word by word - for the entire seven pages. you let your mind wander, through the events of the past week, and you barely notice a boy walking through the door.

your heart picks up its pace, although you’re confused as to why. suddenly, you hear him speak.

“can i get a cappucino, please?” his deep voice sends butterflies racing in your stomach. in a daze, you get up from your seat and stumble up to behind him. he’s wearing the same sweater he wore when he left - and in between his fingers is the envelope you gave him. you can’t believe he’s here. it’s like he never left.

you blink away tears he drums his fingers on the counter lightly while waiting for his drink - it’s the song he’d sing to you when you couldn’t sleep. he hasn’t noticed you yet - he’s only noticed his heartbeat getting faster.

“should i be getting coffee now? am i having heart problems?” he thinks to himself. you stifle a chuckle as you see his eyebrows furrow together in habit. you’re surprised his forehead isn’t conquered by wrinkles by now.

you slowly reach out, almost withdrawing, until you touch his shoulder. he slowly turns around and when his eyes lock with yours, the world stops moving.

his raven hair is tucked carelessly under a cap, his skin pale but his eyes bright (not without a hint of melancholy, though). his collarbones show through the loose sweater he wore on the day he left - your favourite sweater of his - and your necklace you made him promise to throw away hung around his neck. his eyes flit around your face for a sign that it really is you, and when you smile, it’s already been confirmed.

his eyes turn glossy and his solemn face blooms into a beautiful smile as he envelops you in a hug - it feels like your souls are finally meeting each other again. your skin burns - it’s a good burn, though. your heart stops aching for the first time in three years. when you touch, you feel the electricity coursing through your veins. in a moment of excitement and vulnerability, you grab his hand and his coffee and pull him towards your table, pushing him down. the laugh he lets out is music to your ears.

“so we meet again,” he grins through his tears, and you laugh.

it’s like he never left.

“so we meet again."

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puppycat714 · 6 years

Text

The Secret in the Garden part 1 James Potter x Hufflepuff reader

Requested: no

Word count:~1.9k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of death

A/N: okay this is the first official chapter! It's an important chapter, but you won't "meet" the marauders until the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Masterlist Prologue part 2

Gif isn't mine nor are any of the characters that belong to ikr.

Chapter 2: What the hell is this doing here?

Today marks one year since your life changed. One year since you moved into your grandma’s house.

The biggest issue about moving to London was adjusting to living in such a big home. When you lived in America, your home was a tiny 2 bedroom, one bath cottage outside of California. It was small, but it was comfortable. Your grandmas house was five times the size, if not more. It’s a two story house with a total of seven rooms, and three bathrooms. Not to mention a kitchen as big as half your home in America, and a living room twice the size if the kitchen. It also had an attic, and a basement. When you moved in the house your dad allowed you to have two of the seven rooms. One could be an office, and the other as a bedroom. The rooms were next to each other. You choose the one closest to the kitchen. Your bedroom was the room you’d sleep in when you came to visit, so it was mostly set up for you already. The bigger of the two rooms (which was your bedroom) contained a walk in closet, a personal bathroom, and a balcony.

The other room was your office, but it also contained your own personal library. Speaking of which your favorite room was across the office. The library. That’s what you called it. It was so huge, it could be one. There were shelves so high they touched the ceiling, so there was a ladder. The books weren’t the only reason this was your favorite room. There was also a bay window. The view showed most of the garden, and if you looked far enough you could see some of the ocean. Plus the sunsets and sunrises was a sight to die for. It was the perfect spot to hide and read a good book.

Today should not have been different than the past year. It started out like any day before. You woke up early even though it was summer. You’ve always had a habit of getting up early. Which your dad had no idea who you got that from because both him and your mom were more night owls than morning people. You think it came from your grandma, she was always up before you. Which says a lot because you get up pretty early. Then he would get up about an hour later. You would make breakfast so that by the time he got up it would be ready, and made. Then you’d eat together. Afterwards he’d leave for work, and you’d be home alone for the day, which is nothing new to you.

Your grandmas pride and joy was her garden, so when you moved here you decided to take over. She had shown you all her tricks, and always told you about how she wanted her garden to be. After breakfast you’d go work on the garden. You never minded helping your grandma when you stayed. It was one of the ways you two bonded. Over the year you’d been here it became one of your outlets. Even if it was just pulling a few weeds. It was one of the few ways you still felt connected to your grandma.

She had a total of fifteen plots. Each with different types of plants. Ranging from potatoes and carrots to roses and tulips. Fourteen of the fifteen plot you’ve replaced with new plants to thrive and grow. There was one plot located at the far left corner of the garden you still hadn’t tended to in the year you’ve been here. Unfortunately you couldn’t bring yourself to change it. The plants were dead by now, but it meant so much to you. It was the last project you and your grandma worked on together. Not to mention the last location you had a conversation with her. You remember it so clearly.

* FLASHBACK *

You were planting your grandmas favorite flowers with her. They were lilies. Pink lilies to be exact, which happens to be her favorite color. While you were working on preparing the soil, you two were talking. You had a few questions burning your mind, and you finally had the courage to ask a few of them.

“Hey grandma, what was grandpa like?” you asked her. She looked at you with a smile on her face. You noticed that her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes were soft, but sad. It was quiet for a few seconds.

Then she said, “He was an interesting character,” she chuckled to herself. “Your grandfather was one of a kind. Bloody hell he was stubborn and obnoxious at first. We fought a lot too. In the end though we fell madly in love with each other. He knew just what to do. How to make me laugh, smile, comfort me, support me, and love me with all his heart. Of course I reciprocated all the same.” Her eyes were sad.

You knew you shouldn’t have pried anymore. You could see the hurt she felt, but you were just to curious for your own good. You decided to push your luck one more time. You asked, “so what happened between you two? If you both loved each other then why isn’t he here?” You felt bad for asking, but you had to know. Was he dead? Did he leave her? Did she leave him? Or was there something more?

Your grandma sighed, “ I knew you would ask me one day honey. We may have loved each other, but sometimes love isn’t strong enough.” She left it at that. The rest of the time we had little conversations, but nothing as serious as before.

* FLASHBACK ENDS *

As you were weeding and thinking about this memory, you didn’t realize you were crying. As soon as you did though, you wiped the tears away. You glanced at the now long dead lilies. After that episode, you knew it was time.

You walked over to the plot and began to dig up the old lily roots. You had bought more seeds long ago, but you could never bring yourself to plant them. At least not until now. Before you knew it, there was only one lily left. You knew that the moment you pulled it from the ground symbolizes the end of an era. You reached your hand out. You warped your fingers around the fragile stem. Then you pulled. It was over. You sat there for what felt like forever, staring at the bare four by four foot plot.

It took some effort, but eventually you came back to your senses. You grabbed the seeds to plant some new lilies. You began to dig some holes to put the seeds in. As you were digging a hole around the middle of the plot, you felt something. As you dug further, you realized it was a paper. You pulled it out of the ground. After you pulled it out, you unfolded the paper to find a blueprint with a note attached to it. You took the note and opened it. It read, “Dear (Y/N), if your reading this, then I must be dead. First off I want to apologize for putting you through so much. I’m sure you were shocked when I died. I wrote this letter because unfortunately my cancer came back, and your probably wondering ‘but grandma they said you died of a heart attack’ well I didn’t. I wanted you both to believe my death was sudden. I knew I wouldn’t be able to fight it off this time so I talked with my lawyer and he agreed to tell your father I died of a heart attack. If your reading this note then by now you’ve seen the blueprint to. I decided to hide it here so that in case your father decided to sell this place, so that this wouldn’t be lying around for others to see. If your not my granddaughter, then I hope your up for an adventure. In the blueprint, it shows a room that should not exist, and doesn’t. In case someone else is reading this, I’m give my granddaughter a hint. Only she could know this. ‘A house can hold many secrets unless you have a keen eye, and a bright heart.’ Whoever reads this and figures this out, I hope the results benefit you. A warning to you, this room is… magical to say the least. I wish you a good life. (Y/N) I want you to know that I will always be with you. You’re gonna experience many hardships to come, but know that it will all be worth it.

Love Your Grandma Jesse Karon Henderson

Your eyes were teary by the end of the letter. Losing your grandma was one of the hardest things you had to go through. To read a letter from her meant everything to you. As you were thinking about the hint, you remembered something your grandma told you a few years ago.

* FLASHBACK *

You were sitting at the bay window reading the Half Blood Prince for the first time. As you were in the middle of one of your favorite parts in the book, you heard footsteps. Then you looked up and saw your grandma. She noticed your book, and smiled. Her eyes were distant. She asked, “Good book?”

“yeah its definitely my favorite series. Have you read it before?” You were curious.

“Honey at this point I have read it more times than I can remember. Who’s your favorite character?” she asked. Damn that was a good question.

After a moment of thought you answered her question, “I’d have to say my favorite would have to be (Y/F/C). What about you?”

She looked at you and said, “I love all of the Weasleys, but my favorite is Fred Weasley.”

You looked at her with a confused look on your face. You asked, “how can you tell the difference between Fred and George?”

“If you read closely enough, you can tell that Fred is a bit more energetic than George. You just have to have a keen eye to see it. Both twins have bright hearts full of mysteries. Like exploring a new house. Two houses could look exactly the same, but they can never have the same stories.”(A/N: pun intended)

* FLASHBACK ENDS *

You ran to the library. You knew exactly where to go. You burst through the doors to the library and went straight for the bay window. You pulled everything off of it. After everything was off, you put your fingers on the trim and lifted up. After a little effort, it began to lift. After lifting it, you took your phone out of your pocket and turned the flashlight on. You shined the light over the dark hole revealing a ladder. You put one foot on the ladder to test the stability. It was fine so you put all your weight on hit and went down the ladder with no idea what was in store.

~End~

@roxytheimmortal @rachelscosplay

#james potter x reader #harry potter #harry potter x reader #remus lupin x reader #draco malfoy x reader #sirius black x reader #i hope this is okay!#enjoy #james potter #remus lupin #draco malfoy #sirius black

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contentkart1-blog · 5 years

Text

Six Tips to become the best writer

Too manifold writers are interested up by the whole of thoughts of certainly they are entire good. We are by a wide margin the stunned bunch, aren’t we? But what if generally told this self-doubt was approximately self-destructive? What if there was no such capacity as a “good writer“?

Most people’s definitions of “good writing” vary. What a well known reader loves, another such hates. For concrete illustration, J.K. Rowling, a well known of the virtually popular and most prosperous writers know the score today, is constantly criticized for her novel (too manifold adverbs, sprinkling say). Similarly, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby was called a “dud” by manifold of his contemporaries.

And by its put a lock on nature, this goes for barely about complete other so-called “great” writer.

There are those that comprehend these writers and those that don’t. And as it may be, that’s fully fine. Because as the case may be what it manner forthcoming valuable is no two ways about it just our fashion of truism “I savor this” or “I don’t relish this.” What if there was no such behavior with as “good writing”?

What if there was unattended efficient writing? What would that twist for your and me the next presage we sit sweeping to do our work?

What we often invent of as “good writing” is merely perfectly communicating a act message to a at variance audience. And the first we am with it that, the as a matter of choice we boot gat what is coming to one on mutually our service, which is not to be useful, yet to be clear. Tips for considering a useful, I show effective, writer

There are six apparatus you bounce cell do to be a transcend (ahem, preferably effective) writer. The consequently is what I uphold (click the links to am a source of articles on each subject):

Read. Good writers read. It’s that simple. Words are the lifeblood of considerable writing. There’s no way to merit valuable without oodles of steep input. Get an editor. A valuable writer recognizes he needs help. He can’t do this on his own (neither can you). You crave to gat what 's coming to one luminary to autopsy your exchange of letter, someone you trust. I spell a glimpse editor for starters.

Capture ideas. A useful writer is consistently gathering all there input. Ideas are leaps and bound for artists and writers. You prefer to have a course of action for collecting them. A great instrument to threw in one lot with you do this is Evernote. Write separately day. This cannot be overlooked. It’s essential. You can’t win useful without practice. Even if only for more or less minutes, you prefer to form every base hit day.

Rewrite. An essential case of exchange of letter is rewriting, distilling the fluff perfect to sprinkling core carefree that will actually ratiocinate a difference. This is jointly, yet important. Stephen King calls this “killing your darlings.” And for good reason. It ain’t pretty. But it’s necessary. Get inspired. Hard to affirm, for all that there’s a pattern of the writing fashion that is mysterious. You can’t take perfect responsibility why you create. A good writer knows at which point to gat to the top herself to the Muse. She knows advance is love breathing for the imaginative spirit.

Here are 6 ways you that will make you a good writer.

1. Get Clear

Before you sit all over but the shouting to devise (anything), invite yourself: Why am I writing?

What’s the desired odds that you desire mutually this particular distant of writing?

Are you mail to flash someone’s morning? Motivate your husband and wife to head am a source of strength facing the ring abaftwards a crushing defeat? Encourage folks to charge “yes” to your dressed to the teeth meeting time?

The excellent exchange of letter tends to have one approach, lusty intention. Choose it—and commit.

2. Get to the Point

In the enrollment world, scantiness is gold.

If you’re struggling to merit to the relate, amount to be asked a second to search for pot of gold about the human (or people) that you’re exchange of letter to, and entwine a roadmap for yourself by filling in the consequently statements:

The direction I am exchange of letter is:

What I please you to recognize is:

What I want you unrest is:

Get those three points sweeping pat. Then hint to them as you set up to retrieve yourself on track.

3.Strip it Down

Albert Einstein back said, “If you can't confess it to a six-year-old, you don’t comprehend it yourself.” Imagine that you’re mail for a sounding board of thick kids—impatient, plainly distracted, mutually zero parity for jargon.

You cut back practice—out in the heartfelt world—by having no ifs and or buts conversations mutually kids. Try explaining to a child what you defeat a source of income, for starters. You’ll shepherd, indeed quickly, if your elevator urge is gat a handle on something and intriguing—or not.

4.Write From Your Happy Place

Ever advice how when you’re stressed unsound and annoying to “force” yourself to coin a phrase something remarkable, it at the point of never works?

Research shows that getting yourself directed toward a fruitful, complacent state—think: apprehension a shower—is the sharps and flat to creativity-on-command. When your bulk is experiencing a dash of dopamine, that’s when those a-ha! moments (“Ooh! I’ve got the full recommendation for my presentation!”) work oneself to the bone to happen.

5.Give Yourself a Time Limit

For close but no cigar people, the longer you fuss during an end of rainbow of mail, the mediocre it gets. When you have a behave reason for writing and feel prosperous and enjoyable, your willingly draft is regularly best. There’s no crave to endlessly nibble it over.

Clearing on the wrong track your inbox, for example? Give yourself a has a head start limit—say, two minutes using email—to act like a wet blanket yourself from slipping into analysis-paralysis.

6.Use the 7 Magic Words

“All I prefer from you comeuppance now.”

Kick these shouting match up to the eclipse of your co incidence, as in:

“I’m so boiling that you’re in working order to am a source of a mannerism at our intermittent conference.

All I has a passion for from you right shortly is the title of your frequent, a headshot, and your bio.”

These seven abracadabra words gave all one got your primer an approach assignment, and announce them at ease.

#writer writing

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savedfromsalvation · 5 years

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Compiled by Jim Walker

The stories of the Bible evolved slowly over centuries before the existence of orthodox religions. Many belief cults spread stories and myths probably handed down by oral tradition from generation to generation before people wrote them down. Many of the stories originally came from Egyptian and Sumerian cults. All of these early religions practiced polytheism, including the early Hebrews. Some of the oldest records of the stories that later entered the Old Testament came from thousands of small cylinder seals depicting creation stories, excavated from the Mesopotamia period. These early artifacts and artworks (dated as early as 2500 B.C.E.) established the basis for the Garden of Eden stories a least a thousand years before it impacted Hebrew mythology.

Mesopotamian Eden predates Genesis

An example of a cylinder seal depicting a Garden of Eden story. A man and woman sitting under the seven branched Tree of Life. Note the snake on the right. Akkadian Cylinder Seal, 2330-2150 B.C.E.

Virtually every human civilization in the Middle East, before and through Biblical times, practiced some form of female goddess worship. Archeologists have confirmed that the earliest law, government, medicine, agriculture, architecture, metallurgy, wheeled vehicles, ceramics, textiles and written language had initially developed in societies that worshiped the Goddess. Later the goddesses became more war-like with the influence of the northern invaders who slowly replaced the goddesses with their mountain male war gods. So why doesn't the Bible mention anything about the Goddess? In fact it does, but in disguise from converting the name of the goddesses to masculine terms. Many times "Gods" in the Bible refers to goddesses. Ashtoreth, or Asherah, named of masculine gender, for example, actually refers to Astarte- the Great Goddess. The Old Testament doesn't even have a word for Goddess. The goddesses, sometimes, refers to the Hebrew word "Elohim" (masculine plural form) which later religionists mistranslated into the singular "God." The Bible authors converted the ancient goddess symbols into icons of evil. As such, the snake, serpents, tree of knowledge, horns (of the bull), became associated with Satan. The end result gave women the status of inferiority, a result which we still see to this day.

The Old Testament consists of a body of literature spread over a period from approximately 1450 B.C.E. to 200 B.C.E. There exists no original writings of the Old Testament. There does exist, however, hundreds of fragments from copies that became the old testament. These fragments consist of Cuneiform tablets, papyrus paper, leather etchings and the famous Dead Sea Scrolls. The scribes of the old testament wrote in classical Hebrew except for some portions written in Aramaic. The traditional Hebrew scribes wrote the texts with consonants but the Rabbis later added vowels for verbal pronouncing. Of course the Rabbis did their best in choosing the vowels that they thought gave the words their proper meaning and pronouncement. In the second century C.E., or even earlier, the Rabbis compiled a text from manuscripts as had survived the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 C.E. and on this basis they established the traditional or Masoretic text, so called from the Hebrew word Massorah. This text incorporated the mistakes of generations of copyists, and in spite of the care bestowed on it, many errors of later copyists also found their way into it. The earliest surviving manuscripts of this text date from the ninth to eleventh centuries C.E. It comes mostly from these texts which religionists have used for the present Old Testament translations.

The New Testament has even fewer surviving texts. Scholars think that not until years after Jesus' alleged death that its authors wrote the Gospels. There exists no evidence that the New Testament came from the purported original apostles or anyone else that had seen the alleged Jesus. Although the oldest surviving Christian texts came from Paul, he had never seen the earthly Jesus. There occurs nothing in Paul's letters that either hints at the existence of the Gospels or even of a need for such memoirs of Jesus Christ. The oldest copy of the New Testament yet found consists of a tiny fragment from the Gospel of John. Scholars dated the little flake of papyrus from the period style of its handwriting to around the first half of the 2nd century C.E. The language of most of the new testament consists of old Greek.

Oldest known snippet from the New Testament

This photo shows a papyrus fragment from the Gospel of John, discovered in Egypt, the oldest known fragment from any part of the New Testament, dated from the first half of the 2nd century C.E.

Script appears on both sides, the front contains verses 31-33 and the back, verses 37-38.

The fragment resides in the John Rylands Library in Manchester, England.

Interestingly, there existed many competing Christian cults in the early years after Jesus' alleged death. Some sects saw the universe in dualisms of goodness and sin, of light and darkness, God and the Devil. Other Christian sects performed odd rituals, some of which involved the swallowing of semen, thought of as a sacred substance. Many other Christians also wrote mystical stories and by the second century there existed more than a dozen Gospels, along with a whole library of other texts. These include letters of Jesus to foreign kings, letters of Paul to Aristotle, and histories of the disciples. In one of these secret Gospels, it describes Jesus taking naked young men off to secret initiation rites in the Garden of Gethsemene. There lived Christian Gnostics (knowers) who believed that the church itself derived from the Devil to keep man from God and from realizing his true nature. In those first centuries of Christianity orthodoxy did not exist and when an organized orthodox church finally came, it got defined, almost inadvertently, in argument against many of the Gnostic sects.

So the idea of the Bible as a single, sacred unalterable corpus of texts began in heresy and later extended and used by churchmen in their efforts to define orthodoxy. One of the Bible's most influential editors, Irenaeus of Lyon, decided that there should only exist four Gospels like the four zones of the world, the four winds, the four divisions of man's estate, and the four forms of the first living creatures - the lion of Mark, the calf of Luke, the man of Matthew, and the eagle of John. In a single stroke, Irenaeus had delineated the sacred book of the Christian church and left out the other Gospels. Irenaeus also wrote what Christianity did not include, and in this way Christianity became an orthodox faith. A work of Irenaeus, Against the Heresies, became the starting point for later inquisitions.

There has existed over a hundred different versions of the Bible, written in most of the languages of the time including Greek, Hebrew and Latin. Some versions left out certain biblical stories and others contained added stories. The completed versions of the old and new testament probably got finished at around 200-300 C.E. although many disputed the authenticity of some books which later ended up as Apocrypha (uncanonical or of questionable authorship). For example, the book of Ecclesiasticus appears in the Catholic Bible but not in Protestant versions.

At around 405 C.E. Jerome (Eusebius Hieronymous) finished translating all the Old and New testament books into Latin (Vulgate Bible) which provided the Roman Catholic church added power. The Vulgate Bible went through several revisions up until the early 1900s!

Codex Palatinus

This shows a small segment of a leaf from the Codex Palatinus (British Library, add. ms. 40107, f.1), an Old Latin version of the gospels from the 4th or 5th century.

The text got written in two columns in uncial script which runs continuously without word breaks. Enlarged capital letters provide the only clue to place marking.

The salvation doctrines of Christianity survived and flourished because they afforded the priesthood considerable power. The priests alone held the keys to salvation and could threaten the unbelievers with eternal punishment. Hence, in the evolution of Christianity in the last two thousand years with priests preying on human fears, the religion has demonstrated extraordinary powers of survival. Even without the priests, the various versions of the Bible have had more influence on the history of the world, in the minds of men than any other literature.

Unfortunately, the beliefs in Scripture produced the most violent actions against man in the history of humanity up to that time. The eliminationof competing Christian cults (called heretics) by early Christian churches acted as the seeds of violent atrocities against those who did not agree with Church dogma. There later followed the destruction of Rome by the Christian Goths, and the secret pagan sacrifices consented by the Pope, the Vandals that had the Bible with them as they destroyed imperial North Africa, the crusades in the eleventh century fighting in the lands around the eastern Mediterranean, Palestine and Syria, capturing Jerusalem and setting kingdoms from Anatolia to the Egyptian border. In 1204 the Fourth Crusade plundered Constantinople the most holy city at that time, with Christians fighting Christians. And the slaughters continued (and continues to this day). According to Romer, "More heretics and scholars were burned in the Middle Ages than were ever killed in Carolingian times. For at this time the Inquisition came into its own, and torture, largely unused as an instrument of government since Roman days, was reintroduced."

In the 1380s, John Wycliffe translated the first English Bible which inspired an English religious revolution which caused persecutions against him by the Catholic Church.

In the early 1500's the German heretic, Martin Luther, almost single handedly caused the final split from the Roman Catholic church and created the beginnings of the Protestant revolution. This split still influences violence to this day. He translated the Bible into German which further spread Protestantism. Luther also helped spread anti-Jewish sentiments with his preaching and books such as his "The Jews and their lies," all supported through his interpretation of the Bible. One should not forget that Hitler (a Christian and great admirer of Luther) and his holocaust probably could not have occurred without his influence and the support of Bible believing German Christians.

In the 1530s William Tyndale completed his version of the English Protestant Bible (probably with the aid of Luther) and the first to print the English Bible. He too felt the persecution of the Church and he spent his last days in imprisonment and exile. His enemies finally caught him and burned him at the stake, but because of his celebrity, they strangled him first (what nice guys!).

After Luther's German Bible, others followed suit by translating the Bible into their native languages including Dutch and French. Not until 1611 C.E. did a committee of translators and interpreters complete the most popular Bible of all time, the King James Version.

Today we still have dozens of Bible translation versions, with Bible scholars still arguing over the meaning and proper translations of words and phrases. The following shows just a few of the most popular versions:

King James Version (KJV)The New King James Version (NKJV)Modern King James Version [Green's Translation] (MKJV)Literal Translation Version [Green] (LITV)International Standard Version (ISV)The New International Version (NIV)English Standard Version (ESV)New English Bible (NEB)American Standard Version (ASV)New American Standard Bible (NASB)Revised Standard Version (RSV)New Revised Standard Version (NRSV)Contemporary English Version (CEV)Today's English Version (TEV)The Living Bible (LB)New Century Version (NC)

New Life Version (NLV)New Living Translation (NLT)Young's Literal Translation (YLT)Revised Young's Literal Translation (RYLT)John Darby's New TranslationWeymouth New Testament TranslationRotherham's

(One might wonder what will happen to the "new" revisions a few hundred years from now. Nevertheless, the King James Version still remains the most used Bible in the world today and it will probably continue its popularity long into the future.)

No doubt that future versions of Bibles will surface in the future: revisions of previously revised Bibles and newer revisions of new versions. The history of the many versions of the Bible stories, from the ancient Mesopotamian myths to the varied interpretations, interpolations, and versions of the Bible speaks volumes about the reliability of their interpretations and the alleged "truth" they claim the Bible holds, because it shows that the Bible comes not from supernatural agents but rather from human imagination. We have not one shred of evidence for the supernatural influence on human written works (and mostly from unknown authors), but we do have an abundance of evidence for human recorded beliefs and myths. This shows a marked difference between those of scientific works and those deriving from religious minds. For example, Euclid's Elements written around 300 B.C.E. has changed little since its inception. Scientists don't argue and debate about its meaning because they know it doesn't represent an absolute or fixed work. It only provides a step in the understanding of geometry. Most Christian apologists, on the other hand, view the Bible as fixed and absolute, if only they could only

just

get the interpretation correct. But regardless of how much they want the Bible to reflect their particular beliefs, they can never dislodge the violence and atrocities described and condoned by their God in the stories in the Old Testament. Nor can they dismiss the even more horrific result of the horrors of Hell as amplified by the words of the alleged Jesus in the New Testament where almost everyone on earth dies in eternal fire. In short, Bible belief influences horror, not by the majority but by the few that actually believe in its macabre prophecy and have the power to force their beliefs onto the majority.

We have little reason to think that violence inspired by Bibles and other religious texts will ever cease. One only has to look at the religious wars around the world to see belief's everlasting destructive potential. One only has to look at the Protestant-Catholic uprising in Ireland, the conflicts in the middle east with Jews fighting Moslems & Christians, the Gulf war, Sudan's civil war between Christians and Islamics, the Bosnia conflicts, and the war in Iraq. The desperate acts of fanatical individuals who have killed for their beliefs of Jesus, Mohammed, God or Satan would create a death list unmatched by any other method in history. The "Holy" Bible supports the notion of war and destruction, not only as a prophesy but as a moral necessity. If we wish to become a peaceful species, it may well serve us to understand the forces of belief that keep us in continual conflict and why the Bible has such a stronghold on the minds of people around the world.

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gokinjeespot · 5 years

Text

off the rack #1270

Monday, July 15, 2019

I'm not much of a gardener even though I worked for two years at a garden centre. Penny does most of the work and I am around for the heavy lifting. I try to be a supportive spouse and I assisted with some of the weeding yesterday. I get the same feeling of satisfaction after cleaning up a flower bed as I do after reading a pile of comic books. The added hubby points are a bonus.

Detective Comics #1007 - Peter J. Tomasi (writer) Kyle Hotz (art) David Baron (colours) Rob Leigh (letters). The team-up with the Spectre concludes with the rescue of Jim Corrigan. This was a nice 2-issue story and now the Spectre leaves Gotham City. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Black Hammer/Justice League: Hammer of Justice #1 - Jeff Lemire (writer) Michael Walsh (art) Nate Piekos (letters). I thought this was going to be a tam-up story but it's the old switcheroo where the two super hero teams wind up in each others' universes. I'm guessing the rest of this 5-issue mini will be each team trying to return home. This is good exposure for Jeff Lemire's Black Hammer characters which I liked, so you should check it out.

Catwoman #13 - Joelle Jones (writer) Fernando Blanco (art pages 1-14, 19) Hugo Petrus (art pages 15-18) Joelle Jones (art pages 20-22) John Kalisz (colours pages 1-19) Laura Allred (colours pages 20-22) Saida Temofonte (letters). That crazy Creel woman finally gets her hands on the artefact but the rest of the story will have to wait until Selina gets through the "Year of the Villain" (YOTV) tie-in. Catwoman is made an offer that she can refuse, or not.

Thor #15 - Jason Aaron (writer) Mike del Mundo (art) Mike del Mundo & Marco D'Alfonso (colours) VC's Joe Sabino (letters). Four Thors and seven realms ago this whole thing started. Now that it's over find out what happens to everybody in this epilogue to War of the Realms. I particularly liked the fate of Malekith. I am so looking forward to the next story arc with art by Esad Ribic.

Naomi #6 - Brian Michael Bendis & David F. Walker (writers) Jamal Campbell (art) Wes Abbott (letters). Origin story complete. From the looks of things on the cover, Naomi is going to meet up with Young Justice and that's okay with me. This book is every bit as good as Ironheart used to be.

Ironheart #8 - Eve L. Ewing (writer) Luciano Vecchio (art) Geoffo (layouts) Matt Milla (colours) VC's Clayton Cowles (letters). Riri goes to Doctor Strange for help in finding out what's been happening in her life for the last few issues. There's s portal of power that she needs to track down so she goes from Chicago to New York City to who knows where else. This is so exciting and I've got to say I like the slightly more mature Riri that Eve is presenting.

Symbiote Spider-Man #4 - Peter David (writer) Greg Land (pencils) Jay Leisten (inks) Frank D'Armata (colours) VC's Joe Sabino (letters). A new and different element is added to make things fun and exciting in this Spider-Man versus Mysterio story. This reminds me a lot of the old Amazing Spider-Man plots where Peter gets ambushed by some super villain while on his way to see Aunt May. Will our boy make it to breakfast? Find out in next issue's thrilling conclusion.

Young Justice #7 - Brian Michael Bendis (writer) John Timms & Dan Hipp (art pages 2-3) David Lafuente (art the other pages) Dan Hipp (colours pages 2-3) Gabriel Eltaeb (colours the other pages) Wes Abbott (letters). Lost in the Multiverse part 1. This was a lot of fun. I really liked Doctor Fate.

Second Coming #1 - Mark Russell (writer) Richard Pace (art) Leonard Kirk (finisher earth pages) Andy Troy (colours earth pages) Rob Steen (letters). Holy bible Batman, this is some weird super hero comic book. Here we have a wisecracking God and his hapless son Jesus trying to make sense of humanity. God sends Jesus back to earth to learn from a Superman-like super hero. I like this parody. It reminds me of Herbie and the Inferior Five. I will be getting s second helping of this book when #2 hits the racks.

Invisible Woman #1 - Mark Waid (writer) Mattia De Iulis (art) VC's Joe Caramagna (letters). Did you know that Sue Storm was a part time spy for S.H.I.E.L.D.? Me neither. That fact sets up her mission to find her former partner, fellow spy Aiden Tintreach. Y'know, I was thinking that this story would have been better suited to the Black Widow and I was right on when I got to the last page. Mattia De Iulis's art was the main reason I read the latest Jessica Jones graphic novel and he's why I will add the rest of this 5-issue mini to my "must read" list.

Batman Universe #1 - Brian Michael Bendis (writer) Nick Derington (art) Dave Stewart (colours) Josh Reed (letters). There's another Batbook on the racks and this one's a 6-issue mini. I think Bendis is going to throw as many DC heroes and villains into this story as he can with the Riddler starting things off, leading to Jinny Hex. If you don't know who she is you should go read the most excellent Young Justice. The story goes international and this issue ends in Amsterdam with the appearance of Deathstroke and Green Arrow. I want to know why Oliver Queen is way over in Europe. Going to read the rest of this one too.

War of the Realms Omega #1- If you're wondering about the spin-offs and changes wrought by the War of the Realms then this $4.99 US epilogue is the comic book for you.

Daredevil played a significant role while wielding Heimdall's sword and his story continues in "God and the Devil Walk Into a Church" by Jason Aaron (writer), Ron Garney (art), Matt Milla (colours) and VC's Joe Sabino (letters).

The double-page ads for "Jane Foster: Valkyrie" has me looking forward to the first issue hitting the racks so reading "The Job I Have to Do" by Al Ewing & Jason Aaron (writers), Cafu (art), Jesus Aburtov (colours) and VC's Joe Sabino (letters) was a nice prelude.

The God of Mischief and now King of the Frost Giants has been a favourite character of mine for decades so I am also anticipating the release of Loki #1. Daniel Kibblesmith (writer), Oscar Bazaldua (art) David Curiel (colours) and VC's Clayton Cowles (letters) gives us a hint as to how Loki will rule in "Born Small".

Finally, we can't forget Frank Castle the Punisher. His never ending war will continue in "Punisher Kill Krew" and the calm before the firestorm is chronicled in "War Orphans" by Gerry Duggan (writer), Juan Ferreyra (art) and VC's Cory Petit (letters).

Marvel's mega crossover events may be predictable now but I like that this one makes some interesting changes to characters that I have followed for a long time. I loved when (spoiler alert) Jane Foster was Thor. Ditto when Loki was a good guy with the Young Avengers. I'm hoping that their new books are worthy of my time. I doubt that Daredevil having magic Asgardian billy clubs will change much in his book but it would be cool to see what they can do and how he uses them. And as always, the Punisher will continue to kill bad guys.

Miles Morales: Spider-Man #8 - Saladin Ahmed (writer) Javier Garron (art) David Curiel (colours) VC's Travis Lanham (letters). When last we left Miles he had been captured by some unknown super villain. This issue details the extremely dangerous predicament that he's in. I know Miles will survive these tests and experiments but boy, they sure put him through the wringer this issue. The creative team did an excellent job of making me feel immersed in the story.

Avengers #21 - Jason Aaron (writer) Jason Masters (art) Jason Keith (colours) VC's Joe "Jason" Caramagna (letters). It's practically an all Jason issue. The team relaxes in the aftermath of the War of the Realms. I don't like She-Hulk speaking monosyllabically but she thinks in proper sentences in her thought balloons so that assuages my annoyance. Black Panther didn't get the memo and confronts Phil Coulson and his Squadron Supreme of America. I think this is Jason Aaron's dig at the current administration in the White House. I'm waiting to see where the next global threat will come from. Will it be domestic or alien?

Batman #74 - Tom King (writer) Mikel Janin (art) Jordie Bellaire (colours) Clayton Cowles (letters). "The Fall and the Fallen" concludes. I'm not a fan of Thomas Wayne being in this reality so I hope it's the last we see of him for a while. Comparing what Bruce and "his father" are doing with the story of the animals in the pit was very clever and the inconclusive ending heightens the suspense for the next issue.

Black Cat #2 - Jed MacKay (writer) Travel Foreman (art) Brian Reber (colours) Ferran Delgado (letters). The Cat will burgle while the Sorcerer Supreme is away. Felicia and her crew break into 177A Bleecker Street in this weird heist. Getting in was easy. Getting out will be a problem. There was a double-page spread featuring an M.C. Escher staircase that could have had the word balloons and captions arranged better. I had to read the things a couple of times to get the flow right. Other than that minor annoyance this is another fine issue. The last page by Clay McLeod Chapman (writer), Alberto Alburquerque (art), Brian Reber (colours) and Ferran Delgado (letters) was a bit of a puzzler. Is it a teaser for the next story, or what?

The Amazing Spider-Man #25 - Don't judge a comic book by it's cover. Case in point, this issue looked good so I saved it for last. We've got Spider-Man front and center with Mary Jane, Mysterio, Electro and Kindred in the background. This issue sets up a lot of stuff so let's have a look see.

The main story is called "Opening Night" by Nick Spencer (writer), Ryan Ottley, Humberto Ramos, Patrick Gleason & Kev Walker (pencils), Cliff Rathburn, Victor Olazaba, Dexter Vines, Patrick Gleason & Kev Walker (inks) Nathan Fairbairn, Edgar Delgado, Dave Stewart & Laura Martin (colours) and VC's Joe Caramagna (letters) has a brief appearance by Kindred and Mysterio but it's mostly about Electro (the new female one) holding an actress for ransom at a theatre. Mary Jane is the one who comes to the rescue. The Spider-Man subplot has Peter rescuing Doctor Curt Connors from depression. A set up for future stories happens on the last page where a new team of super villains is introduced called the Syndicate. They want Electro to join. Then we have 5 pages that ends with the appearance of Spider-Man 2099. I wonder where Miguel has been? Then there's a 10 page story leading towards a team up with Doctor Strange. The issue wraps up with a 5-page cartoon for the kiddies by Keaton Patti (writer), Dan Hipp (art) and VC's Joe Caramagna (letters). Yes, it's 60 pages of Spider-Mania but even a Spider-Maniac like myself cringed after reading this.

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foxhenki-blog · 6 years

Text

Disintegration

It’s Walpurgistnacht again, I made it.

Every year my other self’s employer sends our shared mortal coil out to San Fransisco for a conference on Knowledge Management. Yes, him, the other, the non-magic-y fellow, he professionally manages gnosis. A Gnosis Manager employed by the demiurge. As the phrase goes, you do what you got to do to survive. I’m going to try and live blog the trip as it happens, to stay connected to all of you dear readers, just to stay sane.

The flight was uneventful, I consumed Occulture’s latest with Jason Miller and re-consumed Original Gangster Gordon White’s Open Systems Spirit Work Solo Show from the close of last year on the plane. I’ve listened to that damn episode a number of times already, but this time, idk what it was, but it stuck, the concepts gelled, I got it. Maybe it was the cold brew coffee with the 2:45 AM wake up call chased with lonely tab of piracetam I’ve been saving - I don’t care, whatever happened it worked and I think I have a good idea of the way I am supposed to be taking a 2018 practice.

I came here last year, and was much less relaxed. I stopped to visit the Mission Dolores and wrote about it in a fumbling way here. I’m back, because I promised not to forget the dead there, but, I don’t know, this city, it bothers me for some reason on a magic-y spidey-sense and manifestation of the empirical agenda kind of way.

But I’m here, in the Mission District, I stopped at Four Barrel Coffee, which if it weren’t for Google Maps I wouldn’t have found because of course it doesn’t have a street facing sign, just well patina’ed wood and mustachioed gentlemen gazing balefully out of the window.

Back to the weirdness while I charge up my government approved tracking device. On Original Gordon’s advice (given freely in the Premium Member Q+A’s), I journeyed on this trip because I didn’t know where to take it. I magic’ed the hell out of it last time, some of my experience was peaceful and some of it was freaking terrifying (like the spontaneous slam a Lucifer Square in the mouth of a lion guardian at China Town’s Dragon Gate after invoking the Lord of the Crossroads part of it… Whatevs, I was trying for invincibility). My journeying has continued off and on all week, including on the plane. The cemetery really didn’t come up. Nor did the original Mission, where I tried to jailbreak a Cyprian treasure spell to fulfill the very first bit of advice (the very first question I asked over at Rune Soup) in an attempt to un-f*ck a longstanding carjacking of my financial situation brought about (I’m 99% certain) by another jailbroken, very ill-timed and half-finished treasure spell I attempted back in my twenties. I expected both of those to be prominent in the journeying, to really jump out, along with the Dragon Gate, but it didn’t happen.

What I did get was a very ‘A Dark Song’ (that movie f’ed me up Mr. Ghostly Harmless) vision of four gigantic angels standing guard at the corners of the primary Mission Dolores and an image of me collecting holy water. This linked up with a dram I had where I was in another church, pouring over sheets of unreadable dream lettered sheet music, listening to posh elites talk about nose jobs…

So that’s my first destination… to grab some holy water. I was shown that I am to anoint my new Seven Sorrows rosary, so I imagine I’ll be petitioning the Queen of Heaven to return my texts again, before moving on.

The Mission District seems much smaller this time around, and I don’t need my phone to get around. I walked up to take a peak at the San Fransisco Mint, stopped in the obligatory Whole Foods, and then made my way down to the Mission passing what I think was a gigantic Datura bush on the way. There was a fellow in front of his house, blithely watering a lovely urban garden, every inch of his skin (including his head and neck) covered in tattoos.

Arriving on the corner, the Mission rising above me into the cloudless sky, those Dark Song angel-giants popped into my head again, but this time, they were conflated with the bell tower, in fact, all bell towers. The idea was really ludicrous, at least it felt that way, but I was overwhelmed with the thought that all churches everywhere, those that had steeples anyway, were actually flanked by angelic soldier that stood as tall as their own towers. This tower fetish I’ve developed as a result of reading through Lovecraft’s work is getting a bit out of hand, but maybe that’s the point. The Tower in the tarot has always been so inscrutable and seemingly out-of-place, but now, after so many instances of towers in Lovecraft’s work and the connections I’ve made, this most odd of archetypes is beginning to congeal into something much deeper.

Angelic magic has been in the air a lot lately as well and really, doesn’t its weirdness, its un-humaness, really fit the Lovecraftian Magical Aesthetic well? Cosmic beings that live among humans but are in many ways not aligned with the human agenda, whose ways are unpredictable and chaotic…

I fulfilled the task set about for me during my journeying, anointing the rosary and praying the Seven Sorrows in the basilica. The ritual was the same as my last largely unimpressive attempt until I reached the sixth sorrow, when that familiar magic body buzz was kindled. With the seventh sorrow it came back, like psylocibin waves, and by the time I completed the prayer, I had fully altered consciousness. Deep gratitude to the organ and cello player practicing in the front of the church, you gave me a nice free jazz soundtrack for the act.

Even though my journeying did not indicate a need to return to the cemetery, I did. The first time, last year, it was cold, no contact. This year, after making the promise to return and fulfilling it, it genuinely felt like a warm hug, an instant calm filled with intrigue and a sense of mystery, not entirely unlike the film scene in our first imbrication.

IMBRICATIONS

I’ve got this thing for walking in the footsteps of Jimmy Stewart. To me, well, he’s not really an icon, but, I don’t know, a fixture in my psyche is probably a better word. I have a sister who is from Marquette, MI and when she was getting married up in Big Bay, above Marquette, the thing I was most excited about was that was where Anatomy of a Murder was filmed. I got to stay in Inn where the bar scenes were shot. I ate in the bar, right next to where the actual murder took place. I got real stalker-y and drove slow through the trailer park where the murderer (real and filmic) stayed. I was really into it. That said, I’m not a film geek, so I wasn’t aware that I had stumbled on another set of Mr. Stewart’s footsteps, until I saw the plaque above the Alfred Hitchcock bobble heads in the Cemetery gift shop (so much wrong with that sentence). A key scene in Vertigo was filmed in the cemetery I had just spent time in, communing with the oldest and only known dead in the city of San Fransisco. Replace me with Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak with various invisible spirit forms and my visit looked exactly like the scene below:

Obviously, a lot has gone down in the city of San Fransisco, musically, culturally, etc. If you’re not a metalhead, however, you might not be aware that (the bizarrely now nearly mainstream band) Slayer got their start in the Bay Area. The below video from the National Museum of American History (see what I’m saying about bizarre, well deserved, but bizarre) gives a really nice high level overview of the makers and influencers of so much music that made me the person I am today. Hint, they ain’t the Grateful Dead:

And lest you think to count them out, here they are again, in full force. I have deep memories attached to this song. The best of which is walking in the Lena, IL cemetery, with my dual cassette boom box, playing this song off of my treasured (it was hard to get music in the sticks in the eighties) Reign in Blood tape:

DOWN ON FASCINATION STREET

Our Lovecraft tale this week is a quick one by the name of Cool Air. It offers whiffs of Lovecraft’s experience in New York city, citing a four story brownstone on West Fourteenth Street as the local. The nameless narrator, our protagonist, is poor and hopping from rooming house to rooming house. Very likely a reality for HPL at some point. The very first lines set the scene for us:

“It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude. I found it in the glare of the mid-afternoon, in the clangour of the metropolis, and in the teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming house...”

Cool Air, more than most, gives our Lovecraftian Magic a place in the urban environment. Our protagonist, after some exposition, meets our archetype, one Doctor Muñoz, who is described as such:

“Exquisitely proportioned... clad in somewhat formal dress of perfect cut and fit... short iron-gray full beard and an old-fashioned pince-nez… full dark eyes... aquiline nose… He was the bitterest of sworn enemies to death, and had sunk his fortune and lost all his friends in a lifetime of bizarre experience that devoted to its bafflement and extirpation.”

This sentiment is very similar to that one feature in Whisperer in Darkness where the brains in jars are looked on as the ultimate evolution of human. Lovecraft is not a celebrator of death, but rather, his tales are an incantation to bing about longevity and the elevation of class. And maybe, when you think on it, most classical steampunk has this at its core as well. The anime, Steamboy, for example, has at its core a young poor man who is in possession of a great advancement in the science of the genre. He is seeking to use it for good, but in effect is about the business of raising his station. It is a magical aesthetic that incorporates and, in the case of Cool Air, depends on machines to keep the magic operant. This might seem unthinkable to many magicians, as the eschewing of technology and the urban environment is rampant among the neo-pagan and even the modern ceremonial magician. The Lovecraftian Magical Aesthetic looks past these false constraints into a world where technology and necromancy are complimentary, if not inseparable. The drama reaches a height when these machines begin to break down:

"One night [in the middle of October] about eleven the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down... The moribund hermit’s rage and fear, swelling to grotesque proportions, seemed likely to shatter what remained of his failing physique...”

While not our tarot card for the tale, Cool Air is certainly connected to the Hermit archetype in certain ways, but an urban hermit, a slightly different animal. Viewing this from the 21st c. this is a very solid connection to the internet culture, seeking digital immortality, living next to each other, yet avoiding their neighbors, the being alone in a crowd. Moreover, the narrator offers this nugget:

“There is... an infinite deal of pathos in the state of an eminent person who has come down in the world.”

Which shows more musings on class and station and the inevitable loss of that station. As the machine around Doctor Muñoz begin to fail, the magical reality of his existence (or psuedo-existence) begins to take over:

“A kind of growing horror, of outre and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but laughed hollowly when such things as burial or funeral arrangements were gently suggested.”

Leaving us with a curious phrase, death without burial, a keeping of the dead among the living. We see this aesthetic growing with the activities of the Death Positive movement. Doctor Muñoz could be seen as their champion:

“He seemed about to hurl defiance at the death-daemon even as that ancient enemy seized him.”

Our tarot match for Cool Air is the Eight of Coins.

Our now familiar Etteilla deck offers us two key phrases. Fille Brune for the upright position and Usure for the reversed. The literal translations are Brunette, and to Wear. Brunette stems from the PIE root *bher-, which can mean either bright or brown and forms part of words like amphora, aquifer, bairn, or barrow - essentially a container. If we are to look a bit deeper at Cool Air, one of the underlying points the author is trying to make is that the body is merely the container for the soul, the intellect, the spirit of the individual. The verb phrase, to wear, helps to deepen the archetype.

From etymonline:

“The Germanic forms ‘were homonyms of the vb. for 'prevent, ward off, protect' (Goth. warjan, O.E. werian, etc.), and this was prob. a factor in their early displacement in most of the Gmc. languages’”

and so we see, that is another match for our good Doctor, whom not only clothed his living spirit in a decaying corpse, but used his machines to prevent and ward off the inevitable disintegration of his corporeal form, cheating his unbeatable enemy, death, if only for a time.

#Steampunk #Science #Relics

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

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Mile high chapter 3

“I still want it. Nothing’s changed in that regard. What he did… and what you do, I don’t see them as the same thing. I can’t explain it, but the one helps me cope with the other. Can we not talk about this anymore?”

He smoothed my hair back from my face, kissing my forehead. “We need to talk more, not less. About a lot of things. If you would just let me talk to you, we could get things settled between us. I can’t stand this constant uncertainty where you’re concerned.”

I sat up, feeling a need for some distance.

“Let’s make a deal. How about we not talk. I’ll go home with you tonight. I’ll stay at your place. We can do anything you want. You can f**k my brains out all night.” My voice was getting embarrassingly thick, even a hint of accent was coming out. “But I don’t want to talk about the attack, not any part of it.

And I don’t want to talk about our relationship, or lack of one.”

His jaw clenched, but I saw almost immediately that he wouldn’t turn me down.

“Do we have to go back to the party first?” he finally asked, his mood clearly darker.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

We walked back into the building without another word. Justin gripped my elbow in a proprietary manner.

We re-joined my group of friends. A few people gave us good natured smirks for our absence, but no one said anything about it.

Justin was quiet and withdrawn. I had a hard time enjoying myself when I knew I had put him into his sudden dark mood. He was barely even touching me. It wasn’t until Damien engaged me in conversation that he became suddenly affectionate. Damien was asking me if I had any plans for the next New York layover when I felt Justin press against my back, wrapping his arms around me very carefully, just under my br**sts.

Contrary man, I thought darkly, as he buried his face in my neck.

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” I tried to answer Damien, distracted by the mercurial man at my back. He’d pressed his groin against me, and I had no doubts as to what he was thinking about.

Justin raised his head at my answer. “I have an event I’d like you to attend with me, if you’re up for it.

It’s a formal affair, for charity.”

I stiffened, bewildered by the offer. It was an about-face for him, asking me to something so public. We had established from the start that we weren’t going to date. It wasn’t what either of us had wanted from each other. I had quickly found myself hurt by the arrangement, but I hadn’t known he’d changed his stance on any of it. When had it changed and why? Or was this just a stunt to show his ownership to Damien?

“Um, I don’t have anything to wear to something like that,” I said, naming off the first excuse that came into my head.

His hands started moving along my stomach, stroking. He grabbed my hips, holding me still as he straightened behind me. The motion brought his erection more flush against my butt, and I had to stifle a gasp. I didn’t want anyone to see just what he was doing. I tried my best to look normal, but had no idea if I succeeded.

“I’ve had my dresser select a wardrobe for you, to keep at my place,” he said in a perfectly casual tone.

“And she’ll be there Friday morning to help you either select something from the wardrobe, or find something else. She’ll have a sampling from several designers for you to try on.”

I blinked, not sure what to think of that. “You shouldn’t-“ “It’s only fair, if I want you to attend a bunch of stuffy affairs with me, that I provide the clothes you’ll need to wear to them. And besides, we’ve already discussed the gift thing exhaustively. If I recall, that was one of the concessions that you actually agreed to.” He was moving against me as he spoke. It was hard to hold on to a thought when he did that.

“When did you do all that? The wardrobe thing?” I asked, baffled.

“Weeks ago, when I realized that I was just going to have to get used to the idea that I couldn’t shelter you from the paparazzi, so I might as well show you off.”

I just blinked.

Damien was looking between us, studying Justin. I had almost forgotten, for a few minutes, that he was even there. Justin had that effect on me.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” Justin murmured in my ear.

He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, his arms moving slowly, rubbing against my n**ples. There was no way that he wasn’t aware he was touching them. They were hard little pebbles that he had to feel through the material of my thin shirt and lacy bra.

“I, um, I don’t know. The invitation is unexpected, as I’m sure you know. I’ve never been to anything like that.”

“There’s nothing to it. We just get dressed up and walk around, mingling. I won’t leave your side, if you’re nervous. I just want your company.”

Damien walked away, likely feeling ignored. He made his way to Murphy, who was telling a story loud enough for the entire room to hear.

I pitched my voice low, speaking over my shoulder. “I thought we weren’t doing any of that. You said from the beginning that we weren’t dating.”

“I’d talk to you about it, but I’m not allowed to talk tonight, remember?” His deep voice was a rumble against my ear.

I saw his game. He wanted to get me curious enough to take back my own words. I wouldn’t do it, though, even if my curiosity was eating at me.

I poked an elbow behind me. “Fine then, let’s not talk about any events either, while we’re at it. That raises too many questions about our relationship.”

He made a displeased little hum behind me that I could feel rumble through me. He didn’t speak for several minutes. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking him questions.

Finally he broke his silence. “Do you like horses?” he asked.

“Horses?” I asked, baffled.

“Yes, horses. Do you like them?”

I thought about it. More about why he was asking then what he was asking. Finally, I just focused on the question. “Yes, I like horses. Doesn’t everyone? Why?”

“Have you ridden?”

I flushed. “Once. It was just a two-hour guided tour, up in the mountains, so I’m not even sure it counts, but I loved it.”

“Do you think you feel well enough to try riding now? Or do you need to heal up more?”

I cast him a suspicious glance. “Do you have horses in town?” I hadn’t noticed any stables at his property, but I also hadn’t exactly gotten a proper tour.

“I do. I need to show you the entire property sometime, including the stables. They’re set away from the house. But that isn’t what I had in mind. You said I could do whatever I wanted with you. You didn’t give me any restrictions, including staying in town. I would take you to the beach, to relax, but I find that lately I absolutely despise the beach.”

I raised my brows at him. “You don’t like the beach?” I asked him, baffled.

He set his jaw and looked across the room with a steely glare. I followed his eyes. He was staring at Damien as though he wanted to do the man bodily harm.

“Currently, just the thought of the beach makes me want to do violence,” he said, his tone quiet but ominous. “So I have another idea, if you’re up to try some riding.”

I studied him, trying to follow his odd thought patterns. “Where did you want to take me?”

He turned that steely glare on me. “You said I could do anything with you tonight. And you did not say I had to tell you what or where. All I want to know is, do you think you can ride a horse?”

I glared back. “I’m not sure. I feel okay. If I didn’t do anything too crazy, and it was a calm horse, I suppose I could.”

He nodded decisively. “Okay, we’ll take it easy. Let me make some phone calls.”

I watched him walk outside, a little stunned by the sudden turn of events.

He always seemed to do that, turn everything around until I was dizzy and panting and giving into his whims without a protest. It was infuriating, and exhilarating. I had thought my life was content and full before I met him. I had thought that excitement was the last thing that I wanted for myself. And the thought of falling in love had been anathema to me. How could meeting one person make everything change so suddenly? I wondered, not for the first time. I didn’t know where he was planning to take me, but it didn’t matter. I would go. My self-control became an elusive quality when I got into Justin’s orbit.

I approached Stephan, listening to the long-winded story Murphy was into before I was noticed. He was walking everyone through the horror of waking up with two women and a new tattoo with one of their names on it. Only he hadn’t remembered either of their names, just that one of them was Lola, since it was written in big black letters on his chest.

I blinked at the ridiculous story. Surprisingly, I hadn’t heard it before, though I had seen the tattoo when he was lounging by the pool. I listened, as interested as everyone else to find out which woman the tattoo was for, and why.

“Turns out, it was another woman I’d met earlier that night. She’d left in a jealous rage after the tattoo, when I started talking to the two I woke up with. I was just being friendly, I’m sure!”

His defensive stance about two women he’d woken up in bed with made everyone laugh. He was still genuinely offended by the woman who’d inspired his tattoo and never spoken to him again.

Four other pilots had joined the group. I recognized them only vaguely. They were part of the younger generation of pilots, and I knew they were friends with Damien and Murphy, but I couldn’t recall any of their names.

“He calls her the one that got away every time he gets really trashed,” Damien said in an amused voice, making me start. He was just behind me.

I turned to give him a slight smile.

His voice was pitched loud enough for the large group to hear, but he seemed to be speaking to me. “He doesn’t even remember her, but he says he trusts even his drunk judgement enough that, if she inspired a tattoo in one night, she must have been ‘the one.’ Every time he goes on a rant about how he hates being single, he blames Lola’s damned temper.”

I looked at Murphy, laughing. He had a sheepish, good natured-grin on his face. It sounded like something he’d say, and he didn’t deny it.

“Where was this?” I asked him.

“Melbourne, Australia. I bet she had a sexy accent,” Murphy said in a dejected tone.

“We all know how much you love sexy Australian accents,” one of the pilots added, sending everyone into new peals of laughter.

“Hey, now.” Damien said, raising his hands. “Don’t drag me into this. I’ve been with Murphy for years, and he has yet to get a tattoo for me on any part of his body, sexy accent or no.”

“Now we know for sure he’s never slept with you,” Marnie interjected. “If he had, there would be a Damien tattoo somewhere on his body, I can attest. One night, and I had to check the urge not to brand you on my ass.”

Loud hoots and hollers followed her brazen announcement, Murphy laughing the loudest. His laugh was particularly infectious.

I had to give Damien a second look. I’d have sworn he was blushing.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried,” Murphy gasped out, still laughing. “He’s just about the prettiest man I know. Prettier than at least half the women I’ve been with. But I can’t even get a cuddle when he’s drunk.”

Our laughter was loud enough that even in the boisterous bar, most of the people were staring our way.

That was about the time Justin strode back inside.

I was standing closest to Damien, though we were still a good two feet apart. And I couldn’t stop laughing, even seeing the storm that immediately overtook his lovely features at the sight of us standing near each other again.

I knew that he had a problem with Damien. He seemed to think there was something between us. I just didn’t understand why. I’d known Damien for years before I’d met Justin. If we had shared a real interest in each other, obviously something would have happened by now. I understood Damien’s appeal, but he just didn’t do it for me. I had more…exotic tastes. I thought that all should have been very obvious to Justin, so it was hard to humor his strange dislike for one of my good friends.

Justin strode to me, looking much too fine even in a pique.

I marveled, as I did much too often, at how beautiful he was. His longish, sandy brown hair fell artfully out of his face as he walked. The chiseled muscles of his arms and upper body were clearly defined by his thin shirt. His clenched jawline was perfection. His mouth was almost bow shaped but held too firm of an edge to be pouty, though it sure was pretty. His arched eyebrows and thick lashes were a shade darker than his hair, drawing attention to his vivid turquoise eyes. His nose was straight and flared appealingly at the tip, sitting just right in his unrivaled face. He was simply beautiful. He was in no way feminine, but the word handsome just couldn’t do those refined looks justice. He was long and lean, but in tight fitting clothing, it was clear that he was well muscled, rather than thin. He’s perfection, I thought absently. What is he doing with me? Was always my follow up question.

He moved in close beside me, but didn’t touch me.

“Looks like I missed all the fun,” he said quietly to me, his voice strangely empty.

My smile began to fade.

“The arrangements have been made,” he said shortly. “You’re all mine, whenever we finish up here.”

“What about you two? You look like you’re hot enough about each other to break out the ink. When are you going to tattoo your names on each other?” Marnie called out to Justin and I, smiling and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

I sent him a sidelong smile.

He gave me the tiniest smile in return. “It would be a waste to mar her perfect skin just for a little ink,”

Justin said. “But I would happily get a Selena tattoo, if that’s what she wants.”

I arched a brow at him as the crowd erupted, shouting encouragement for the folly. I’d seen Justin’s body. He didn’t have one tattoo, so he was just messing with them, of course.

“You wouldn’t return the favor, Selena?” Judith called out, sounding aghast.

I shrugged, giving Justin a narrow-eyed glare. “I guess if he got a tattoo for me, I’d let him pierce my n**ples,” I said more to him than the crowd. But the crowd absolutely roared at the joke.

He ran his tongue over his teeth in that mouthwatering way of his. He held out a hand to me, as though to shake. “You have a deal, Love. Please, shake on it. Nothing would please me more.”

Someone sounded like they choked on their drink just behind me. I heard Stephan shouting something along the lines of, “What the fuck, Buttercup?”

I looked at his hand, wondering why he had to take the joke so far. But I shook his hand without giving it much thought, just going along with his over the top antics. One of Murphy’s favorite lines about telling jokes came to mind, for some reason. Always go with the bit, he liked to say. Can’t deny the bit.

“You first, though. I want to see that ink before I pierce anything,” I said, making sure I had insurance, just in case he really had gone crazy.

He smiled, and it was positively wicked. “Of course.”

“And I want to see those piercings, Selena!” someone called out. I couldn’t even tell who it was.

“We want to see, as proof that you both held up your end of the bargain!” I recognized Judith’s voice that time.

“You should put her name on your cock, in that case!” Marnie called out. She got enough of a shocked response to call out, “Too far? Was that one too far?”

Justin threw an arm around my shoulder, anchoring me close against his side. “No one gets to see her piercings, but I’ll show the tattoo. Selena can even pick which part of my body she wants to mark.”

The joke had gone on long enough. I pulled back to give him a stern look, opening my mouth to speak.

He pressed his hot mouth against mine before I could get a word out. He kissed me, a hot, not fit for public, kind of kiss. His tongue swept deep into my mouth, just begging me to suck it. I pushed against his chest at first, having every intention of avoiding his need for PDA. His hand fisted in my hair, the other hand going to my lower back to press me firmly against him.

I struggled for only a moment before I was lost, softening against him, sucking at his tongue like my life depended on it. My hands fisted helplessly in his shirt, my wrists aching for the feel of the restraining pressure that I craved.

I forgot about my friends, forgot about the joke he’d taken too far. He could have taken me there, against the wall, if he’d wanted to. That was his power over me.

He was the one to pull back, smiling. He looked over my head, and I knew he was grinning at Damien, a cold, triumphant grin.

“If you don’t pick a spot, I might just have to take the only other suggestion I heard, something about your name on my cock.” He spoke loudly enough to get some hoots and hollers from the crowd.

I couldn’t even form the words to respond. He took one of my fisted hands, spreading it flat over his heart.

“Or how about right there, Love?” he whispered to me.

I licked my lips, opening my mouth to speak. I knew I should say…something, but my mind had just gone off into space. Off into, thinking about the things he could do to me, territory. He laughed, clearly enjoying the state he’d put me in.

He was smug and gloating as he stroked a hand over my hair. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I was soon to be at his mercy for the night. The thought was all-consuming. I was excited, and aroused, and scared.

Was it too soon, since my injuries? Would I bring back some of the shadow pains that had so recently faded? Would he take it easy on me, or push me hard? I wanted to know the answers more than I feared the pain.

One thing I knew for certain. He was going to f**k me mindless, and I could barely stand the wait.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Are you ready to leave yet?” Justin murmured to me a few minutes later.

We’d grown silent as the group moved on to another topic. Justin was stroking me lightly, touching me everywhere, falling just short of indecency.

He would touch my collarbone, but stop just short of my br**sts. One hand lingered at my hipbone, dangerously close to dipping low enough to be obscene. I was getting more and more lost in his touch, losing all sense of what was appropriate, and losing sight of all of the reasons that I’d ever had any reservations about him at all.

This was the reason I had tried to keep my distance from him, but also the reason that I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t resist him. I had held out for a time, but if I was honest, it had only been a countdown to my capitulation.

I didn’t answer him, and he took it as a challenge. He kissed me again, holding nothing back this time.

He was gripping my hair almost to the point of pain, his other hand grabbing my butt as he ground against me. He was aroused and I moaned into his mouth, the sound barely registering in my lust fueled haze.

He pulled back, his breath ragged now. “You ready to leave now? I don’t find the idea of f**king you against that wall behind you even slightly unpleasant. Exhibitionism has never been a problem for me. Is that something you’d like to try?”

He ground against me with every word he spoke, and his voice was mocking, almost angry. His words were barely registering, as my focus was on what he was doing.

“Hmm?” Was all I managed to get out.

“Are you ready to leave now? Or would you prefer that I f**k you in front of all of your co-workers?”

Justin bit out in a hard enough tone to finally bring my mind back to the surface.

“No,” I said, breathless and agitated.

How could I so quickly forget where I am, and that we’re in a room crowded with people that I know?

“No, you’re not ready to leave? Or no, you wouldn’t prefer that I f**k you in a room crowded with your friends? Where they can all watch me bury my c*ck inside of you against that wall, not ten feet behind you. Is that something you want them to see?”

I just stared at him for awhile, my mind moving like molasses.

He seemed to be getting angrier by the moment. “Answer me. Do you want me to do that?” he asked, each word biting and harsh.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No,” I repeated, trying to make it sound convincing. “We need to go.”

He ground his teeth together. “I’m aware of that. Go say goodbye to Stephan,” he ordered.

I stepped away from him, catching my breath for long moments.

I counted in my head as I made my way to Stephan, trying to get my mind onto the matter at hand, and off of Justin.

Stephan gave me a slightly worried look as I approached. “You okay, Selena?” He leaned near my ear as he spoke.

I just nodded, looking only at him. “Justin and I are leaving. I’m going home with him. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I told him.

He began to look around as I spoke, searching for Justin. He met the other man’s stare as Justin approached. Justin leaned in, saying something in his ear, pitched too low for even me to hear.

Stephan nodded slowly, giving the other man a severe frown, but saying nothing.

Justin led me from the room by the hand, his own grip uncompromising. We didn’t speak to anyone else. I was lucid enough to know I should be a little embarrassed at how far I’d almost let Justin go in a room full of people.

Justin was close to dragging me by the time we got to his car. He ushered me, rather forcefully, into the low limo the second Clark opened the door. He was a hard presence at my back as I moved across the seats. He sat close to me, but made no move to touch me again. I didn’t mind, taking the reprieve to try to compose myself.

Several minutes passed in silence, Justin staring out the window as though he was avoiding even the sight of me. I could tell he was angry, but I couldn’t even begin to guess why.

“So you’ve done that before?” I finally asked him quietly. My mind had been stubbornly lingering on the idea in the long silence. “You’ve had sex in front of other people before?”

He looked at me, his brow arched, his expression cold. “Yes. Are we sharing information now? I thought that was strictly off-limits tonight. Your idea, if I recall.”

My eyes narrowed on him. “Don’t bring things up that you aren’t willing to talk about, then.”

His brows flew straight up at that. “Is that a rule now? So you’re saying that if you bring up a subject, you have to answer my questions about it, as well? If you’ll agree to reciprocate, I’ll accept those terms.”

I bit my lip, wondering how this was going to backfire on me. I knew it would, eventually. How badly did I want to know about his exhibitionist tendencies?

Badly. “Fine. Tell me.”

He pursed that pretty mouth. “Tell you what, exactly? About hav**g s*x in front of other people?”

I nodded.

“Is it something you’re interested in doing, or are you merely curious?”

My eyes widened in dawning horror. Had he thought I would want to do that in front of my co-workers, if I was thinking at all clearly? The thought was abhorrent.

“Merely curious,” I said with a blush. “About you more than the practice. I want to know what you did in front of other people, and with whom.”

He spread his hands. “I’ve done it several times. There are…events for people like us. BDSM demonstrations. I’ve dominated, and spanked, and f**ked several women at things like that. In front of a few people or even crowds. I never had a problem with it, though it was more a novelty than one of my actual preferences. And I f**ked a few women at some frat houses in college in front of crowds, a few times on a dare, if I recall. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I used to be a real slut. I’ve been more circumspect in recent years, but only in comparison to my past exploits, really. Anything else you want to know about it?” His voice was tight with agitation by the end of his explanation, and his question was downright angry.

I felt sick to my stomach suddenly, the last vestiges of arousal leaving me completely. “And you’d have no problem doing that to me, in front of a crowd?”

His jaw clenched hard, and he turned his head away. He was silent for so long that I didn’t think he was going to answer, though the answer was important to me.

“I have a huge problem with it,” he said finally. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it. Even knowing how much I would have regretted it after, I still had a hard time stopping myself. I felt like you wanted me to, and that made it so hard to stop. I’m starting to see that that’s not what you wanted. Still, I would have been furious with us both if it had gone that far.”

“Why furious? You said yourself you’ve done it several times.”

He gave me an almost malevolent glare. “Because you’re mine. I don’t want other people to see you like that. I don’t want to share you like that. When I’ve done it before, it’s been with women who were…dispensable. They were all dispensable, Selena. I’m not proud of that fact, but it is the truth.

Even the few subs who I’ve had under contract longterm were dispensable, in a way. I never shared them, but I certainly didn’t care if anyone saw me f**king them.”

I licked my lips. “You had subs under contract? Longterm?” I asked, feeling the sickness growing.

He sighed. “I did bring it up, didn’t I? Yes, I’ve had a few subs under contract. They were amenable, though only two were compatible for what could be considered longterm. It can be a necessary arrangement, when you have a lot of money and your sexual proclivities are…unusual. I wanted no misunderstandings, and certainly none of them were strangers to the scene.”

“Is that something you would try to do to me? The contract thing?” I asked him, my voice smaller than I preferred.

He gave me a baffled, wild look.

I had a horrible thought. I hadn’t wanted the arrangement, would certainly have turned it down, but what occurred to me next was even more appalling.

“Oh,” I said, the sick knot in my stomach growing by the moment. “That’s a more longterm arrangement than what you had in mind for me, I take it.” I made my voice and face empty of emotion as I spoke, wanting to take the blow with some grace. “You would obviously want someone more experienced with the things you like, to fill a role like that. Well, that’s for the best. I couldn’t make a commitment like that, anyways.”

His head dropped forward, his hair covering his face. I saw his fists clenching and unclenching.

He was silent for a time. His voice was low but harsh with intensity when he spoke. “That is not the contract that I had in mind for you. But which is it, Selena? Are we talking about our relationship, or am I not allowed? Because you keep saying the most infuriating things, and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to bite my tongue. So are we talking about our relationship tonight, or not? I’ve wanted to explain myself to you for a long time, but you always run away before I can even begin.”

I swallowed. I suddenly wanted to know, quite desperately, what he would say if I encouraged this conversation. But I lost my nerve, feeling terrified enough of what he might say to postpone it for another day.

“Not tonight,” I said finally.

A chilly silence filled the car after that. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t touch. I withdrew into my own thoughts, for a time. We stayed that way until we pulled into the parking lot of Las Vegas’s private airport. It was close to the main airport, but I’d never actually been to it.

“What are we doing?” I asked Justin.

He didn’t look up. “You said I could do anything with you that I wanted. I am.”

I gave him an exasperated look that he didn’t see. “I don’t have anything with me. I haven’t even packed a bag. And it’s late.”

“I’ve taken care of it.”

“It will be morning by the time we get anywhere. I can’t wear this outfit anywhere but a night club.”

“I know. I said I’ve taken care of it.”

We had stopped by then, and Clark was opening the door scant seconds later. Justin got out in a flash, pulling me out as soon as I got within his reach. He gripped my elbow firmly, guiding me into the small terminal.

“We should be able to depart immediately,” he said brusquely.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No. Not to a beach. I’ll tell you that much.”

I nearly laughed. “What is your issue with beaches? Everyone loves the beach.” I looked at him, smiling to draw him out of his mood.

His face darkened. “I’m aware,” he said, his tone scathing. The beach was a topic off-limits, I noted. I tucked away that little piece of information.

“I need a change of clothes,” I complained.

“I’m aware,” he repeated.

“You’re the moodiest person I’ve ever met,” I told him, my own tone dark now.

He squeezed my arm, hard. “You make me crazy. If you would give me some clue what you were thinking or feeling, if you even feel anything for me, I think I could handle our situation with a little less volatility.”

His words struck me silent, and we walked like that through the smaller airport. We went through all of the motions, my mind reeling.

He wanted to know if I felt anything for him? It was a strange notion to me, one I couldn’t credit. He’s worried about getting me to care for him? I mused.

I dismissed the thought after mulling it over. I’d had this type of interaction with men before. It wasn’t that he cared. It was that I came across just aloof enough that it made me a challenge. Justin couldn’t have felt challenged to gain the affection of many women. One night with him, and most probably professed undying love. Because, frankly, there was so much to l ove. But I wouldn’t humor him, not at the cost of what little pride I intended to retain at the end of our affair.

CHAPTER NINE

We were boarding his jet in record time. I’d never been on a private jet before, and his was impressive.

I studied the beautifully designed interior, keeping my features schooled into passivity as the flight attendant greeted us warmly.

He led me directly to a seat, buckling me in without a word, his mouth tight. We hadn’t spoken since his odd statement, and I didn’t know what to say.

He sat beside me in an oversized leather chair, buckling himself in. The seats made my airline’s first class seats look tiny in comparison.

“The decor is lovely. Your decorators, as always, have exquisite taste,” I told him. The plane’s interior was done up in a muted red color with deep brown accents. I wouldn’t have even known it was a plane, if I’d only seen the interior.

“Well, thank you. I decorate most of it myself,” he told me, flushing a little.

I was surprised. “That’s…impressive.”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I own hotels. It always made sense to me, that I should have a hand in all of it, so I’ve been making many of the decorating decisions since I was a teenager. It goes without saying that I choose my own decor on my private properties. I like things a particular way.”

I flushed a little at that. He was a control freak, was what he should have said. Strangely, that thought only ever turned me on. “Do you enjoy interior design? Or is it merely a necessary evil for you?”

He looked thoughtful. “I enjoy it. If I’m honest, I even enjoy shopping. Do you think less of me now?”

I gave him a tiny, teasing smile. “Hardly. I far prefer these revelations to ones about you being an exhibitionist.”

He had begun to smile, and just like that, it died. He grew broodingly silent again as the plane was prepped and we took off.

“Do you think you’ll be able to accept my past? Or is it all just too sordid for you?” he finally asked quietly. His head was tilted back as he rested in his chair.

I blinked. “I suppose, as long as it is actually in the past, I could cope with it, if you’re always honest with me.”

He nodded, looking relieved, but oddly sad. “I will be. I have been. I’ve gone out of my way to tell you even the things I don’t want to, because you asked it of me. You just need to give me some time to prove it to you. To gain your trust.”

I thought about that as he went silent again.

The flight attendant was attentive, asking us if we needed anything mere seconds after we reached ten thousand feet.

She was beautiful, I noticed. Her hair was long and black, hanging straight down her back and parted down the middle, her features stunning. She had a slim but shapely figure. Her uniform was a plain black skirt with a fitted, almost too tight white dress shirt tucked in. She wore four inch red stilettos that she worked like a pro. I couldn’t have walked in those shoes to save my life.

I remembered Justin’s offer to hire me as his personal flight attendant. Was that how she had gotten the job? Did I want to know? The masochistic side of me certainly did.

“Have you slept with Helene?” I asked Justin, my tone very nearly idle.

He studied me. He hesitated, and I had my answer.

I looked out the window.

“Once, when she first hired on,” he said slowly. “She offered rather blatantly, and I accepted. We’ve been nothing but professional in the years since. Are you upset?”

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