#pardonnez fucking moi????????????

[asteralien]

what the holy fucking

fuck

#'watch the second season' they said 'the angel and the demon kiss' they said 'it'll break you' they said #they failed to clarify exactly WHY it would break me #i thought yall were just being dramatic over a kiss but #pardonnez fucking moi???????????? #good omens 2 spoilers #oh ho ho mr gaiman is VERY brave leaving his inbox open in times like these #bless you sir but also fuck you

[hard--headed--woman]

Il est tellement simple de se rendre compte que l'idéologie du genre n'est qu'un ramassis de conneries propagé par des jeunes passant leur vie sur internet lorsque l'on vient d'un pays non anglophone. Il suffit juste de prêter attention au language que les activistes du genre utilisent pour en parler.

Non seulement certains termes n'ont pas de traduction, comme "genderfluid" ou "genderqueer', mais ils utilisent également le mot "queer", une insulte qui signifie littéralement "bizarre" et "contre nature", au lieu de sa traduction. Pourquoi ne clamez-vous pas directement que vous êtes des "anormaux" au lieu d'écrire "queer" sur vos pancartes ?

Mon exemple préféré est celui des pronoms dans la bio. Je ne parle pas des personnes comme moi qui ont leur bio en anglais car elles ne traînent que sur le côté anglais d'une plate-forme, mais bien de celles qui sont actives uniquement du côté francophone, de Twitter ou Instagram par exemple, ont tous leurs posts en français, leur bio également, excepté pour le petit "she/her" ou "he/him". Pourquoi ne pas écrire "elle" ou "il/lui" ? Parce que ça semble plus ridicule, parce que vous n'y pensez même pas tant vous réutilisez simplement la propagande de l'internet américain ?

Même pour nous insulter, ils parlent anglais. C'est "fuck terfs", jamais "allez vous faire foutre, terfs!". Remarquez, même "terf" est un acronyme anglais sans équivalent français... ils n'utilisent même pas le terme "féministe radicale". Au mieux, j'ai vu "radfem" - un terme anglais.

D'ailleurs, cette idéologie est tellement centrée autour des États-Unis et régurgitée toute faite dans les autres pays en provenance de ce dernier, que même les mots utilisés pour la combattre sont anglais - pardonnez-moi si je me trompe, mais il n'existe pas d'équivalent français de "gender critical", si ?

De toute façon, quand je les vois parler de Stonewall, de Rivera, de Marsha, de queer, je sais tout de suite ce qu'il en est.

#radblr #radical feminism #radfem safe #radical feminist safe #radfem #radical feminists do touch #radical feminists please touch #féminisme #féministe #féminisme radical #frenchblr #french blogging #tumblr français #français #idéologie du genre #gender ideology #radical feminists touch #radical feminists please interact #radical feminst #rad fem #radical feminist #radical feminists do interact #french user #french feminism #french radfems #french side of tumblr #french #french politics #non binaire #gender critical

[saecookie]

BONNE GRÈVE! Solidarité! Restez en sécurité et dites « fuck em » pour moi (et pardonnez ma syntaxe, ma grammaire est rouillée).

MG YOUR GRAMMAR IS IMPECCABLE. Like. No error. It's very, very sexy of you.

I was safe, had all the usual (lawyer's number, eye serum, masks, etc.) but it was a safe one, except for those who tried to force way where we were forbidden to (long story, it's a yucky take for them to forbid to march there anyway), and it was 'just' fumes and water canons. THANK YOU and I'll go finish my strike day now.

#emjee #♥️

[oopsalltes]

[drops everything in hands] "oh, pardonnez-moi, monsieur"

"fuck!"

#mappy #mew-mew #suggestive #THIS IS SO ?? #sorry it made me laugh while drawing it so ive gotta post

[alexanderhamiltonfool]

Alexander’s two Suicide notes

Listen Up Dumbfucks:

Most people kill themselves because of a mental condition. This is true in my case too. The condition I suffer from is that I am not normal, I am not like everyone of you "sane" people.

I am not normal in the sense that I am not like every other one of you brain-dead zombies. I can think. I can reason intelligently. I can observe and learn from life. I can make my own decisions and follow through on them. And I can do these without any aid from celebrities, T.V., radio or MySpace. Unfortunately, every one of you shit-brained lemmings seem to lack these skills and I can't fucking take it any more.

Since everyone else in this world is a fucking retarded drone who revels in their ignorance and unintelligence, I must put an end to my misery. I truly wish I was normal. I wish I could be a fucking retarded sponge like all of you. I wish I could have the same conversations day in and day out about sports, politics and "how about that weather huh?". But I can't.

Sure you'll see this note and say Alexander's the crazy one. You have to it's the only way you can go on thinking you're sane and your pathetic life is meaningful. Go ahead, call me the weirdo like everyone else surely will. Then, return to your happiness of everyday mindless monotony.

My only wish is that the bullet I put into my brain doesn't kill me but only leaves me brain dead. For if ignorance is bliss and everyone of you fuck-for-brains is truly happy, then living a life without a brain stem in a coma, devoid of any cognitive ability must surely be utopia.

Leave My Machine Plugged In You Fucking Retards,

Alexander

P.S. Reassure my children that my suicide wasn't entirely their fault.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To mine own cater-cousins and family,

i knoweth mine own death though seppuku may beest the most wondrous f'rm of mine own death f'r me.  I wast a h'rrible p'rson.  May mine own death free me.  Liveth joyous life unlike mine own owneth La vie m'est insupportable. Pardonnez moi

#tw Suicide #cw suicide #this is a fake character

[kmclaude]

Oh no now I'm reminded of Tiefer still being possessive of Jehan even long after he's dead either as a ghost, a manifestation of Jehan's trauma, or a combination of both. Or about how other people might have their own overly attached ghost and how they might be haunted in different ways, especially in Therapy au.

Teifer was still a big part of Jehan's life, and while he's mentioned by name often enough while Jehan is trying to work through his trauma, he would certainly be pissed about Jehan and Sister Héloise talking about him like he's not even there. Sure Tiefer doesn't want Jehan spending the rest of his life in some asylum, or worse drinking himself to death like he did, but that doesn't stop his petty possessive jealous ass from hating Jehan's therapist. Especially when he saw how Jehan reacted to seeing her in person, surprised and a bit flustered at the fact his new "doctor" isn't some matronly older nun, but a tall striking looking woman in her early 30s (and no he's not projecting his unresolved issues about Nathan either!)

Sure maybe it's petty of Tiefer to try sabotaging Jehan's first therapy session by telling Jehan he's wasting his time, if he wanted to wine and complain to someone for a couple of hours Jehan would have more luck hiring a hooker, it certainly would have been easier for the Sister to pay for her fancy expensive medical school education if she made that career choice. But noooo she wants to help poor miserable broken men like Jehan.

While technically, considering Tiefer is dead, he can't physically harm either Jehan or Héloise, he does however know Jehan well enough to play on his memory and fears. And oh he does love seeing the panic slowly build on Jehan's face when Tiefer lights up a cigarette and slowly circles around Sister Héloise. Casually wondering aloud if the same nun, so blissfully unaware of the Tiefer's presence, would still suggest using therapeutic role play if he decided to reenact all the things he did to Jehan, but with Héloise in Jehan's place. And oh as much as he loves seeing Jehan's face drain in horror while imagining that scenario, Teifer can't resist looking directly at the Sister's confused and concerned expression, just so he can watch Jehan break down in the reflection of her eyes, as Teifer suggests aloud, maybe he should take out her eye instead like Jehan did to him. At first Tiefer doesn't notice the other ghostly presence in the room, while he slowly inches his lit cigarette towards her face.

Until Héloise blinks and instead of seeing Jehan's stricken expression reflected in her pupils it's something else, there is a street Tiefer doesn't recognize with several people running and screaming in panic and fear, almost as if someone suddenly changed the channel on a TV to play a live news feed of a war zone, and a large and bloody hand snatches the cigarette from Tiefer's fingers, replacing the burning smell of tobacco with gunpowder, and a very angry voice looming over Héloise shoulder, asks in broken English

"What the fuck you say?"

Apparently Sister Héloise also has a ghost attached to her. A very protective one too, in the form of a 6ft2", middle aged man, sporting multiple bullet wounds, blood stains, and a very similar nose and golden olive complexion to the plainclothes nun Tiefer just threatened. Unfortunately Fr. Emilene Tiefer seems to be the only one aware of this new ghost presence, and the larger ghost is just watching the priest every movement very intently before questioning Tiefer in French, with a tone that is somehow both respectfully polite and filled with murderous fury,

"Pardonnez-moi Mon Père, mon anglais n'est pas très bon et la plupart des mots dont je me souviens sont des blasphèmes, mais est-ce que je viens juste de vous entendre menacer ma fille?"

(Google English Translation: Forgive me Father, my English isn't very good and most of the words I do remember are profanity, but did I just hear you threatening my daughter?

Pissed off Protective Dad™ Translation: If you don't leave now and stop making problems, I will rip your fucking head off with my bare hands and punt it, and your scrawny ass carcass into the nearest dumpster!)

tiefer: I am feel uncomfortable when we are not about me?

GHOST FIGHT GHOST FIGHT GHOST FIGHT!!!!

Sr. Héloise: would you consider therapeutic roleplay?

Fr. Tiefer: yeah p'tit, have you? you should get a knife :) and """"roleplay""""" with her :) that would be fun :)

Jehan: ............i'll sleep on it

#kmclaudereplies #im sorry im no brain thots empty after watching slasher the tv series s2 and getting a brain full of incest ghosts and did which like... #that's so made for me that's my hole it was made for me it was very meflavored

[lightsovermonaco]

Till Death Do Us Part: Sneak Peek

“You’re late.”

Pierre’s head snaps around, searching for you. Your red-bottom stilettos echo off the cathedral-esque ceiling as you emerge from the shadows at his left. He had no idea how he hadn’t clocked you. He always scanned a room for threats when he entered. Even in his own home he couldn’t afford to let his guard down before doing a full sweep, lest a threat be lurking in a dark corner.

“I’m-” Pierre’s eyes nearly roll back in his head at the sight of you in a skin tight cobalt dress, hugging your curves and accentuating your lithe legs.

He’d fucked up big time. You’d pulled out the big guns tonight. That dress was his weakness and you knew it. He had made a habit of going to town on you whenever you wore it, had been conditioned to expect to fuck you senseless at the end of the night when you pulled it out of the closet.

Something told him he might not get that reward tonight. 

“Speechless as always I see,” you quip, taking your usual seat. “Sit and eat before it gets too cold.”

Grabbing his plate, he moves to join you at your side. He makes it half a step before your voice rings out to condemn him. “No. You can stay over there.”

He doesn’t listen, instead plunking his plate down at his usual place and sliding into the plush, high-backed chair. You are already slicing through your braised chicken and resolutely not looking at him by the time he cups your jaw and places a soft kiss to your cheek.

“I’m sorry I’m late mon amour,” he murmurs, attempting to butter you up as he brushes his thumb over your painted lips. “I was discussing options with someone. It was important.” It was better to be vague. You didn’t need the gory details of how he got what he wanted, just needed the knowledge that he had succeeded.

“Something more important than your weekly dinner with your fiancée?” You stab a piece of chicken with your fork. Pierre winces. 

“Nothing is more important than you.”

You huff, still not deigning to so much as glance at him. Your anger doesn’t sit right with him at all. He could list his life goals on one hand: don’t die prematurely, make a shit ton of money, and provide you with a life that saw a smile permanently etched on your face. His proposal a few weeks ago had done just that; you hadn't stopped smiling since. He had almost forgotten what it was like when you were pissed.

“I got caught up and lost track of time,” Pierre explains, choosing his words as carefully as one would select which wire to cut when defusing a bomb. “It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t,” you grumble, pushing away the hand that had found your thigh. “I get one night of your time each week, Pierre. I think I’m pretty reasonable about most things- you sneaking out in the dead of night and coming back with blood under your nails. Or even when you disappear for days on end with nothing but a note left behind, leaving me here worried sick. But this? All I want is a couple hours of your time, once a week. Is that too much to ask?”

“It’s not too much to ask,” he confirms. He lifts his left hand to cup your cheek so you can note the thin metal band on his finger. “I fucked up. I won’t do it again.”

Pierre perches on the edge of his seat, placing tender kisses along your jaw. This time you dont push him away at the touch. He graciously accepts the lifeline you unwittingly throw at him and pulls out his trump card, the one thing he knows will cause you to fold. 

“Je suis désolé, mon amour,” he murmurs between kisses, leaning heavily on his accent. “Je t’aime. S'il vous plaît pardonnez-moi."

@empress-ofbloodshed @limp-wrist-max @clarreee @mycharminglxve @fangirlin-like-a-hoe @pxtroclus @alexalboo @ffreya @lmaodontyoudare @cappot @midnightcrumbs @furiouscaseofastudent @1-800-away-we-go @saintandrea-droidsmuggler @badoopwoop

#hi yes i am impatient #im loving writing this and i had to share the fun 🤪 #mafia pierre #till death do us part #pierre gasly

[rosesisupposes]

Other Half

hi i was haunted with the idea of subverting a soulmate trope after a chat with @potestessemagishomosexualitatis and it evolved in like a day on discord so here y’all go!

relationships: brotherly prinxiety, QPR moceit, romantic royality, implied/eventual anxceit

content tags: musician roman, techie/sound-guy Virgil, deaf Patton, QPRs, amatonormativity, soulmates & lack thereof, happy ending

word count: 2,847

read on ao3

Roman has half a soulmark, waiting to make skin contact with his Soulmate to finally be completed.

His brother, not so much.

Context: In this world, soulmates have half a symbol somewhere on their skin, each with one half. When soulmates have skin contact for the first time, both marks complete. The amatonormativity (prioritizing romantic love) is very strong, despite the fact that soulmates have frequently been platonic, not just romantic. It’s still a rather progressive idea, similar to gay marriage, and the traditions and stories are all centered around that romantic ideal. In that vein, some people have thirds or fourth of a mark would need to contact all their soulmates to have a complete mark. Marks are very much for One Person (or, occasionally, Two or Three Specific People), and so not everyone meets their mate. Not everyone has the means. They could be anywhere in the world! But unfortunately, there's still an idea that even if you're with a partner, you'd leave them if you met your soulmate, and that other relationship are just settling.

⁂

Enter two brothers.

Roman goes starry-eyed over stories of meet-cutes and surprise soulmates. He wants to know if he'll feel it, as his mark completes. Someday, when he meets his Someone™️!!!

And then his brother, Virgil.

Virgil... doesn't have a mark. He's not sure he's heard of that before. He has some freckles, but those fade with the seasons. Soulmarks don't fade.

Roman has half a circle, and it either has petals or rays around it. A flower or a sun, he thinks. It's right on his bicep, so he frequently goes sleeveless, and greets new people by taking both their hands in his every time. Just in case.

Lots of people do that- but it makes Virgil uncomfortable. Even if he knows he'll never be the one to trigger someone's mark, he hates knowing that's what everyone expects. He'd rather keep his hands to himself. He wears his big baggy hoodie to avoid the expectant stares of people looking for his mark, and avoids skin contact as much as he can.

They grow up in a family without a ton of resources, so neither can afford to take the 'Soul Year' some teens do where they travel before going into higher education. But Roman's determined that his career will help him meet hundreds, no, thousands of people, and he will find his soulmate!

Virgil really doesn't love the whole soulmate thing, the obsession with it, the constant reminder that he doesn’t have one and will never have one. But he does love his brother.

He tries, sometimes, to temper Roman's excitement just to make sure it doesn't hurt too much if he never finds The One. But mostly he just listens as Roman waxes poetic about his hypothetical love.

Roman, for several years, went silent, assuming Virgil wouldn't want to hear it. But Virgil has just kinda accepted it, you know? He's basically like everyone who never ends up meeting their mate, except he gets to skip the years of doubt and worry that their mate might suddenly appear at any time. He knows from the get-go. He’ll never have to look back with regret or sorrow, never have to worry about disrupted relationships, never need to mourn that his hypothetical mate might have died before he could meet them. It’s fine, really.

Roman becomes a singer and songwriter, and acts on the side. Virgil does his cover art and helps him with the sound-mixing. They're a great team - and they always have been.

Virgil makes friends with the roadies and techies, happy to leave Roman in the spotlight. He dates, sometimes. It's easier when they go on tour- a short international stay means no promises, no uncomfortable conversations about the future, no intrusive knowledge of a partner's Someone™️ out there.

After years of touring, Roman is internationally known and recognized. But he's also starting to lose hope.

He's lost count of all the meet-and-greets he's been to, how many hands he's grabbed from the stage into the crowd. He makes sure to at least high-five every roadie and tech, every opening act or announcer. His songs range from fantastical to domestic, from sweet and bubbly to sorrowful and yearning, and he loves creating, he does. But he knows there's someone out there for him, and he wants to meet them so, so badly.

They're in Paris for a show, and Virgil and Roman are strolling along the Seine. It's Spring, Roman's favorite time of year, and all the trees are in bloom. It looks like something out of a Hallmark movie.

Roman sighs heavily.

Virgil bumps him with an elbow. "Hey, no moping. That's my aesthetic, no stealing."

"Vee, what if I don't ever meet them?"

"Ro-"

"I know I should keep hoping, but- I've touched so many people and still haven't found them, what if I never will?"

"Then you'll be like most of us, Ro. Find love & companionship the new way: with hard work and dating apps."

Roman nods, but sighs again. "I just... really wanna, Vee." His voice is small, like a pouting kid. 

"I know. I hope you do."

They keep walking, but Roman's practically shuffling. On the one hand, he is a fucking drama queen.

On the other hand, Virgil wants him to feel better. 

Rolling his eyes, Virgil orders ice cream from a vendor in clumsy but serviceable French and presents Roman with his sprinkle-covered cone. Just like he knew it would, it perks him up immediately.

"Chocolate! My favorite!!"

"How are you possibly older than me. You are five."

"I just have childlike wonder, not a well of ennui!"

"Fuckin' dork."

"Edgy poser."

"Prima donna."

"Nerd."

Distracted, Roman walks straight into a man looking off at the river. He stumbles and trips and they both fall.

"Oh goodness gracious, forgive me, excusez moi, je suis desole! Pardonnez-moi!" he rattles off.

The man smiles, and his hands dance. Virgil realizes he's signing. Sorry, I didn't see you there!

 Luckily, Virgil understands it - he’s taken classes in ASL, just for kicks.

Roman knows very little sign, but he learned a couple of phrases. Sorry!

Virgil adds, It was our fault, we weren't watching.

Virgil recognizes the starry-eyed look on his brother's face. It's yet another Infatuation At First Sight, where he throws his whole heart into hoping. 

"Vee, Vee, ask him his name please?" he says, smiling for all he's worth at the curly-haired man in front of him.

Before Virgil gets a chance, he sees the man's eyes flick up and past them, and he breaks into a sunny smile. (Virgil might actually understand his brother's infatuation, for once)

Another person comes over, holding two ice creams. Virgil does a slight double-take. Like him, this newcomer chooses not to show very much skin. But they've covered even their hands. Ice cream somehow looks funny in a gloved hand.

Handing one to the first man, they start signing with one hand, far faster than he can follow. He catches a couple of signs he recognizes - gestures to himself & Roman, are you okay, something that either is we're late or shoo.

The first man is still smiling, though, and whatever he says must be okay, because the newcomer turns to them. They speak with a lilting accent, something not quite Parisian. "Please forgive my barging in- I can't exactly call for Patton from across the walkway.  My name is Dante. And you are?"

"I'm Roman, and this is Virgil, and it is wonderful to meet you!"

Virgil signs along with his brother's words, and sees Patton's eyes crinkle happily as he greets them both.

Roman has clearly also noticed Dante's gloves, but turns to Patton. With a slight bit of hesitation, he speaks and signs at once, "May I shake your hand?"

Virgil is sure he's not imagining the minute pursing of Dante's lips, but Patton's nodding and reaching out and so is Roman.

Roman is clearly holding his breath, and Virgil is too, both braced for opposite outcomes. But Patton's small, tan hand is wrapped in Roman's larger one and both sets of eyes are huge. 

Virgil's eyes flick to Roman's bicep, exposed as always, the white mark a stark contrast to his dark skin, looking like a sun or maybe a flower and-

"Holy shit-" Virgil breathes.

Roman, however, is not looking at his arm. He's staring directly into Patton's dark eyes with a smile that looks confused and elated all at once, and their hands haven't parted. 

Patton's eyes are just a huge, even huger thanks to his glasses.

"It's you," Roman says, wonder in his voice. Patton seems to read his lips, because he smiles somehow even bigger than before and signs It's you! back.

And sure enough, the mark on Roman's arm is a full circle, a full sun or flower, and Virgil's head is reeling.

Virgil's not sure what to say- the two soulmates seem content to keep staring and smiling and holding hands. But Virgil's just... nervous. Soulmate or not, this ‘Patton’ is a stranger, but Roman looks like he might never move from his side. Fuck, they can't even communicate both ways, Roman knows practically no sign and he just used up the only full sentence he’s ever learned.

He looks nervously at Patton's companion. Dante is staring too, seemingly unaware of the ice cream dripping down their glove.

Dante starts to sign something, realizes Patton can't see them, reaches out to tap Patton on the shoulder, then stops before they can touch, hand falling to their side. They look down and finally notice their ice cream, and blanch, pulling out napkins to clean their glove before it stains.

Virgil digs into his knapsack and pulls out a wet wipe and offers it. "This might help more."

Dante looks up, staring at Virgil without a shred of comprehension until Virgil waves the wipe once more. They take it with a quiet, "Merci."

They turn away, wiping off their glove and tossing the rest of their ice cream into the trash. They wiggle their fingers, clearly uncomfortable with the damp fabric. 

Virgil shifts awkwardly. He should say something, but what do you even say in this situation? He has no idea what their relation is to Pat- oh fuck, what if they were dating and Roman's just swooped in and ruined it?

In his tried-and-true method of awkward small talk with new roadies in new cities, he says, in French, "So, Paris, yeah? Know any good cafes near here?"

Dante shakes themself a bit and turns to look at Virgil. "Ah, yes. There's a patisserie just on the next block. Shall we relocate them and stop blocking the tourists?"

Virgil nods and looks over at his brother. He weighs his options of interruption, and decides on flicking Roman in the temple.

"Ow! Fuck! Vee!?!"

"You're blocking traffic, dumbass."

"I'm having a moment."

"Well come have a mocha. You can keep having your moment and I can have coffee. C'mon." 

He sees Dante signing to Patton too, explaining the plan but much more politely. Roman and Patton continue holding hands, but follow them down the block.

They get Roman and Patton sitting at a table in a picturesque cafe, and walk to the bar to order. Virgil orders his go-to of a double shot and gets Roman his mocha. Dante orders themself a latte and a vanilla cappuccino for Patton. Sitting at the bar waiting, Virgil looks over.

"So. That lunkhead over there is my brother."

Dante nods. "And Patton is my. Well. You might not know what it means, so don't immediately freak out, okay? But it's called a queerplatonic partner."

Virgil can feel the nervousness melt away. "Oh, phew. Yeah, I know what it means. So Roman's not homewrecking by being a discovered soulmate?"

"Well. I certainly hope not. But I know not everyone really, uh. Gets it. Especially with the soulmate sh- stuff. Things."

Virgil grins. "You were about to say soulmate shit, weren't you."

"...No."

"You're a terrible liar."

Dante winks. "I might surprise you."

Virgil raises an eyebrow. "Oh that's how we're gonna play it?"

"I don't play, monsieur. I just win."

"Okay then, here's a test. Why the gloves?"

Dante automatically goes to adjust them, and looks up at Virgil. Their eyes drift down to his hoodie and back up. "I think you know exactly why."

"You don't have-?"

"Nope. I don't have one either."

"I thought I was-"

"The only one?"

"Apparently not."

Virgil looks over at Patton, sitting with Roman. They don't seem to be even attempting to talk still, just staring and holding hands.

"With the QPP- are you aromantic? Do you think that's why?" He gestures vaguely at their whole body, but he’s never been quite as elegant in his gestures as Roman is.

Dante opens their mouth to speak, but stops, and sighs. "That's what I've been saying. It was easier, to say maybe this was for a purpose. And I do love Patton with all my platonic heart and I will kill your brother if he hurts him."

"The feeling’s mutual."

"But, no. I'm not fully aro. I still have romantic attraction and all that, I've just been guaranteed that even if I want it, I'll always be someone's secondary love so. Might as well lean in, right? Make the system work somewhat in my favor?"

Virgil opens his mouth to respond, to object, when the barista calls out their drinks, and then they're carefully carrying full mugs across the cafe and finding a table next to the couple.

Patton appears to be teaching Roman how to sign his name. Roman is even managing to pay attention.

"I get that, uh, reluctance. The playing-it-safe thing," Virgil says quietly, so only Dante can hear. "We travel a lot. That's a good excuse to avoid the whole fucking system. No conversations about who'll leave who when the mark shows up, because I'll be leaving in a month, tops. And people looking for hookups barely poke you to check for the mark before just... getting on with life. No expectations, no holding their breath or unrealistic disappointment."

Dante smiles weakly. "Well, good to know for when I need to start dating. I think I'm about to have a lot more free time."

"Until Roman needs to travel on again. We're here for three full weeks, but-"

"What is it you do, that you both travel so much?"

"You know Sun Prince, the singer?"

"Yeah?"

"You're looking at him," Virgil says wryly, tipping his head in Roman's direction.

Dante's eyes go wide. "Oh, that's why he looks familiar."

"So Patton probably didn’t recognize him either?"

"Nah, he tends to like EDM and electronic things the most, for the bassline. Clubbing with a deaf partner is great - the priority is just feeling the music, and we don't have to yell to hear each other."

Virgil and Dante continue to chat quietly on casual topics, but Virgil's leg is bouncing. He wants to ask the bigger questions, but it feel like prying. It's none of his business, really, right? 

But it's Roman's happiness on the line. And Virgil will do anything and everything to protect his brother. Even if it means awkwardness.

"So, uh. Did y'all have the Conversation™️ before now?"

Dante raises a questioning eyebrow in response.

"The 'what happens if he meets his soulmate' conversation. Don't tell me Pat's the only one you've ever dated?"

Dante blinks in a way that implies that were they a lesser being, they might have blushed. "Actually, he is. But yes, we've had that conversation. I'll never get in the way of Pat's romantic love and his soulmate… destiny, ou comme tu veux. I just want to still have a part in his life."

They're tugging at their gloves again, even though their face remains smooth. Virgil recognizes a nervous tic when he sees one. And god does he recognize the sentiment.

Not that any of his past partners had ever wanted to stick around in return. Why would they? He wasn't their soulmate. They hadn't decided to "settle" yet.

"I can't speak for him, but- I think Roman will be open to that," Virgil offers. "He loves performing, so we'll probably still be traveling a fair amount. But I mean. I think he'd understand that you two are a unit the same way me and him are. Like, yeah, we're brothers, but we've been each other's lifeline our whole lives, and that's not about to change. Even if he's finally found his Other Half."

Dante looks up gratefully. "I can tell you love him. And- I hope you're right."

"I should be. If Roman's a dick about it, I'll smack him upside the head."

That surprises a laugh out of Dante. They finally pull off their glove entirely, shaking it out and letting it dry on the table. "I won't interfere with them, you'll encourage Roman to not interfere with us. Do we have a deal, then?"

They offer their bare hand to shake. For once, Virgil doesn't hesitate, but takes it immediately.

Skin hits skin. Virgil finds an agreeable little shudder running down his spine as he appreciates for the first time how attractive this person is. Elegant chestnut curls, heterochromatic eyes that are dancing with delight, and disarming smile. 

Dante winks as they withdraw their hand. "What, not going to check for your completed mark now, just in case?"

Virgil grins back. "No, but I can help you look for yours later, if you want."

"Is that a proposition? Monsieur, goodness, you move fast," Dante replies, fluttering their eyelashes.

Virgil shrugs. "It could be one. You know, we're clearly gonna be around each other a lot. They found each other the old fashioned way. Maybe we could try something a bit... less traditional."

Dante smiles. "I'd like that a lot, Virgil. Should we break into cloud nine over there and ask them about the future now?"

Virgil nods. Soulmark or not, the future's looking pretty good.

tag list: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt ​@thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @max-is-tired @almostoveranalyzed @hawthornshadow @mariniacipher and obligatory royality tag @notveryglittery and anxceit tag @vintage-squid

#soulmate au #subverted trope #happy ending #brotherly prinxiety #qpr moceit #royality #anxceit #ts virgil #ts roman #ts patton #ts deceit #deaf patton #black roman #black virgil #arab patton #white deceit #sanders sides fanfic #Roses Writes Fanfic

[daeguzen]

the reason i love nct dream is bECAUSE they’re just a bunch of teenagers. i feel like i’m apart of their group of friends every time i watch their content. they just radiate this childhood friends energy

It really be like that tho! They honestly do radiate that energy. I like to think about how they could be irl. Like I imagine Haechan teasing and being playful with the others. And also how he could most likely turn very serious. Haechan is a whole 💝 I like his personality. And I feel like there is so much MORE to learn about him or just more to his personality than "SexY frIend HaecHan". Like bro, Haechan is a godly vocalist who stays up playing Overwatch. He's very talented and juggles the responsibility of being in two different units. He acts like a maknae but can turn hyung mode for the younger dreamies. THERE IS MORE TO THIS MAN AND I CRI. There all a bunch of gamers. Chenle be playing mobile games, when could I ever?

And Jeno. Idk but I saw this thing on IG. It was a post that was saying it's cute how Jeno dresses up with these biker jackets and seems all tough but cries over Mark going back to Lysn. I just 🥺 I uwu'd. And he denied it! Jeno in reality is the biggest softie and that's why he's best friends with jaemin. Jaemin probably gives him cuddles when he's feeling down. Imagine adopting 3 cats but being allergic to them. 🥺 but he still gives them all his love.

Jisung is also a little fluff ball. Honestly, my feelings for Jisung, and this is same for Chenle, are like...I see them and I think "he's a baby". They are just so small and it was strange for me to know that I'm older than the both of them! WoW. But that's probably why when I see them I'm like you're just a bunch of kids doing great things and sacrificing a lot of your hard work and effort for this dream.

Renjun. He's 💝 as well. I get artsy vibes from Renjun and I relate. Art for the wIN. He's such a talented vocalist I mean when I heard him rap in...quiet down right? I was like WHAT IS THIS? It was beauty. It was talent. It was Huang Renjun. I like it when he says his name. It just has a nice sound to it.

Yo dream....mark is back 🥺😔 watermelon boy. Ugh Mark is such a boy. In the sense that since he grew up in Canada and speaks English I understand his jokes or know that he knows what a thesis statement is. But Mark is just a boy who wants to do his best in music and mAke HiS MarK in YouR HeaRt. It's 6 am I am sorry. My mind is jumbled because I was awoken by a rude car. If you're gonna have your alarm go off Mr. Car, tone it down. Thank you.

And drumroll please! . . . . It's my honey bunch sugar plum peach cutie patootie, Na Jaemin. It's how affectionate he is I tell you. God sometimes i see Jaemin in videos or pictures and I'm like . . . I want to back hug you. I want to hug you. Let me hug you. He looks so comfy like a pillow. I just . . . Imagine this. Jaemin wearing a jacket and you go in for a hug but you place your arms around him with the jacket being on the outside of the both of you. And then Jaemin would hug you back and he'd feel so warm and he'd move his head down to say something sweet. UGH. I thought Jaemin was just the type to be affectionate and then I found out he's a bit strange too. And honestly that's fucking cute to me. Pardonnez moi mon français. I'm pretty sure that sentence is about right. I hope. Anyways, nana he just makes my heart run little marathons. And it's weird. Like I guess cuz as a person I just think he a c u t I e. I personally don't know what love is. I've never been in love nor have I been in a relationship. But let me tell you, I know that to a certain degree I adore him. Just imagine how many hugs and kisses the members actually have to go through receiving? The times Jaemin could be stubborn as hell. They are so human and we STAN.

All I see are a bunch introverts with their one extrovert friend Haechan. LOL I'm just messing around.

You definitely did not ask for me to write all this im sorry but it's 6 am. These questions be hitting different. I'm vibing. And my baby blue window curtains give my room a cool aesthetic at the moment. 💚💙I'm in the zone. Auto Zone.

[kmp78]

Hes no longer appealing because of the company that he keeps. It makes him look sleazy and creepy.

Eh...

Pardonnez moi but what makes JL look sleazy and creepy is not the company he keeps (and I assume you mean "HER" in particular... 🙄), but HIM and HIS RIDICULOUS ACTIONS. 🤷🏼‍♀️

He's the one who is DDDDDDESPERATEEEE to be seen as larger than life and wildly erratic and NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT I REPEAT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT normal in any way, and that is exactly why he is a fucking laughing stock to the masses these days. 🤷🏼‍♀️

[theotterbooks]

22/11/63, Stephen King

“ Imaginez que vous puissiez remonter le temps, changer le cours de l’histoire. Le 22 novembre 1963, le président Kennedy était assassiné à Dallas. À moins que... ”  

Pour remettre les choses dans leurs contextes je n’étais pas très enthousiaste à l’idée de lire ce livre. Je l’ai vu à la bibliothèque plusieurs fois mais le sujet ne m’intéressait pas spécialement. Puis j’ai été influencé par ma mère qui m’en a parler lors d’une conversation sur nos lectures. 

En plus la nouvelle saison d’Umbrella Academy m’était aussi en avant l’assassinat de JFK et les paradoxes spatiaux temporels alors je me suis dit que les astres étaient alignés et je l’ai emprunté. 

(ce gif sous entend que Diego aurait pu rencontré Jake Epping j’aurais vraiment aimé un easter egg dans la série maintenant que j’y pense)

Bref de quoi ça parle ?  Jake Epping est prof d’Anglais, c’est un homme normal qui vit une vie plutôt normal, il donne des cours du soirs à des adultes, est divorcé d’une femme alcoolique et mange souvent dans un bouiboui qui sert des hamburger si bons marchés qu’ils en sont douteux. 

La chose la plus marquante qui lui soit arrivé récemment c’est la dissertation d’un de ces élèves adultes, racontant l’histoire de Harry Dunning le concierge de son établissement, boiteux et semblant souffrir d’un retard mental. Il y raconte comment son père à débouler chez eux le soir d’Halloween et a massacré sa famille à coup de marteau par vengeance sur sa femme qui l’avait mis à la porte à cause de son alcoolisme qui le rendait violent. Son père à tuer sa mère, son frère et sa sœur et c’est lui qui en lui assénant un coup de marteau sur la tête l’handicapa à vie.  Jake est ému aux larmes par cette histoire et donne un A à harry ce qui l’aidera à obtenir son diplôme. Ils fêteront ça dans leur fast-food préféré. 

Après cet épisode la vie de Jake reprend son cours, c’est l’été la fermeture de l’école arrive et lors de sa dernière journée il reçoit un coup de fil de Al Templeton qui lui demande de la rejoindre, Al est le propriétaire du fast-food. 

Quand Jake arrive Al qui la veille semblait à un homme dans la force de son âge est vieux et semble à l’article de la mort. Il explique à Jake que cela est dû à une cancer du poumon. Incompréhension chez le professeur, comment un cancer se déclare aussi gravement en même pas 24 heures ? Mais Al lui révèle que pour lui il ne s’est pas passé 24h mais des années, il lui montre dans la foulé le “terrier” de sa réserve. Ce terrier est littéralement un trou qui transporte celui qui le traverse le 9 septembre 1958. Après un essaie et des explications sommaires car Al n’en sait pas beaucoup plus, il lui explique qu’il a passé 4 ans dans ce passé jusqu’à ce qu’il soit obligé de revenir trop affaibli par son cancer. Son but était de réunir un maximum d’informations sur Lee Oswald parce que al a un projet, l’empêcher de tuer JFK. Il espère que Jake va accepter de s’en charger à sa place parce qu’il sait qu’il va bientôt mourir. Jake est septique, hésitant puis il repense à Harry et se dit qu’il peut changer les choses alors il accepte de faire un premier voyage test. Al lui explique que le temps passé là-bas équivaut toujours à deux minutes dans leur présent mais que les changements sont tout de même opérer sauf si on y retourne là c’est la remise à zéro des compteurs. Il a planifier les choses pour rendre la vie plus facile à Jake, a amasser des l’argent de l’époque, lui a fait faire des papiers et lui donne un maximum de conseils afin de se fondre dans l’époque. 

Après tout ça Jake “plonge”, son but et d’empêcher les tragiques événements qui sont arrivé à Harry afin de faire un test. Harry vit à ce moment là à Derry, en 58, si vous êtes fan de King ça doit vous mettre la puce à l’oreille, il s’agit bien du Derry de Ça juste après que le club des losers est vaincu pour la première fois Pennywise. Il rencontrera même Beverly et Ritchie. J’essaye d’accélérer ce résumé mais cette histoire est vraiment longue. Il va se rendre compte que changer le passé est très difficile, il n’arrivera pas prévenir de la mort de toute la famille de Harry mais presque, seul son frère mourra dans l’attaque. En repassant en 2011 il se rendra compte des changements, il n’a jamais enseigné à Harry parce que celui-ci convaincu d’être sous la protection d’un ange gardien ira mourrir au Vietnam. Cette fois Jake en ai convaincu il peut changer le cours du temps mais il doit être prudent car le passé n’aime pas être changé. Rebelotte cette fois il ne prendra pas de risque il tue le père de Harry bien plus tôt et envois des lettres pour protéger ceux avec qui il n’est pas prudent d’interagir. Ensuite il doit aider une femme pour Al et enfin direction le Texas, en chemin Jake ne sera pas assez prudent faisant des paris sportif pour gagner de l’argent qui le mettront dans le colis mateur de certains bookmaker, mais nous y reviendrons plus tard. 

Jake estime ne pas pouvoir supporter d’attendre Oswald au Texas, la ville est trop horrible pour lui. Il part donc s’installer à Jodie petite ville à quelques km car après tout il doit attendre et il connait toute la chronologie des évenements. Il deviendra professeur remplaçant puis à temps pleins pendant quelques temps. Aidera les jeunes et tombera amoureux de Sadie, jeune bibliothécaire attendant son divorce avec un homme affreux. 

Et je vais faire une pose ici pour donner un peu mon avis, Jake ou George dans le passé est pour moi un idiot. Il est incapable de se comporter comme lui a conseiller Al c’est à dire sans se mêler de la vie des gens. Il ne se sent pas en mission, pour lui il peut tout changer et c’est là que je le trouve imprudent, déjà il n’a pas de plans précis contre Oswald, je veux dire il connait même le nom du directeur du FBI de l’époque mais ne t’entera jamais cet angle d’approche... Et puis tomber amoureux d’une femme dans sa situation... Je sais que l’on ne choisie pas de tomber amoureux mais on provoque les situations qui nous rende accessible à l’amour. C’est très égoïste d’infliger tout ça à Sadie car il sait qu’il devra lui mentir et/ou disparaître de sa vie mais il le fait quand même parce que Jake veut littéralement le beurre, l’argent du beurre et le cul de la crémière, pardonnez moi l’expression mais vu le nombre de fois où il nous raconte qu’ils couchent ensemble je pense que je peux le dire. En plus il ne choisie pas une femme facile Sadie bien que très gentille et assez moderne pour son époque est un nid à emmerdes.

C’est parce qu’il lui faudra encore plus d’argent que Jake va être obliger de parier à nouveau afin d’avoir de l’aider. Le paris de trop qui mettra Jake dans une situation pourrie et qui créera une péripétie scénaristique que j’ai trouvé assez ennuyeuse, la perte de mémoire étant un ressort scénaristique que je trouve souvent pas très intéressant ( exception dans DeadZone que j’adore ). 

Bref et là SPOILER tout ça pour réussir à empêcher la mort de JFK en perdre Sadie qui mourra dans l’entreprise. Pour revenir en 2011 se rendre compte qu’il a fucked up le monde avec des explications de répercutions alambiquer et devoir annuler tout ce qu’il a fait. Jake fera un dernier voyage pour reset l’histoire, il se rendra compte que Sadie est vivante grâce à cela et centenaire mais qu’ils ne seront bien sûr jamais ensemble. 

Bon, j’ai vraiment rushé la fin de mon résumé mais je n’en voyait plus la fin... Et c’est un peu ce qui m’est arrivé en lisant ce livre, les 300 premières pages étaient géniales mais le livre en fait 937. Je pense que c’est un peu fait exprès parce que Jake veut vraiment sauvé Harry mais ne sauve JFK que par mission, il n’est jamais 100% convaincu que c’est une bonne chose c’est d’ailleurs pour ça qu’il met autant de temps à arrête Oswald alors qu’il aurait pu le faire bien plus tôt comme il l’a fait avec le père Dunning. Tout le passage de stalking m’a un peu ennuyé et le passage à Jodie bien que doux amer me semblait une mauvaise idée. Et enfin l’élément qui gâche tout pour moi, le fait que le clodo devant la sortie du terrier soit en fait un espèce de gardien. Cela ne veut rien dire, chaque retour dans le passé leur coûte de la sanitée mentale et jamais carton jaune n’a parler de façon cohérent à Al quoi qu’en dise carton vert à Jake. Si ils n’avertissent pas à quoi servent-ils ? Pourquoi carton vert ne prévient Jake qu’à la fin au final il s’en serait rendu compte dès qu’il passe en 2011. Ils sont un élément étrange qui n’a aucun sens, ce n’est même pas comme les extraterrestres de Dôme c’est juste incompréhensible pour moi. 

Jake est un personnage assez insipide, il n’est ni méchant ni gentil, ni courageux ni lâche en ce sens c’est peut-être le personnage le plus réaliste que j’ai jamais lu mais est-ce que ça en fait un bon personnage ? Je ne suis pas sûr. 

Je suis donc assez mitigée après ma lecture mais je pense que si la fin des années 50 est une période qui vous intéresse ce livre peut vous accrocher, ça n’a juste pas été mon cas. Il faut bien que sur les centaines d’histoires de Stephen King il y en ai une qui ne me plait pas spécialement. 

Lecture finie le 30 août 2020

#bookworm #book blog #book nerd #book addict #science-fiction #stephen king #littérature #american history #1963

[medeafive]

Kitchen table issues

Well, someone has to kick the Buckynat smutathon off and I might as well go and do it! No prompt, kind of mission-related, a fair amount of jealousy.

“Alright, so what if we compare this list with the known contacts of Helveden,” Sam suggests. “We have that, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Clint replies, rubbing his neck. “Barnes has it.”

“Then we call him?” Sam suggests. “He can’t be super far.”

Clint snorts. “Yeah, tried that. Doesn’t pick up.”

Sam looks to the other person in the room. “... Have you tried it from Nat’s number?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Do I look like I have a fixed number?”

“How do you two ever meet?” Clint asks slash complains.

“Magic and coincidence.” Natasha dials a number. “Don’t worry, Tony probably knows where he is.”

“Good, cause I don’t need to tell you this is urgent,” Sam remarks. “Just out of curiosity, why do you think Tony knows?”

“Because he made some special tech for this mission and put a tracker on it because he doesn’t trust James,” Natasha explains. “Hey Tony. It’s urgent.”

Tony on the other end of the line snorts. “Are you ever gonna call me and say Hey Stark, how are you?”

“If I do, you’ll know I have a gun pointed at my head,” Natasha replies.

“You wanna stay in the car?” Clint suggests.

Natasha snorts, getting out. “What, because this French villa smells of pretty young heiress and it’s not even nine in the morning?”

“I only smell lavender,” Sam replies, looking around at the sandstone building, the flowerpots, the sea view. “Though you do know time.”

“Well, let’s tell the owner we need to talk to him urgently,” Clint says. “Got your glasses?”

“I would never forget my sexy secretary glasses,” Natasha mutters sarcastically, pushing them up her nose.

Sam locks the car. “So, you’re gonna talk? You’re better at talking. How’s your French?”

Clint looks at him weird. “Come on, French is easy.”

“I fucking hate when you say that,” Sam mutters, walking up the short stairs to the door and straightening his jacket before ringing the bell.

The girl who opens is pretty, dark rustled hair and big brown eyes, surprised at the intrusion, voice like she just fell out of bed. “Excusez-moi?”

She is wearing a fizzy light blouse that blows in the wind coming over the road from the Atlantic and a knee-long leather skirt. Daddy’s girl. “Bonjour,” Clint replies, smiling charmingly. “We are looking for a friend of ours and we were told he might be here.”

The girl’s eyebrows knit together like this is an incredibly intriguing idea. “What’s his name?”

Clint tilts his head and bites his lip. “Well, frankly, we’re not sure which one he told you.”

The girl laughs, turning on her heel. “Oh, that must be him. Wait, please, I’ll go wake him.”

She doesn’t close the door, so they follow her into the beach house and up the stairs. White curtains blow through the open windows. There’s breakfast on the kitchen table, croissants and coffee. Dry lavender. Sam gives Natasha a look that she pretends not to notice.

There’s only one door upstairs. The girl knocks quietly before entering. And it is James, sprawled squarely on his stomach over the king-sized bed, just in black briefs, the sheets tangled around one calf in the June heat. Soundly asleep. Natasha smiles politely. Sam rolls his eyes. The girl sits down on the bed and carefully lays a hand on his shoulder. He starts up immediately, blinking from under his tousled hair. “Bonjour,” the girl coos in French. “Sorry to wake you. Friends are asking for you.”

James blinks in even more confusion and a little bit of panic if you know how to spot it, then he sees them in the doorway and blushes. Painfully naked. The girl smiles and caresses his cheek. “D’accord? I’ll go finish my breakfast, I’m already late.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky replies, nervously gripping the sheets. The girl kisses his cheek, then gets up and passes them with an excusing smile.

“Seriously,” Sam says as soon as she is out of earshot. “This is where we find you?”

“Shut up,” Bucky hisses, jumping up from the bed. “I’m getting dressed. Just wait downstairs.”

“It’s urgent,” Clint adds, then turns around to head down the stairs. Natasha follows him, smiling to herself. Sam, however, makes a point of giving Bucky another accusing look.

“Don’t stab him before he gives us the list,” Clint mutters without turning his head.

“Please, we talked about this,” Natasha replies completely relaxed. “We have rules.”

The girl is looking at her phone with complete fascination. She’s cute. James could have had it a lot worse. Sam joins them downstairs. The girl looks up as if she’s forgotten about them. “Oh, pardonnez-moi! Have a seat.”

Sam looks questioningly at Clint who makes a small hand gesture, then sits down somewhere across from her, venturing a “Merci” with a strong accent. The girl smiles, completely charmed.

She spends the rest of the time on her phone, dipping the rest of her croissant in the coffee, then drinking it by the sink. Probably on Instagram. She looks like an Instagram girl. Otherwise, it’s silent. Natasha strides over to the glass door down into the garden. “Fantastic view.”

“Oh, thank you,” the girl replies without looking up. She pours the rest of the coffee in the sink, then goes looking for her handbag. Clint steps out of her way. “D’ailleurs, what do you need from Joshua?”

“Oh, just business,” Clint replies. “Nothing pleasant.”

“Well, I hope it’s not too unpleasant,” the girl replies as James comes down the stairs.

“We’ll see about that,” Clint says. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes, I have a date with a girlfriend,” the girl confirms, smiling at James and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Don’t worry, mon chéri, I’ll be back soon.”

James has gotten his act perfectly back together, putting his hands on her waist and smiling teasingly. “Wouldn’t want the champagne to go bad.”

“No, mon chéri, we wouldn’t want that,” she agrees, getting on her toes to press her lips to his and he buries his hand in her dark hair, leaning in all the way, and it’s a long, long six seconds.

She’s breathless when she falls back on her heels. Sam looks completely scandalized which she doesn’t notice. Natasha looks out of the window again. Clint just waits patiently. “Ah, mon loup, I’m going to miss you. But I really have to go.”

Bucky steals another kiss before spinning her around by the hips. “Of course. Have fun, and come back soon.”

She laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder, waves to all of them and breezes out of the door with an “Au revoir”. Sam exhales loudly as soon as the door falls shut. “Wow. Just the nerve on you.”

“You didn’t have to barge in like that,” Bucky replies sourly, making a show out of wiping his mouth. Natasha smiles, still looking out of the window. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, actually, we did,” Clint interrupts. “You have the file on Helveden, don’t you?”

Bucky snorts. “Oh, that’s why. Yeah, sure, give me a moment.”

“Oh, we didn’t drag your girlfriend here to see that just for fun,” Sam assures him.

“Let it go, Sam,” Natasha interrupts, striding over to peek through the kitchen jalousie.

“Just give us the file and we’ll be out of your hair,” Clint says to Bucky who’s loosening something behind the chimney. “The fake arm looks good, by the way.”

“I’m sure he’s made ample use of that,” Sam remarks sarcastically.

“Stop being jealous,” Natasha rejects, turning around. “I’ll make him tell me every painstaking detail of that sooner or later.”

Bucky grimaces, pulling out a bunch of thin folders. “Here. Which one are you looking for again?”

Clint takes the folders out of his hand to see for himself. Natasha pretends she’s super interested in the contents of the cupboards. Bucky crosses his arms uncomfortably. Sam is still staring at him accusingly.

“Ah, here it is,” Clint announces, putting one on the table in front of Sam. “Let’s see…”

While Sam and Clint pore over the file, Natasha gives Bucky a quick smirk but starts walking away before he can say something. “Ah, here it is,” Clint exclaims, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Come on, we can look at that in the car. We’ve already lost too much time.”

Sam gets up. Natasha leans against the table. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Sam gives Bucky another look but he and Clint both leave the room. Bucky closes the door. Natasha smirks. “Well, it’s been a while. I see that you could have it worse.”

Bucky snorts, leaning against the chimney across from her. “I had to take Instagram selfies with her.”

Natasha grins. “I’ll check that out. So, you didn’t sleep with her?”

“Of course not,” Bucky replies. Saying they have rules is an overstatement; they have one rule (don’t sleep with other people) and a very long and meticulous discussion about what qualifies as that (hand jobs and fingering and the likes). “I’m just pushing so she thinks she can tease me by waiting.”

“Darling,” Natasha says. “You’re awfully good at this.”

“That’s something, coming from you,” Bucky remarks, smirking. “You didn’t even blink. You could’ve waited in the car.”

“Then I wouldn’t’ve seen you,” Natasha returns. “You know what you should also do?”

James looks intrigued at the prospect of getting her advice. “Yeah?”

Natasha keeps a straight face. “Fuck me on her kitchen table.”

The intrigued look breaks into a grin. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Ah, I’m sure they can do without me for a bit.” Natasha tilts her head back to hear better. “Guys?”

“Yeah?” Clint calls back unenthusiastically. His voice is loud and clear, leaving no doubt that they heard every word spoken in the kitchen.

“Mind if I rejoin you later?” Natasha suggests.

Clint groans. Sam mutters something about “he better not fuck that up too”. “Fine,” Clint calls back. “But we’re taking the car.”

“I’ll find a way,” Natasha replies, pushing Bucky’s hand away from her belt. “Thanks, see you.”

“And Barnes?” Sam calls, resulting in James having to pull his nose out of her hair. “You better make her lose her mind, if you know what I’m saying.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Natasha pretends while James snorts with amusement. “Bye.”

He noses her neck but she waits with her arms crossed until the door falls closed. She grins. “Sure you didn’t sleep with her?”

“Would’ve noticed,” he replies, more preoccupied with her belt, now that she’s letting him. “A little jealous, hm?”

“Oh boy.” Natasha pulls her shirt over her head. “You have no idea. Just how she touches you all the time- like she owns you.”

Bucky smirks, kissing down to her breasts. “Sounds horrible.”

“Totally,” Natasha agrees, slipping her hands into his back pockets. “And I had to watch you smooching for a whole six seconds. I counted.”

“Sorry about that,” James remarks, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I know you hate that.”

Natasha snorts, grabbing his head and pulling him in. “Be glad you didn’t touch her ass. I’d make you worship me on your knees for at least half an hour before I even consider letting you inside of me.”

“Doesn’t sound that bad,” James remarks innocently, grabbing her hips and steering her towards the short side of the table where there is no chair.

Natasha snorts. “I don’t have forever. Kiss me, you idiot.”

He does, with the same enthusiasm as he had for that girl, a thought Natasha deliberately ignores. She almost tastes her. God. She pushes him back. “Okay, nope. On your knees.”

He’s pulling at her shoes before she’s even sitting on the table. She shakes them off. His eyes are still bright, not minding the punishment, enjoying it in fact. She holds her foot in front of his face. “Socks off. Suck on the toes.”

His thumb rubs the arch of her foot and he grins before taking the big toe into his mouth. Natasha sighs, folding her hands in her lap. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Good to see you back in your place.”

James snorts around her toe, digging in his thumb to the point where it’s almost painful. Natasha wriggles her foot until he kisses his way over the top. “Really too bad you can’t talk back right now, don’t you think?”

He bites above her ankle, making her flinch. “Can I take off your pants? Pretty please?”

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely,” Natasha replies, slipping off the table. Her belt is open already anyway. James gets up but gets distracted by his hands on her ass. “Come on. We’re not getting ahead here.”

“Really,” James states with a serious face, still kneading her behind. “You think so?”

Natasha snorts, getting to her toes to try to distract him with a kiss but she can’t reach. “What happened to pants off?”

“Oh, right.” He smiles, giving her a quick kiss and her ass another squeeze. “Almost forgot.”

She snorts again while he wriggles her ankles out of her pants. “Your new girlfriend will come back.”

“Ah, she won’t,” he assures her, running his hand over the inside of her thigh. “You don’t know how much time she can spend with a glass of prosecco. Also, I don’t care.”

Natasha sighs, closing her eyes. “Fine. Go ahead.”

He teases his way up with his fingers. “With what? Gotta be more specific.”

She opens her eyes just to roll them at him. “Come on. And if you rip my panties, I’ll punch you in the face.”

He grins, lowering her back on the table while effortlessly opening her bra. “Note taken. You still need some work or…?”

“I don’t know, go check,” Natasha says, raising her hips. “And if I taste her on your lips again, I swear to God.”

He drops to his knees without hesitation, carefully peeling her panties off. Natasha grins at the ceiling while he licks over her folds. “Oh, you don’t know how much I would enjoy her coming in right now.”

“Not as much as you will her not coming in,” he replies in a husky voice before pushing his tongue into her. He’s probably wrong. No, he’s probably right. His tongue rubs around her entrance deliciously.

His thumb finds her clit. The left. Not that it matters, now. She sighs at his careful ministrations. “When was the last time you turned that off?”

“Last time we fucked,” he replies barely intelligible. “Month or so.”

“Mhm.” She lets her head drop to the side. She can see the Atlantic through the kitchen window. “Hate it?”

He rubs a little more firmly. “Kinda.”

“Funny, isn’t it,” she breathes, jerking up suddenly. “Ah! Careful.”

He grins, switching his mouth and his fingers. She rolls her eyes, settling back. “Just saying. You used to hate the metal.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, flapping his tongue against her. “But right now, it means I have to make out with that other girl. Of course I prefer bending you over.”

Natasha blushes just thinking about last time. Boy, she had been needy. Wax in his hands. The jealousy was keeping that down right now, at least. “Told you you wouldn’t get to take me from behind again.”

“What, sounded a lot like you enjoyed it,” he retorts smugly, neglecting her clit but crooking his fingers to prevent her from coming up with a sarcastic reply that would detract from the memory of her begging him to go harder. “I like seeing your ass while we fuck. But if you’d rather not, I don’t need it.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been over that,” Natasha interrupts, arching her back mostly so that he can’t see her face. “Now do something useful with that mouth, for Christ’s sake.”

Ordering him around is much better for her pride and her sense of independence. Also, she really needs him to suck on her clit. She relaxes when his fingers rub over the certain part of her inner wall, then tenses up again, breath accelerating, back arching, and comes in less than 15 seconds. How it’s supposed to be. He gets the angle a little wrong after that so it takes a bit more work each time but he rubs her insistently with only short breath catching pauses after orgasms. His tongue toys with the nub of her clitoris. After a few minutes and half a dozen orgasms, she realizes he’s not stopping. Right. Left hand. They could still be here in a couple of hours when Bambi has finished guzzling her prosecco and going over all the gossip with her equally bitchy girlfriend. Unless Natasha gets sore first.

She’s kind of fine with that, at the moment. He focuses a bit more on the sucking without stopping the fingering. Half an hour, she said? Ah, she can’t do that. Ah. Feels good, though. But Clint is going to be pissed. And she’ll be so fucked out she’d say yes to everything. After having been a total slut last time, that’d give James a wrong impression of her, now that they see each other so little. Jesus Christ, she still worries about what her boyfriend thinks about her. After all this time. Ah, fuck. She comes again.

His mouth still gets tired, though, so he stops sucking after a bit. Fingering is also fine with her, but God, she longs for something bigger. She wiggles her toes to make sure she can still move. Oh, she can. But she can also lie on Bambi’s kitchen table staring out of Bambi’s window with the sea view and get pleasured by her boyfriend who is hers alone, no matter what. Then again, getting his dick inside of her, because that’s the only place he gets to stick it…

Her thought process is interrupted by another orgasm. Okay, God, that’s enough. She pushes against his forehead, too lazy to make words or sentences. He pulls out his fingers, licking them clean, then laps up the rest of her juices. She almost comes again just from that. She looks at him mesmerized when he gets back on his feet. “James?”

He smirks, putting his hands on her thighs and leaning forward. “Hm?”

She grins up at him, stomach fluttering. “Drop your pants.”

“Oh God, you’re still bossy,” he remarks amusedly, pulling his socks off.

“Why did you even get dressed in the first place,” Natasha asks, hands splayed over her stomach, while he strips down to his briefs. “I and Bambi certainly wouldn’t have minded.”

He snorts. “You always call them that.”

“Yeah, cause they are cute and all,” Natasha admits. “But also wrapped up in some really dirty shit.”

He drops the briefs as well. Oh boy, the anticipation. “I doubt the real Bambi had that many skeletons in its closet. Without condom?”

Natasha grins. “Sure, if you didn’t sleep with her. Why are you asking, did she already get some in anticipation of fucking you?”

He snorts, positioning himself between her legs. “I doubt they’re specifically for me, but, yeah. Bedside drawer.”

Natasha doesn’t get to answer because he pushes into her. God, the friction. She digs her heels into his ass and pulls him all the way in. Ah. Yeah, that’s precisely what she wanted. She’d probably be dripping on the floor by now if he hadn’t cleaned her with his tongue earlier.

There is nothing but her on his lips now, not even when she swipes her tongue through his mouth. He groans. He’s holding her hips at the right angle, too, so she suddenly jerks up, contracting around him. God. She’s so glad Bambi doesn’t get to do that. She drops her head and shoulders, basking in it for a moment. James starts fucking her.

Her sweaty back sticks on the table already. Well, unlike him, she already has the bulk of her orgasms behind her. Probably. Sometimes, it’s… but probably not without a condom.

She grabs his shoulders and pulls him and her together halfway, showering him with devouring kisses. Hers. He’s hers. She can’t scratch his back to remind him but he probably gets the message anyway. No, she’s not insecure. God, she wishes she could mark him in some way but she can’t if he’s lounging almost naked in another woman’s bed. Fuck. She throws her head back, letting the convulsions wash over her.

“How’s your mind?” he asks, voice strained, and she doesn’t get what he’s talking about. She gets the way his dick is pounding into her and that’s about it. Her confusion must be showing, either on her face or in her silence. “Well, Sam said I had to, so…”

“I don’t give a fuck what Sam says,” Natasha replies, meeting his thrusts. “But yeah, do what you have to.”

He snorts, clearly not satisfied with her answer. “Come on. If you’re not there yet, I’ll find a way.”

His self-control is, frankly, admirable but also nowhere near infinite. She groans when he has the nerve to slow down. “Don’t do that. I’d rather have you come earlier than get fucked flimsily.”

He rolls his eyes, picking up the pace where he left off. “So you’re… semi-out of your mind?”

She’s sweating, that’s for certain. “Guess so,” she moans. “Can’t always have five-star-sex, right? Sometimes, four has to be enough.”

James looks personally offended. “Four?”

“And a half,” she adds. “As long as you’re not fucking Bambi better…”

He snorts. “That arrogant bitch? Oh, hell no.”

“All I wanted to hear,” Natasha manages before succumbing to the throes of her orgasm. He’s licking her breasts when her head stops spinning, smile on his lips. “And her ass isn’t all that great.”

James makes an affirmative noise, squeezing her ass with his left and also slowly starting to rock into her again. Natasha grins. “Then again, maybe I don’t have the best ass in the world either.”

“Lies,” James breathes against her skin. “Nothing but lies.”

She lets her head drop to the side again, staring out of the window hazily. She’s not that pressed anymore so she lets him pick a comfortable pace. The magic of a dozen orgasms. If you divided that over a month, you’d get around three orgasms a week. Seems reasonable. She smirks, looking at the kitchen. “Mhm, but maybe you should bend her over the sink so she can look at the ocean while you bang her. Maybe she’d like that.”

He groans. “I don’t give that much of a damn about what she wants. And stop pretending I’ll cheat on you just because you said no to me coming from behind.”

She knows he won’t, but that doesn’t stop her from thinking about it. She’s not insecure. She’s so comfortable in her own skin she doesn’t even feel slutty for begging him last time. And bringing that up now doesn’t say anything at all. She moans a little louder at his thrusts.

He groans again, visibly tense. “What about you? What do you want?”

“Oh, you can finish like that,” Natasha replies, turning her head towards him. “I think I already plateaued.”

He kisses her and a fresh wave of arousal curses through her lower body. Maybe he could wring another orgasm from her if he really tried. Boy, if she had let him toil longer on his knees, she would probably be nowhere near done. Sky’s the limit.

He’s not going particularly fast because he can’t anymore, but she’s also sensitive so it’s for the best. She smirks, threading her legs over his shoulders so she’s essentially folded in half. Yeah, feels much better. He smirks back briefly, lifting up her ass. She groans. Oh God, she’s not done. Not at all. “Faster.”

“Bossy,” he remarks, leaning in to bite her neck. She snorts, digging her heels into his back, pulling herself up against him. Fuck. Yes. He groans, slowing down again. She grabs onto his hair, hard. Barely catches herself before sinking her nails into his back. He bites his lip, stopping for a second before throwing caution and control out of the window, pounding into her at a brutal pace. She gasps and moans, arching up against him. She tries to slip a hand between them because she needs to get there, right now, but can’t manage it and just drops back and takes it. Hangs in for the ride. She barely feels how she’s being thrust around, only where he hits her inner wall and how that sends shivers through her. She turns her fingertips up for fear of losing control. Her sudden contractions push him over the edge.

She drops back onto the table, breathing heavily, while he still holds on to her thighs like a madman. She bites her lip when she feels him throbbing inside of her. Always gets her. It’s such a small motion, compared to what he was doing to her before, but somehow it’s just as effective, if not more. Maybe because it’s unexpected. Or because she likes him coming inside of her.

He drops his head next to hers on the table. Her heaving chest presses against her shoulders. She smiles and turns her head to kiss his cheek. “Hey.”

He snorts, pushing himself up slowly to look at her. “You’re gonna run away again, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” She stretches, her back sticking to the table. “But I’m glad I stayed.”

“If you say four and a half stars again, I swear to God,” he threatens, pushing his hair out of his sweaty face.

“Don’t make me rate everything,” she replies, stretching her legs. “And you better wipe the table before Bambi comes back.”

He sighs, gripping the edge of the table. “You know I could… stop? If it really bothers you. Like, not right now, that would be really inconvenient but-”

“It’s okay,” Natasha interrupts, touching his chest. “I don’t have to like it but getting planted in the mob, you gotta do what you gotta do. I don’t tell you what I do either. And blasting in like that is not fair, I should have stayed in the car. Just wanted to see you.”

He smirks, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Didn’t like what you saw?”

“Oh boy,” she replies. “Makes my blood boil just thinking about it. Oh, and you better find a real good excuse why you can’t sleep with her really soon, cause you looked just delicious in that bed.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna be around here much longer, don’t worry.”

Natasha groans when he slips out of her. “Reassuring, indeed. I have no fucking clue where that list leads us, unfortunately.”

She holds her knees to her chest while he gets a wet cloth. “Do you ever worry because our relationship essentially consists of scheduling hook-ups?”

“All the time,” Natasha admits, looking at the ceiling. “We should, I don’t know, have dinner or something and talk stuff over. But then, every time I see you… can’t help it.”

“That’s such a good excuse,” he remarks, carefully wiping between her legs. “Like, you’re always in perfect control of your emotions and reactions, but you just can’t help fucking me?”

She snorts. “You’ve been undercover for too long. Gone completely cynical.”

“Maybe,” he admits, putting the cloth down and pushing a finger inside of her.

“Oh God.” Her back arches again. “Really? And now you think I’m not going to disappear as long as you’re fingering me?”

He snorts. “We really need some time off. Both of us. A week without any distractions. A weekend, if that’s all there is.”

She smirks, breathing faster. “Mhm. You don’t think we can fuck for a week straight?”

“Darling,” he says. “You’re gonna get hungry at some point.”

“Right. Forgot food existed,” she admits, clutching onto his arm.

“I keep wishing the world would just… stop.” He shakes his head. “Deep conversations while fucking are kind of our specialty, right? Always have been.”

“Never enough time,” Natasha manages, groaning. “Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything, just gets her off. She smirks suddenly, cooling down. “And you really let her call you my wolf?”

He snorts. “Oh, boy, I’m so glad when I’m out of here.”

#buckynat smutathon #buckynat #natasha romanoff #black widow #bucky barnes #winter soldier #sam wilson #falcon #clint barton #hawkeye #my writing #fanfic

[diamondnokouzai]

kiba: neji why are you so negative towards hinata? is it because shes crazy or are you just a jackass

neji: okay first off i am also nuts and second off her dad did literally murder my dad so like pardonnez fucking moi if im not her biggest fan

#.din #.txt #naruto

[shejustcalledmeafish]

Here’s the short story that I’ve been stressing out about all week. Special thanks to @wolveswingsandwrenches and everyone else who gave it an early readthrough. Slight swearing, gore, and mentions of sex. If I need to tag anything else, just let me know.

Mirror Miroir

You met him in a mirror. He didn’t stay in it.

You’re shaking the snow off your boots when Brayden, your boss’s assistant, approaches you. You start to worry.

“Doc Ellis? Doc Peterson wants to see you in her office,” Brayden says, his tone as casual as always. It’s impossible to read if it’s urgent or not. Shit.

“What for?” you ask.

“I dunno. Something about one of the hospital’s new acquisitions,” he says with a shrug.

“Alright. Thank you, Brayden,” you say before walking away. Your department’s offices are on the sixth floor, and an out of order sign on the elevator has you heading for the stairs.

Several flights later, you knock on Dr. Peterson’s door. There’s a slight pause before she opens it.  She looks tired, but she smiles when she sees you.

“Ah, Dr. Ellis. I assume that Brayden found you?” she says, standing back from the door so you can enter. She closes it behind you as soon as you cross the threshold.

“Yes. He said that you wanted to speak with me about a new acquisition?” you say. Dr. Peterson sits in her desk chair and motions for you to sit as well. You sit and she nods.

“Yes, that’s right. We were given a huge donation from the Theseus Foundation. But they had a condition. They gave us an antique mirror and requested that it be placed in one of our child psychologists’ offices.” Dr. Peterson explains. You are puzzled.

“Why me?” You ask. Dr. Peterson shrugs.

“I don’t know. But we had it checked out; it’s completely safe,” she says before leaning forward on her desk. “Will you please take it, Riley?” You hesitate for only a second before you nod. An antique mirror can’t hurt anyone.

“Of course, Olivia,” you say. She sighs in relief.

“Good. The crate is already in your office,” she says, standing up. You look at her knowingly, and she grins. “I had a feeling that you’d agree.” You stand up and shake her hand. “I’ll see you later, Dr. Ellis. If you need help with the mirror, feel free to call Brayden,” Dr. Peterson says. You nod.

“Thanks,” you say. When you leave Dr. Peterson’s office, you’re a little happier. A huge donation for the hospital might mean a raise in your future. You whistle a little tune as you walk down the hall to your office. Once inside, you take off your coat and toss it over the back of your chair.

The crate leans up against the wall beside the couch. It’s your first day back and you didn’t schedule any appointments until the afternoon. Now is the perfect time to unpack the mirror. You open the top of the crate with the Swiss Army knife you shouldn’t keep in your pocket at work. You tuck the blade back away before exploring the opened crate. There’s no way that you’re going to be able to hang the mirror up by yourself.

Two phone calls and fifteen minutes later, Brayden is knocking on your door. He smiles as you open it gratefully.

“Thank you for coming. I know you were probably busy, but Olivia said I could call and I really want to get this taken care of before my one o’clock,” you say. Brayden smiles.

“It’s all cool, Doc. You got me out of doing paperwork, so I’m glad to help,” he says. “So, where do you want it?” He walks over to stand by the box.

“I was originally going to have it behind my desk, but now I think it should go right about there,” you say, pointing at a blank patch of wall to the right of the couch. Brayden nods.

“That’ll work. Can you help me get it out of the crate? It’s a two person job, I’m afraid,” he says. You cross the room to join him. With a little work,  the mirror is soon out of the crate and resting against your couch.

“So what now?” you ask, sitting down in your ‘therapist chair.’

“I’ll get some hooks and someone to come to move the crate,” Brayden says. “Be back soon.” He leaves you alone with the mirror.

You stand fully intending to use this time to get some work done. As you turn back to your desk, something in the mirror catches your eye.

Walking closer, you begin to take in the mirror. The carvings in the dark oak frame are elaborate, the glass is silvery blue, slightly grainy, and looks hundreds of years old.

You lean closer to examine the glass, but all you can see is your reflection. Your short, dark hair, your scarred jaw. Everything checks out and you are about to turn away from the mirror when you notice a flicker of motion. You look back at the mirror and see a young boy standing in the glass, almost nose to nose with you.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” you swear, jumping away. The boy in the mirror doesn’t flinch. He looks young,  perhaps in his early teens with blond hair styled in an old-fashioned way, shoulder-length with loose curls. His white linen shirt is stained red with blood and his appearance unkempt, as if he had dressed quickly.

“Bonjour Où suis-je? Qui est tu? Ça fait combien de temps?” he speaks quickly, the words slightly garbled as if hearing them through a layer of water. You can tell he’s speaking French, but the full meaning is lost on you. You haven’t studied the language since college, but you try your best.

“Uh, Je ne parle pas français,” you say, stumbling over the foreign syllables. “Do you speak, uh, parlez vous anglais?” The boy smiles.

“Oui,” he says. “Yes, I speak English,” he says, his accent archaic and thick. “I picked it up during my years here.” Startled, but pleased that you could communicate, you relax slightly.

“Here? You mean, in the mirror?” you say, ignoring how weird it sounds by focusing on getting answers to your countless questions.

“Yes. The mirror was moved from France to England soon after my death. I learned English there and kept the knowledge even after the mirror went to Greece. Where am I now?” the boy asks.

“You’re in America,” you say quickly before changing the topic. “Are you a ghost?”

“Yes. Luc Chastain, at your service,” he says with a little bow. “And you are?”

“Uh, Ellis. Dr. Riley Ellis,” you stammer. “Luc, how did you... end up in there?” You gesture to the mirror.

Luc sighs. “It all started a long time ago. I’m not sure how long. What year is it?” he asks.

“It’s 2019. The beginning of January,” you reply. The shock shows on Luc’s face.

“The last time I spoke with someone, it was the summer of 1963.” He shudders. “Time moves slowly here. It feels like I’ve been trapped in this mirror for millennia.”

“Luc, how did you die?” you ask cautiously. Luc’s face flashes with grief and rage.

“It was all because of Thibault,” Luc says simply. Before he can elaborate, you hear a pair of voices in the hall. Startled, Luc vanishes, leaving the mirror empty, save your reflection.

“Luc?” you ask, worried. You hear the door open behind you.

“Nope,” Brayden says, walking in with another man.

“Brayden, sorry, I thought you were someone else,” you apologize.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brayden says. “This is Noah, he’s gonna get rid of the crate for you.” Noah nods slightly.

“Yep.” He turns to Brayden. “Want me to help with the mirror first?”

“Nah, I got it. Just keep the doc company,” Brayden says with a wink. Noah walks over to join you. “He’s so cocky. It’s going to get him in trouble someday,” Noah says. He sounds serious, but you can see he has nothing but affection for the other man.

Brayden drags the mirror around in a way that has you flinching, but the mirror and the carpet seem unharmed. He puts the hooks in the wall with practiced ease. The trouble comes when he tries to lift the mirror onto those hooks. The mirror tilts and time seems to slow. Brayden’s hand slips and the mirror starts to fall on him. Noah rushes across the room and grabs the mirror as Brayden loses his grip. You stand petrified as Noah falls, the mirror crushing him.

Brayden turns around, and you see his face when he realizes what has happened. He moves frantically, pulling the mirror off of Noah and leaning it up against the wall. The mirror has shattered, and you can see silvery-blue shards sticking out of the carpet and Noah’s back.

“Noah?” Brayden whimpers and your heart breaks. But then Noah twitches. His chest rises and falls. Brayden falls backward, completely stunned. Noah struggles to his feet, blood dripping from his cuts, but otherwise unharmed. You look him in the eyes and notice something in their depths.

“Luc,” you say. He laughs and Brayden looks at you in panic.

“Regarde ce corps!” Luc says, picking up a shard of his old home and admiring himself in it. You see a drop of silver drip off the end. “Si beau!” He suddenly turns his gaze on Brayden. “Tu sais, il t'aime bien. Je fais partie de lui maintenant, je sais tout ce qu'il sait. Et il sait qu'il veut te niquer.”  He takes a step toward Brayden, and Brayden scrambles away.

“I don’t understand! What’s wrong with you, Noah?” Brayden cries.

“Brayden, that’s not Noah. That’s Luc,” you say sadly.

“Pauvre garçon. Il est à moi,” Luc says with a sinister grin.

“Who the fuck is Luc!” Brayden yells. You open your mouth to speak, but Luc holds up a hand.

“Pardonnez-moi, mais je vais raconter ma propre histoire,” Luc says indignantly, the French sounding strange in Noah’s voice.

“Speak English,” you say carefully. “We can’t understand you otherwise.” Luc sighs.

“Si je dois. I am Luc Chastain, son of Adrian Chastain, born in 1660, dead in 1675.” You watch Brayden’s mind racing furiously.

“You’re a 300-year-old teenage ghost possessing Noah,” Brayden says flatly.

“Oui. Do try and keep up, I’ve already explained part of this to the good doctor over there.” Luc says, hitching his thumb at you. “Now, be quiet and listen. I came from that mirror. I don’t know how exactly I ended up in there, but I can tell you what I know. That mirror was in my lo… Thibault’s house back in 1675, in his family’s stateroom, and he and I would sneak in there all the time.” Luc smiles.

“How did you die?” Brayden asks, his tone surprisingly steady for the situation. Luc shivers.

“We were caught. Not just sneaking into the stateroom but… nous étions putains,” Luc says.

“What were you doing? Destroying shit?” Brayden says, seemingly irritated that Luc refuses an answer he can comprehend  Luc clenches his fists.

“Fucking! We were fucking, alright?” Luc snaps, tears forming in his eyes. “So, they killed me!” At that moment, Luc couldn’t look scarier, glass scattered around his borrowed feet, blood trickling from Noah’s head, pure fear and mania in his eyes.

But you see past that. He’s a teenager, a kid really. Trapped for over three hundred years with such limited human contact and no way to work through his emotions. You take a step forward and Luc turns away from Brayden and toward you.

“Luc, I know that was a major trauma that you suffered,” you say slowly. “But the only way to hurt less it is going to be to  talk about it. Talk to us and let us hear your story so we can help you.” Luc scoffs.

“You won’t want to help me. I’m wrong and so is this man.” Luc says, disdain on his tongue as he gestures to Noah’s body. “We are unholy. I was trapped in the mirror for my sins, and Thibault went to Hell. Noah will go to Hell as well. What he feels for that man is unnatural,” he says, gesturing at Brayden. Brayden makes a surprised sound. . You shake your head slowly.

“No. Your feelings for Thibault and Noah’s feelings for Brayden are not wrong. A lot has changed since 1675. We know now it’s not  wrong for a man to love a man or a woman to love a woman. Love isn’t wrong,” you say. An idea occurs to you. “Maybe that’s why the mirror trapped you.”

“Because I am sin?” Luc snaps.

“No,” Brayden replies quickly. He looks on the verge of tears, but he stands strong. “To show you that you are right. That you aren’t unholy. And that Thibault didn’t go to Hell. He’s in Heaven, waiting for you to come to join him.” You nod.

“Brayden is right. Let Noah go, and you can be with Thibault,” you say. You watch Luc’s eyes, so full of fear and anger, and try to track his train of thought.

“And I won’t go to Hell?” Luc finally asks, trying to keep hold of his fear, but failing.

“I can’t promise that. But, I can say that it’ll be more interesting than the mirror,” you say carefully. Luc casts a final glance over at Brayden.

“Alright. If Thibault is waiting for me, then I’d better not keep him waiting any longer,” Luc decides. He looks at you. “Doctor, I suggest you get medical help for Noah. I stopped him from suffering most of the damage from the mirror, but he still has several shards of glass in his back.” You hear Brayden make a noise of distress.

“I will, Luc. Good luck,” you say. Luc smiles and closes his eyes.

“Je viens mon amour,” he says softly before collapsing. Brayden darts in and catches his limp body.

“Noah?” Brayden asks. His eyes flutter open.

“Bray? Why does it feel like a mirror fell on me?” Noah asks nervously.

“Uh, Doc, call the other docs,” Brayden says. You nod and pick up the phone.

“This is Ellis. We need a doctor and a hazmat team in my office. Mercury spill. One injured, three possible mercury poisonings,” you say. You listen for a second before hanging up.

“Mercury?” Noah and Brayden say in unison. You point at the shards of mirror laying around their feet, beads of silver congealing on the surface of the glass.

“I noticed it earlier when Luc picked up a shard. Pretty much every old mirror was made with mercury,” you say. They look at you dumbfounded. You shrug. “I like to watch documentaries.”

“Who is Luc? What happened?” Noah asks, confused. You and Brayden look at each other and laugh. Noah frowns.

“Seriously guys, what’s so funny? Stop laughing, I have legitimate questions! You can’t keep avoiding the subject. Did the mirror actually fall on me? Guys!”

#short story #gay #gay french ghost #i don't know what to tag this #but #mirrors #ghost stories #not bury your gays #slight gore #tw gore #tw swearing #tw sex mention #internalized homophobia #ghosts

[serkewen12]

What about 4 with Lafayette?

“Just remember if we get caught, you’re deaf and I don’t speak English.”

When I posted the prompt list I saw this and hoped someone would request it with Laf because it’s perfect so thank you so much for sending this. Sorry it’s taking me some time with these, the Olympics has me thoroughly derailed on writing. I hope you enjoy.  

Lafayette peaked around the corner looking through the glass door that lead to the pool. 

“There is no one there,” he said with a mischievous smile as he turned to you.

“Are you sure?” You asked coming up behind him.

“Of course amour. Are you ready?”

Holding your towel tightly you nodded. You were nervous, but it was a good type of nervous. You had been surprised as you lounged with Lafayette on the bed in your suite when he asked if you wanted to go up and swim. It was almost 11 at night, but you had been shocked when he had suggested that you tried to skinny dip. You knew it wasn’t the best idea in the world, but you had never done anything as daring as what he was suggesting. 

Using the keycard Lafayette opened the door for you and followed you in and you both marveled at how beautiful the room was. Everything was exquisite. You gasped when you took in whole room. It was lowly lit and there was one large pool that was lit up a bright teal color and two large spas on one end raised up higher than the pool. One side was lined with windows that you could easily see the skyline of the city twinkling through. 

Walking over to one of the lounge chairs you sat down your towel, “What about security cameras?”

“I’m sure there are way more important things they are watching than the pool in the middle of the night,” he laughed, “Just remember if we get caught… you are deaf and I don’t speak English.”

You shot him a skeptical look before smirking as he shed his shirt and trunks. You only had a moment to marvel at his toned form before he winked and jumped into the water. Rolling your eyes at his antics you pulled your tank top over your head before starting to untie your bikini top. You paused and took a deep breath.

“Are you coming?”

“Yeah! Hold your horses,” you teased. Now or never.

Quickly you stripped out of your suit before you lost your nerve and jumped into the pool. Coming up from under the water Lafayette pulled you into her arms and pressed his lips passionately to yours.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispered.

“Hey now Monsieur,” you giggled when you felt his hands wander, “I am drawing the line at skinny dipping. We are not pushing our luck.”

Raising his hands above the water in defeat you took your opening and playfully splashed him before swimming away as fast as you could. 

Almost 45 minutes had past and you both seemed to be in the clear. You had relaxed in the spa and had just returned to the pool when you heard someone loudly clear their throat behind you. You felt like your heart had stopped when you looked at Lafayette with wide eyed panic. He slowly raised his finger to your lips and nodded. Sinking a bit in the water until just your head was above the surface you turned around and Lafayette swam in front and blocked you from view. Standing on the side of the pool was an irritated looking security guard with his arms crossed.

“Just what the hell do you both think you are doing?” 

Lafayette gave him a flawless confused look, “Pardonnez-moi, je ne comprends pas.” (Forgive me, I don’t understand.)

“You aren’t allowed to be naked in the pool,” he snapped.

Lafayette stared blankly at the security guard and then turned gave you a reassuring look. 

“Excuse me miss do you speak English?” He asked.

Fear coursed through you as he looked at you critically. Slowly you shook your head while pointing to your ears. Damn him… I don’t even know any sign language. We are so going to jail.

“Ma femme est sourde monsieur,” Lafayette said with a frown. (My wife is deaf sir.)

The security guard was clearly becoming frustrated and he turned and walked over to were your clothes and towels were. He quickly picked up one of the towels and pointed at it and then at you both. Lafayette gasped and nodded his head and you both swam to the edge of the pool and the guard turned so you could both quickly dry off and put your clothes on. You glared at Lafayette when you pulled your shorts on and mouthed to him ‘We are screwed’ causing him to mouth back ‘I’m sorry’.

“I’m going to need you both to come with me,” the guard said and gestured towards the door. 

The elevator ride was tense to say the least. Lafayette muttered in French while you shifted nervously from foot to foot. The doors slid open and the guard motioned for you to follow him and lead you to a room with a table and chairs. Slowly sitting down you saw your hands were shaking and Lafayette gathered your hands in his own and pressed a kiss to them.

“I’m going to have to get the boss… We have never had this happen before so I’m not sure what is supposed to be done about this. I will be right back.”

The minute the door shut you turned to Lafayette and snapped, “What the fuck are we supposed to do? What if they kick us out?”

“Calm down amour the plan has worked so far. If they ask us to leave we will just go elsewhere,” he said trying to not look nervous.

“Yeah and what if they arrest us? This was a bad idea! What if they bring in an interpreter? What if they bring in someone who knows sign language! I don’t know a single thing about sign language!” You groaned and put your head down on the table.

“I highly doubt we will be arrested…”

A knock at the door cut him off as you both peered at the door. A man in a smart tailored suit swept in quickly, but stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes scanned you both over. His mouth hung open slightly, you gasped, and Lafayette waved awkwardly.

“Will you excuse us please?” He asked the security guard, “I will handle this.”

“Of course Mr. Jefferson,” he said before leaving.

“Oh my god,” you lamented pinching your nose.

“Je pense qu’il est clair que votre femme n’est pas sourde. Vous voulez vous expliquer?” Thomas said folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. (I think it is clear that your wife is not deaf. Care to explain yourselves?)

“Mon ami! I had no idea you were managing a hotel,” Lafayette exclaimed.

“I don’t manage this hotel Lafayette, I own it! I expected to have a bunch of teenagers sitting in here and low and behold it’s one of my close friends and his wife,” he hissed, “What the hell were you doing skinny dipping in my pool!?”

“I’m so sorry Thomas,” you said embarrassed, “We just… I mean… I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“This was my fault Thomas. I suggested it and it’s our anniversary and I thought it would be exciting to be spontaneous,” Lafayette explained, “I am sorry for the trouble.”

Thomas eyed him critically, “Might I suggest a romantic bath for two instead? You are staying in one of our nicest suites and I know damn well how nice the jetted tub is in there!”

“Are you going to make us leave?” You asked almost ready to cry.

“Leave? What do you think I am? Some kind of heartless monster? Thomas chuckled.

“So we can stay?”

“If you think that this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen Lafayette do, you would be mistaken. Do this again though and I won’t play favorites again. Understand?”

“Oui.”

“Yes of course.”

“Good. Now get out of my site,” Thomas said getting up.

You both got up quickly and moved towards the door. As you opened the door you stopped when Thomas walked up to you.

“Oh and Lafayette, (Y/N) Happy anniversary,” he said with his signature smirk. 

#lafayette x reader #anon request #drabble #gilbert du motier marquis de lafayette #x reader #laf x reader

[fungaloids]

ok im done fighting the urge to fill out 20 abt the blogger things in a row. let me have this

i found one from when i was 15 and im gonna do it again to compare bc im uhhh bored

LAYER ONE: THE OUTSIDE

Name: drew! tho im considering some other shit in addition

Eye color: blue... shit doesnt change :/

Hair style/color: its short and still red and frankly its a bit weird rn 

Height: 165 centimeters (5′4).......... @ my past self. you fucking wish you were me

Clothing style: androgynous slutty goth vacation dad is the IDEAL. but thats not always attainable 

Best physical feature: im just cute. :/

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your fears: pregnancy. gröss

Your guilty pleasure: really shitty music and like sexy designed evil ladies. but thats valid because im gay. also reading awful discourse and getting mad on purpose

Ambitions for the future: i want to be this guy

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your first thoughts waking up: i immediately got shanghai alice of meiji 17 stuck in my head. there was something vaguely music related before that but i forget 

What you think about most: whatever i happen to be hyperfixated on :/

What you think about before bed: gay thoughts 💖

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or group dates: single is classic but i support going out and being gay with your friends who are also gay 

To be loved or respected: LOVED...

Beauty or brains: pardonnez-moi... im a homo-morosexual

Dogs or cats: cats!!

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU.

Lie: nngfkjdh when im scared. i dont lie to my friends

Believe in yourself: yes and simultaneously well Not Really!

Believe in love: its one of the only things thats real actually.

Want someone: god you fucking KNOW it

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on stage: yea a few times but nothing like, huge

Done drugs: no but its because im pussy. also i have no friends whom drugs. and i also dont wanna get deported lol

Changed who you were to fit in: i tend to compromise myself a lot so people like me but ive been way better about not doing that lately

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite color: red rn... changes a lot but its usually red/green

Favorite animal: cats... 

Favorite movie: alien but really theres not much competition 

Favorite show: jojo bizarreadventure. hyperfix aside i luv cowboy beboy

Favorite book: i can NOT read

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day your next birthday will be: feb 28th

How old will you be: 20 😰

Does age matter: yeah.

oh heres another one from when i was 15. frankly i am unstoppable now

Name: drew

Age: 19

Height: 165cm. etc

Relationship status: gays... i am in love

Birthday: feb 28

Favorite color: see above -__-

Favorite bands: THE MARS VOLTA if i go into lesser faves ill be here for an hour but im feeling rheostatics a lot this week i guess

Last song listened: studio killers - jenny 

Last movie watched: oceans thirteen 😊

# of pets: THREE cats

Best school subject: it was always english but i loved bio also

Cell phone type: samsung a5... old bitch

Current shirt color: gray with nasa logo :]

Gamer? i mean. i certainly have played a couple of video james in my time

Day or night? im a dawn/dusk lesbian

Summer or winter? uhhhh summer

Most-visited website? STILL tumblr. tragic

Celebrity crush(s): still none... i do not give a fuck 

Biggest turn on: epic cringe of me to answer this with aph norway like 4 years ago. anyways chaotic nature + boldness is really hot not to be rowdy and sort of a bottom

ANYWAYS the moral of the story? character development. other moral is that i need more hobbies im so fucking bored rn

#meaw.txt #me